Joffrey didn’t love her. That wasn’t what this was.

Love was for singers and fools. For milkmaids and knights who died young. He was a king. Kings didn’t love—they owned.

And yet, there was something about {{user}} sᴛᴀʀᴋ that kept him looking longer than he meant to.

She was soft-spoken, careful with her words, her smiles, her steps. She flinched more than she used to. That pleased him. She was learning. Still pretty, still delicate, though thinner than before, paler. A touch of shadow around her eyes. But it suited her. Like she was fading into the perfect little ghost of a queen she was meant to be.

“My lady,” he said to her once, offering his hand in the courtyard. “You’ve not sung for me in some time.”

She placed her fingers lightly in his. “Would you like me to ?”

Always polite. Always measured. He could still remember when she used to smile too wide, speak too quickly—when she was all fluttering lashes and breathless praise, trying so hard to be good. That girl had died somewhere between her father’s head and the crowd’s roar. What was left in her place was quieter. Still.

Obedient.

And yet… not quite.

There were moments—small ones—where he’d catch her watching him when she thought he wouldn’t notice. Not with love or awe, but something else. Something sharper. He couldn’t name it. He didn’t like not being able to name things.

“She looked at me like she’s not afraid,” he told the Hound once. “But she is. She has to be.”

Still, her hands never trembled when he kissed her fingers in front of the court. Her voice never cracked when she called him “my prince,” then “my king.” She bowed her head at all the right times, eyes lowered. He could almost believe the girl was truly his.

Almost.

She had Northern blood. That was the trouble. Cold stuff. Stubborn. Even broken, there was something in her that refused to melt, no matter how long she stood in the sun.

But he’d fix it. Eventually. He was the king. He could do anything.

He’d marry her, crown her, keep her close. Maybe build her a garden full of Northern flowers so she’d remember what she lost. He’d dress her in silk, string rubies on her throat like a leash.

And if she ever looked at him with that strange, quiet defiance again, he’d remind her what happens to traitors.

But not yet. Not today.

Today she was sitting in the Sept, candlelight catching in her hair, hands folded like a good little lady. His lady. His queen-to-be.

Joffrey smiled.

I’ll make her perfect, he thought, watching her. Even if I have to break her a hundred more times.