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Sansa Stark pov :
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I sat in the shade of a big tree, Lady, my direwolf, right by my side. I stroked her soft fur and looked out at the world around me. Everything had turned topsy-turvy in the last couple of months. Life used to be like a calm river, but now it was more like a wild, rushing current.
I remembered how everything had turned upside down when the former king arrived at Winterfell. Father was offered the great honor of being his Hand, and the whole castle was filled with excitement and anticipation.
I was just a dumb girl then, and I couldn't contain my giddy feelings when I saw the handsome prince Joffrey for the first time.
The thought of being betrothed to him filled me with happiness, but also anxiety. I was so eager to make a good impression on him, to be the best lady I could be.
Yet, when the welcoming feast came, and he barely spared me a glance, I felt a crushing disappointment. I couldn't help but think that I was ugly or fat, and not even my mother's soothing words could mend my wounded pride at being so thoroughly ignored.
I cried and felt devastated, but then Father came, called by Mother to help. He explained that the prince was probably nervous because of the tourney he had proposed. If he lost badly, he wouldn't just embarrass himself, but his whole family. That made me feel better for a while.
It was nice to know that maybe it wasn't about me, and that there were other things on the prince's mind...
I remember the pride that had swelled in my chest as I watched my father best the Kingslayer himself.
I remember gasping in horror as Ser Selmy tossed the prince around like a ragdoll. But when Joffrey stood defiantly against the superior opponent, unmovable and unbowed, I felt awe blossom in my chest. I made a silent vow to be the best wife I possibly could, to be worthy of a man like Joffrey. He was no longer just a handsome prince but a man of determination and courage.
However, that feeling didn't last long. As our caravan journeyed toward the capital, the prince, my betrothed, acted like a madman. Gone was the charming, unbowed prince. Instead, there was an insane man running beside the royal carriage, waving his sword around with a lost look on his face.
I couldn't help but feel my depressive feelings return. I questioned my father once again if maybe I was the problem, but he only awkwardly laughed and said that the prince was very passionate about swordsmanship. He assured me it would pass.
But it didn't pass..and as I watched my little sister Arya try her hardest to mimic the motions Joffrey did, and I couldn't help but curse Septa, my manners teacher, in my mind.
Wasn't it her job to teach me how to please my husband?
...At least she had been much more lenient with her lessons after seeing the prince's excentricities...
Then , we finally reached the capital , but I didn't get the chance to enjoy it like I expected...
I remembered staring blankly at my father's face, his words heavy in the air. Only a day after we reached the capital, he told me he had to leave for the Vale to seek the truth about the former Hand's death. It felt like the world was shifting beneath my feet.
I lay awake at night, with only Lady, my trusty wolf, keeping me company. I pondered on the whispers of the servants, tales of dead men walking once more, and divine punishment. The fear was palpable, but I couldn't understand what it all meant.
In that time, I didn't get to see the prince at all. A cold acceptance slowly settled over me. If the prince didn't like me, then fine, I wouldn't waste my time trying to please someone who didn't care about me. But a small flicker of hope remained, deep down. Maybe with time, he would come to love me, and he would become the prince I had always dreamed about.
Of course, as fate would have it, hope turned to horror when we received the news of the king's death two weeks later. I could almost feel the cold shivers that took over me when my father narrated how he just suddenly collapsed, like a puppet with its strings cut...
Not even the grand Sept of Baelor or Joffrey's angelic beauty as he prayed for his father could lift my spirits back then. I knew my father was struggling internally for some reason, and I didn't know how to help.
Then, the next day, when I woke up and found him happily smiling at me and Arya, telling us that we were going home, I felt a strange mix of relief and indifference. I decided to go with the flow, to let things happen as they would, and not let it affect me anymore.
But then, Joffrey, that absolute madman, transformed the Iron Throne, the symbol of hundreds of years of Targaryen reign, into a beautiful statue of his father...
I could still see it every time I closed my eyes...how the metal flowed as if guided by the hand of the divine, shaped by the hand of a master craftsman.
Compared to that, who cared that my father was replaced by a funny-looking dwarf as the Hand of the King? Who cared that my betrothal was canceled a few days later? Who cared that Joffrey's uncle was about to start a war against him, laying claim to the wooden chair that posed as a throne these days? I barely cared about going back home to Winterfell, even though I knew I missed my mother and brothers.
All I could see, all I could think about, was how that statue changed. How the metal flowed and transformed into something entirely different. And I couldn't help but 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 to be able to do the same thing.
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"*Sigh...* This is so stupid..."I thought as I continued to stroke my Lady, enjoying the softness of her fur, trying to will away all the pointless thoughts that floated in my mind.
There was no point in chasing the impossible... Joffrey was blessed by the gods themselves, which explained both his powers and excentricities as well as the insane ideas he had sometimes...what did I have in comparison?
And so, with melancholy coursing through my veins, I started speaking softly , gazing to the cloudless sky above.
"In the meadow's gentle breeze I stand,
Watching birds take flight to distant land.
With longing eyes, I gazed above so high,
Yearning for wings to reach the boundless sky.
But fate is cruel, no feathers grace my frame,
No wings to bear me, no path for me to claim.
A humble creature, earthbound, it seems,
Yet in my dreams, I'll soar within my dreams..."
I uttered slowly , grateful for my dedication towards being a ,,proper,, lady , at least for a moment. At least I could express myself beautifully...
My reverie was abruptly shattered by a booming shout that echoed in my ear.
"SANSAA!"
I reeled in pain and shock, quickly turning toward the source of the shout. It was little sister, Arya Stark. With her unruly, dark hair and a mischievous glint in her gray eyes, she was a stark contrast to my own appearance. I covered my ear with my hand, my face a mixture of annoyance and discomfort.
"WHAT IN THE BLAZES DO YOU WANT, ARYA?" I shouted back, my anger evident. "And why did you scream in my ear?"
Arya, with a cheeky grin, replied, "I've been calling you for like five minutes, but you were just staring at the sky while mumbling... I thought you went insane for a moment..."
I gasped in shock, realizing how deeply lost I'd been in my thoughts.
"But it doesn't matter!" Arya continued excitedly. "I came to tell you that Joffrey is going to fight with Dad and Goldy again! And this time, Teacher Syrio will help them as well!"
My melancholy was forgotten in an instant. I sprang to my feet, almost dragging Arya with me, and together, we hurried toward the clearing where I knew Joffrey had been training earlier. There was no need for more words. While I didn't particularly like fighting, the journey had proven quite dull, and watching the wild stunts Joffrey pulled off had become everyone's favorite pastime – except for Joffrey's disapproving mother, Cersei, who always seemed as sour as a lemon for some reason.
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In the heart of a grassy field, I saw him, the man who had captured my heart somehow, despite his indifference. He stood there, a vision of regal magnificence, his very presence making my heart skip a beat. His short, golden hair glistened in the sunlight, and his serene smile drew me in, despite knowing he had no interest in me.
And he stood there uncaring , with his eyes closed...barehanded...but the swordsmen that were facing him didn't seem to be at ease watching such a sight.
My father, Eddard Stark, standing against Joffrey made me slightly worried . As he faced Joffrey in this duel, I couldn't help but silently pray that he wouldn't overextend himself. He was an old man, and he didn't seem to know when to quit.
Jaime Lannister, on the other hand, left me mostly indifferent. He hesitated, and his presence did little to stir any strong emotions within me.
Syrio Forel, Arya's teacher, was the source of my curiosity. I wondered how he would stack up against Joffrey, and if all the praise Arya had heaped upon him ever since he began training her was earned. My eyes darted between the fighters, eager to see how this unexpected duel would unfold.
And then Joffrey...yawned...
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Third person pov :
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The tension in the air was palpable as these skilled swordsmen braced themselves for the clash. Yet, the serene repose of the Blessed King remained unbroken, his eyes still closed, his smile unchanged.
Suddenly, like a signal had been exchanged, all three fighters visibly tensed. Their instincts screamed at them to flee from the impending battle, or face the consequences.
But the encounter took an unexpected turn as a deep baritone voice echoed through the clearing. It was Joffrey himself, still with his eyes closed, his serene smile undisturbed.
"I am warning you, good sirs... I know Kung Fu," Joffrey proclaimed, his words met with a perplexed silence.
Jaime Lannister was the first to break free from the paralysis that had gripped them all. He advanced upon the King, ready to strike.
Jaime began with a powerful overhead strike, his blade shimmering in the dappled sunlight as it descended. But Joffrey displayed an otherworldly grace, leaning backward Matrix-style to avoid the blow. He moved with a fluidity that defied the laws of physics.
As Jaime followed up with a diagonal slash, Joffrey's limber torso twisted and contorted, evading the blade with almost unnatural ease. The onlookers could hardly believe their eyes as he slipped away from the sword's thrust with a series of flexible movements.
Jaime, determined to land a blow, executed a low sweep targeting Joffrey's legs. But the King, in a swift sidestep, slid out of harm's way. His movements were nothing short of miraculous, like a dance with death.
Jaime's attacks continued, each one more desperate than the last. He attempted a spinning attack to catch Joffrey off guard, but his opponent spun his limbs around in a spiral motion, evading it as though he were made of rubber.
The Lannister knight then faked a lunge to provoke a reaction, but Joffrey's elusive twisting and contortions left him grasping at air.
The grassy field had become completely silent save for the occasional sword cutting through the air.
"Are you really thinking you can catch me off guard?" Joffrey suddenly intoned, his voice as calm as a still lake. He fell into a squat-like position, his eyes still closed, and in this impossible stance, he managed to dodge an attack coming from behind him without even looking.
It became evident to all those watching that besides forcing him to dodge, Jaime's strikes were also subtly herding Joffrey toward the two other fighters. Eddard, his resolve unwavering, spoke as he pressed forward after his failed sneak attack.
"Your grace...with all due respect...what other choice do we have?" Eddard questioned. He continued to advance alongside Jaime, using a flurry of fast but accurate strikes in perfect coordination, attempting to pincer Joffrey between them.
"Heh, I guess you are right," said Joffrey with a knowing smile, his eyes still closed. His tiniest movements were enough to dodge the relentless attacks of his opponents. As Jaime and Eddard, fueled by a growing desire to land a blow on their elusive king, started using increasingly powerful strikes, their initial fear of hurting Joffrey was slowly overshadowed by their determination to strike their opponent at least once.
But then, in a breathtaking display of skill and power, Joffrey, for the first time during the fight, began to fight back. In the blink of an eye, his hands turned into blurs as he caught both Eddard's and Jaime's swords with one hand each, gripping them between his fingers with a strength that left the blades completely stuck.
The field was plunged into a surreal silence as the combatants stood locked in this improbable standoff. Joffrey's strength and agility had transcended the boundaries of the possible, and Jaime and Eddard were left in awe of their king's otherworldly abilities. It was a moment frozen in time...
...until it wasn't...
Because one man had yet to show his hand.
Syrio Forel, who had been watching the entire fight, patiently biding his time, finally saw his opening. With skill borne from decades of focused training and unwavering discipline, the Master of the Water Dance closed in on the seemingly vulnerable Blessed King, both his hands occupied with Jaime's and Eddard's swords. He didn't waste a moment pondering why the King's hands remained unharmed; the first sword of Braavos knew when to forsake useless questions.
With utmost precision and unmatched speed, Syrio swung both his swords toward the King's exposed head with all his might. He fully expected that his strikes would be blocked or dodged, just as it had happened every other time. However, he didn't expect what followed.
His blades, mere inches from the King's kind-looking face, shattered as if they had struck an invisible wall. Those watching gasped in astonishment, and even the fearless Syrio Forel was left dumbfounded.
'I didn't even see what happened...' he though in disbelief. He didn't even hear the King congratulating him for the sneak attack , or the swords slashing through the air as Joffrey resumed his dodging practice against Eddard and Jaime.
No , Syrio didn't care about any of that , because as he looked at the blade stumps of his training swords , he couldn't help but think...
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'Are those....bite marks?'
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A.N :
"Be they ancient disembodied masters, assist systems, or game-like frameworks for leveling up.
It was just cowardice.
A crutch for people who had always been told what to do and needed constant emotional and rational support.
An easy way out, the same way everything they were familiar with from the real world, that they liked, worked.
Being ordered around by parents and school and the workplace and all that, but without all the bits that made it unpleasant at times, before you actually set out on your own.
The power you couldn't have in real life without the responsibilities or the risk of actual failure that came with it.
The way to improve in the real world was through failure and self-reflection, not mindless grinding, cultivation, or blind obeisance to something that convenient.
Being an adult means making your own damn decisions and then accepting all the shit that came with fucking up, or alternatively not doing it and accepting the consequences of that, too"
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