𝓙𝓸𝓯𝓯𝓻𝓮𝔂 𝓲 𝓑𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓸𝓷⁰³

The Shadow Behind the Throne
It's always colder in the Red Keep than it looks outside.
Even in summer.
Even among hundreds of torches.
Lady Stark realized this that evening when she first noticed how long the king spent looking not at his wife, but at her.
Sansa sat at Joffrey's right hand. The queen. In a golden gown embroidered with direwolves and lions—a symbol of the reconciliation of the two houses. Her posture was impeccable. Her smile was quiet and distant.
She played her role perfectly.
But Joffrey hardly looked at her.
His gaze found another northerner.
The one standing a little to the side. Without a crown. Without the title of queen. Just with the last name—Stark.
It all didn't start with recognition.
From silence.
The Small Council Chamber discussed disturbing news: one of the Western lords was gathering too many men under the pretext of a hunt. It might be nothing.
It could have been the beginning of a rebellion.
"He's testing my power," Joffrey said irritably. "He thinks I'm too busy feasting."
“Perhaps he’s testing your reaction,” Lady Stark remarked calmly.
Silence fell over the room. She shouldn't have spoken—but her presence had become familiar. Formally, an observer. Unofficially, a voice the king listened to.
“And what do you propose?” he asked.
— Not a threat. An invitation.
Some of the advisers frowned.
"An invitation?" Joffrey asked.
"A tournament. In his honor. Let him come to the capital. Let him be the center of your attention. It's hard for a rebel to plot under the king's gaze."
He looked at her for a long time.

• You are again proposing a game instead of execution.
  — The game allows you to win twice.
  The corner of his lips twitched.
  — Make preparations.
  The advisers exchanged glances.
  They saw him listening to her.
  And it was dangerous.
  That evening, when the hall was empty, Joffrey stopped her with a gesture.
• Stay.
  Sansa had already left. She rarely stayed after councils. Her conversations with the king became short, formal. Almost like strangers.
  When the door closed, he came closer.
  — They think you talk too much.
• Then I will speak less often.
  “No,” he answered sharply. “I need,