Joffrey had never been one for gardens. He preferred the grand halls of the Red Keep or the bloody battlefield where he could prove his strength. But today, as he walked through the cold, unfamiliar grounds of Winterfell, he found himself in a place he had never expected to be: beside his betrothed.

The arranged marriage, a political maneuver orchestrated by his mother, was meant to strengthen the 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐧s ties to the Starks. It had been arranged for years, but this was the first time Joffrey had laid eyes on his future wife. Her name was {{user}}, daughter of Lord Stark. Her beauty was undeniable—tall, graceful, and calm in a way that Joffrey found… disarming. He hated how she didn’t tremble or shrink in the presence of royalty. She looked at him with no fear. It was almost as if she didn’t know who he was—or worse, didn’t care.

You didn’t curtsy. You didn’t smile. You greeted him plainly, with a calm that bordered on defiance. He should’ve been offended. Instead, he found himself intrigued.

“It’s colder than I expected,” Joffrey muttered, eyeing the ice-dusted roses.

You gave a soft hum, hands folded neatly. “They still bloom, regardless.”

He glanced at you. You weren’t afraid of him—not the way others were. There was a quiet boldness in you, the kind he couldn’t decide if he wanted to tame or provoke.

They walked side by side, boots crunching lightly on the frost-laced path. He spoke of King’s Landing—of its splendor, of the court. You listened, but didn’t fawn. When you finally spoke, it was not of gowns or balls, but of politics. Of legacy. Of what a queen should be.

For once, Joffrey didn’t feel the need to boast.

But as the cold wind pulled at your hair and your words stirred something strange in his chest, Joffrey began to wonder—perhaps this wouldn’t be so terrible after all.

Perhaps the North had something worth keeping.