The sun dipped low over the Trident, painting the riverbanks in shades of gold and crimson. Joffrey's red-maned steed galloped effortlessly along the winding paths, every muscle in its flanks coiling and releasing with precision. Beside him, Sansa struggled to keep pace on her own mare, urging her forward with small kicks and tight reins. The rhythm of galloping hooves, the scent of wet grass, and the whisper of wind through the trees combined to create a moment that felt lifted from the pages of a knightly tale.
Sansa, though a Northerner by birth, had been raised to appreciate the grace and charm of southern courts. Her mother had sought to cultivate her into a proper lady of the Riverlands, instilling in her the patience, elegance, and poise that would befit a noblewoman. Riding beside Joffrey, feeling the thrill of the chase and the warmth of the sun, Sansa imagined herself as a companion of a legendary knight, swept into an adventure where danger and excitement danced hand in hand.
As they followed the river's curve, the pair stumbled upon a narrow cave nestled among the riverbank rocks. A Shadowcat, startled by their presence, darted back to its lair, its coat glinting in the sunlight. They pressed onward until hunger and fatigue forced them to pause. Following the thin trail of smoke rising from a nearby estate, Joffrey guided them toward a small country manor. The peasants, startled by the sudden arrival of royalty, scrambled to prepare a meal of freshly caught trout and a jug of the estate's best wine.
Sansa drank cautiously, savoring the subtle sweetness of the wine. Perhaps she had overindulged, for her head felt pleasantly light. The trout, roasted to perfection, melted on her tongue, and the warmth of the meal spread through her like a comforting embrace. Once sated, they resumed their ride, but more slowly, savoring the lingering aroma of roasted fish and the soft rustle of leaves.
Joffrey sang softly, his voice high and sweet, carrying across the riverbank. Each note seemed to capture the joy of the moment, and Sansa could not help but laugh, feeling a rare happiness that had little to do with titles, kingdoms, or courtly intrigue. "Should we turn back?" she asked after a pause, the wine making her head spin slightly.
"Wait a little longer," Joffrey said with a mischievous smile. "Ahead lies the old battlefield, where the Green Fork bends. That is the place where my father fought Rhaegar Targaryen. One swing of his hammer shattered Rhaegar's chestplate… crunch! Armor torn, the man fell before him."
He brandished an imaginary warhammer, reenacting the blow with exaggerated motion. "And later, my uncle Jaime ended the Mad King's reign. My father became king, and history was written in blood." His eyes gleamed with the thrill of the tale.
Suddenly, the rustling of the woods interrupted their ride. Sansa's heart skipped a beat, her instincts telling her something was amiss. "Let's go back, Joffrey," she whispered, gripping the reins tighter.
"I'll see," he said confidently, drawing the longsword he had christened Lion's Tooth. They crept closer to the sound—an odd mixture of wood clashing, groans, and heavy breathing echoing from the clearing ahead.
Peering through the undergrowth, they spotted a boy and a girl engaged in a mock battle with wooden sticks. The boy, older and stronger, pressed the attack relentlessly. The girl, thinner and dressed in tattered leather, struggled to parry, her strikes weak and uncoordinated. A glancing blow smashed her stick against her fingers, and she cried out in pain, dropping it onto the grass.
"Good sister, your footing is poor," a more mature boy called from nearby, his voice steady and instructive. "Eat well and keep your strength, or you will falter. Shall we end our game today?"
Jon Snow, standing close, helped the girl—Arya—retrieve her stick and checked her hand carefully. The boy appeared contrite, stepping back. "I didn't mean it… the young lady forced me," he murmured.
Joffrey burst into laughter at the display, startling the boy, who dropped his wooden stick in shock. Arya glared, her eyes blazing with indignation at these uninvited spectators. The trio—Arya, Jon, and the butcher's apprentice Mikke—recognized Joffrey and Sansa almost immediately.
"Arya, is that you?" Sansa exclaimed, surprised and worried. "What are you doing here?"
"Go away!" Arya snapped, tears of anger and frustration welling up in her eyes.
Jon bowed slightly, cautious. "Your Royal Highness, we did not expect your arrival. If we have intruded, we apologize." He noticed the faint scent of wine on Joffrey and tensed. This was no ordinary prince before them.
The butcher's apprentice, Mikke, glanced nervously at Joffrey. "Your Royal Highness," he stammered.
Joffrey's eyes swept over them, landing on Mikke's freckled face and thick red hair. "Who are you?"
"My name is Mikke, Your Royal Highness," the boy whispered, voice trembling.
"Don't bully him," Arya interjected fiercely. "He's my friend!"
Joffrey's lips curled in amusement and challenge. "A pig-killing boy dares call himself a knight? Very well. Pick up your sword, and we shall see if you are worthy."
Mikke froze, terror rooting him to the spot. Joffrey advanced, sword gleaming in the dappled sunlight. Jon's reflexes, honed from years in the North, were quicker. In one swift motion, he struck Mikke's face, leaving it flushed and stinging.
"Get lost! Do you think a butcher's apprentice can spar with a prince?" Jon barked, his voice firm and commanding. Arya could only gape, horrified at the escalating violence.
Mikke fled, dropping his stick and tripping over the undergrowth. Joffrey, meanwhile, turned his attention to Jon. "Why did you not intervene when that boy struck my lady's sister? Are all bastards so insolent?"
"No!" Arya shouted, stepping forward.
Joffrey's blade slashed toward Jon, drawing a thin line of blood along his cheek. The sight of Jon's blood only emboldened Joffrey, who pressed forward with wild, unpredictable swings. Sansa screamed, helpless, as the prince and her brother clashed.
Jon, wary of Joffrey's drunken instability, used careful defensive maneuvers. He blocked, dodged, and waited for the right moment. The crack of his wooden stick against the longsword presented an opening. With measured strength, he wrested Lion's Tooth from Joffrey, throwing it to the ground.
Arya seized the moment, hurling a stone that startled Joffrey's steed, which bolted into the trees. Joffrey stumbled, dirt smearing his face, his rage palpable.
Sansa, tears streaming, rushed to Jon and Arya's side. "Stop! This is madness!" she cried.
Joffrey, breathing heavily, fell to his knees, overwhelmed by fear and frustration. Arya glared at him, then swiftly bandaged Jon's wounds. The Direwolf, Nymeria, stepped forward, a gray shadow moving with lethal intent. Her teeth bared, growls rumbling deep in her throat.
Joffrey's golden hair matted with sweat, he fell backward, unable to meet the wolf's gaze. "No… don't hurt me! I'll tell Mother!" he whimpered.
Sansa stood over him, furious. "Do not ever bully them again!" she screamed.
Jon, bloodied but steady, spoke with authority. "Prince, let today's game end here. Violence has no place among us."
Arya and Jon mounted their horses, Nymeria following close behind. As they departed, Sansa remained by Joffrey, who now sat trembling, chest heaving and hands trembling. Kneeling beside him, she gently brushed his golden hair away.
"Joffrey," she whispered, voice trembling, "look what has happened. You must calm yourself. I'll find help."
Joffrey opened his eyes, once wide with fear, now filled with anger and contempt. "Then get lost!" he spat venomously. "And don't—you—dare—touch me!"
Sansa recoiled, heart aching. The afternoon sun cast long shadows over the riverbank, marking the end of this chaotic encounter. The alliance between lions and wolves, fragile and tense, had begun with a clash that would leave scars on both flesh and pride.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)