"Your Highness, try this."
Sansa held out a dark purple blackberry between her fingers. Her bright blue eyes were filled with expectation.
"Thank you, Lady Sansa," Joffrey replied politely, accepting the berry.
Under her hopeful gaze, he placed it into his mouth.
He chewed slowly, as if savoring something precious, then nodded.
"Very sweet."
"As though all the sunlight in the world has been poured into it." His tone was gentle, completely sincere.
A blush spread across Sansa's cheeks. Her fingers twisted nervously in the fabric of her skirt.
The moment she turned away, Joffrey's expression collapsed.
He quickly stepped toward a nearby bush and spat the pulp out.
Gods, could she not find a ripe one?
The thing was so sour it nearly made his teeth fall out.
After wiping his tongue with his sleeve, he hurried to catch up, listening to her enthusiastic but rather unpolished explanations.
Of all Eddard's children, she was the easiest to approach.
Because Sansa was, quite frankly, naive.
She was still an innocent noble girl whose mind was filled with songs and knightly legends. A handsome prince and a few gentle words were more than enough to stir her heart.
At the moment, they were wandering through Winterfell's famous glass garden.
It was an enormous structure covered in expensive Myrish glass. Heated pipes ran beneath the soil, carrying warm spring water to keep the space temperate.
It was, in truth, a large vegetable garden.
Very Stark.
Most of the space was neatly divided into rows of crops. Vegetables and fruits grew thick and green, supplying Winterfell's kitchens year-round.
Only along the edges were there clusters of berry bushes and flowers, the only soft touches in an otherwise practical place.
Joffrey had considered walking deeper inside to speak with the farmers, to identify crops and estimate yields.
In harsh winter or conflict, destroying such a concentrated food source would be devastating.
But someone was clearly unwilling to step into the mud in her new dress.
After testing the idea once, he wisely dropped it.
When Sansa eagerly reached toward another berry bush, Joffrey quickly intervened.
"Lady Sansa," he said warmly, "would you show me the godswood?" "I've always been curious about Winterfell's heart tree."
"Of course," she replied at once. "We can go wherever you wish, Your Highness."
The godswood lay in the oldest part of the castle grounds, completely different from the stone-built world outside.
The moment they entered, the scent of hearth smoke vanished. In its place was something ancient and heavy, thick with damp earth and fallen leaves.
They moved carefully through the trees.
A strange rustling sound suddenly came from the canopy above. Branches trembled unnaturally.
Sansa instinctively moved closer, her breathing quickening.
"Probably a squirrel," Joffrey said softly, though he bent to pick up a sturdy stick.
He had not brought a sword inside the castle.
Their hound and wolves were not with them either.
"Waaah—!"
A mud-covered creature suddenly dropped upside down from a branch above them.
Two filthy hands reached straight toward their faces.
"Ahh—!!!"
Sansa's scream shattered the silence of the forest. It was louder than King Robert shouting drunken challenges at wild boars.
Joffrey's arm was seized tightly. Slender fingers dug painfully into his flesh.
He tried to pull free but failed. With no choice, he dropped the stick and covered his other ear.
The attack was not from the creature.
It was from Sansa.
When the screaming finally stopped, Joffrey calmly brushed aside the muddy hand near his nose.
"Bran, stop climbing like that. You'll fall."
"The Stark family already has plenty of Brandons in its legends. We don't need another called Brandon the Faller."
The creature froze, then flexed at the waist and flipped gracefully onto the branch.
He sat there swinging his legs, grinning through dirt and moss.
"Wasn't I convincing?"
This child was also named Brandon, though everyone called him Bran, which made things easier.
"Very convincing," Joffrey said sincerely. "But you weren't actually waiting to scare us, were you?"
Sansa finally recovered, her cheeks flushed with anger.
"I'm telling Mother!"
"Don't," Bran pleaded, sliding down from the tree with a mischievous smile. "Jon said Arya isn't afraid of anything. I was waiting for her."
A gray direwolf slipped from behind the trees and affectionately licked his hand.
"I didn't expect to frighten you instead," Bran added, scratching his head and scattering clumps of dirt.
"Then you need more practice at playing your role," Joffrey replied lightly.
"You know the godswood well. Could you take us to see the heart tree?"
"Sure," Bran said, glancing nervously at his still-fuming sister. "You won't tell Mother, right?"
"If the prince doesn't mind, why should I?" Sansa answered, though her tone still held irritation.
The three of them, along with the wolf, ventured deeper into the godswood.
The farther they went, the dimmer the light became.
Ancient branches wove together overhead, forming a dense canopy. Fallen leaves thickened underfoot, soft and silent.
An invisible weight seemed to gather in the air, as if the forest itself were watching them.
Then they saw it.
At the center stood a massive weirwood tree rising from a pool of black water.
Its bark was pale as bone. Its leaves were deep red, like blood-stained hands trembling in still air.
Carved into the trunk was a long, solemn face. The lines were heavy with age.
Dark red sap filled the carved eyes. Old streaks trailed downward along the grain, forming the shape of frozen tears.
"Father says the old gods watch through their eyes," Bran murmured.
In the deep silence, his quiet voice felt unnervingly loud.
Joffrey nodded thoughtfully, offering no challenge.
His gaze locked onto the carved face. A cold sensation crept slowly up his spine.
The atmosphere grew heavier.
Sansa shivered and tugged gently at his sleeve. "I... I think we should go back. I'm scared."
It was an excellent suggestion. Joffrey agreed immediately.
But just as they turned to leave— A harsh, unnatural raven's cry exploded behind them.
"Caw—!!!"
Joffrey spun around.
The carved eyes were wide open.
Blood poured endlessly from them.
The wooden mouth began to move, bark grinding against bark with a sickening sound.
A cold, ancient voice burst beside his ear.
"Boy..."
"Don't compete with me for my chosen."
__________
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