Jeoffrey: The Hedonist (SI)

Joffrey's boots echoed softly in the damp, cold crypts beneath Winterfell as he led his father, Robert Baratheon, deeper into the darkness. Robert followed, his heavy steps sluggish, clearly annoyed at being pulled down into the gloom after a long night of drinking. But Joffrey had insisted. He knew there was no better place to have this conversation, no better setting to crack open the shell of a man who had spent years drowning his sorrows in wine and women.

 

"Why the hell are we down here?" Robert grumbled, his voice rough, though there was a trace of curiosity beneath the irritation. The flickering torches cast long shadows on the stone walls, their dim light barely cutting through the thick, oppressive air. "What's on your mind, boy?"

 

Joffrey glanced back at his father, slowing his pace as they approached the final resting places of the Starks. He stopped near one of the statues, the stone likeness of Lyanna Stark, her features carved in eternal serenity. "I wanted to talk about her," Joffrey said quietly, gesturing to the statue. "About Lyanna."

 

Robert's face darkened instantly. His jaw clenched, and his usual bluster faltered. He stared at the stone effigy, a flicker of something deep and painful passing through his bloodshot eyes. "What about her?" Robert asked, his voice quieter now, guarded.

 

Joffrey crossed his arms, keeping his tone measured. "Did you love her?" It was a simple question, but it landed like a blow, cutting through whatever defenses Robert had built up over the years.

 

Robert let out a bitter laugh, though there was no humor in it. He looked at Lyanna's face, something fragile and raw surfacing for the first time in years. "Love?" he repeated, his voice hoarse. "More than anything, boy. More than anything else in this damned world."

 

Joffrey took a step closer, watching the cracks form in Robert's usually impenetrable exterior. He pressed on, knowing he had to strike while the wound was open. "What was she like?" he asked, his voice soft but insistent. "Tell me about her."

 

Robert's breath hitched, his broad shoulders slumping under the weight of memories long buried. He rubbed a hand over his face, his fingers trembling slightly. "She was… she was beautiful," he muttered, his gaze never leaving the statue. "Wild, like a storm you can't control. I'd have done anything for her. Fought the whole bloody world if it meant she'd have been mine."

 

Joffrey stayed silent, letting his father's words spill out, coaxing more with his silence.

 

"But she was taken from me," Robert continued, his voice breaking. "Stolen by that damned Targaryen. And now..." He trailed off, his throat working as he swallowed hard. His eyes were wet, and Joffrey realized, with some surprise, that his father was crying. "True love, boy, once it's lost, it's gone. You don't get it back. It eats at you forever."

 

Robert took a shaky breath, wiping at his eyes as if embarrassed to show weakness in front of his son. "Don't ever let that happen to you," he warned, his voice thick. "Once you lose it, there's no coming back. Nothing fills that hole. Not wine, not women. Nothing."

 

Joffrey stood there, feeling a strange mix of satisfaction and discomfort. He'd cracked open a part of Robert he hadn't expected to see. And now he understood more about his father than he ever had before. But just as quickly as the vulnerability had come, Robert seemed to close off again. He straightened up, shaking his head, trying to regain his usual bravado.

 

"I've seen you sneaking off to your Uncle Tyrion's place," Robert said suddenly, his tone shifting. Joffrey blinked, surprised by the sudden turn. "Think I haven't noticed, eh? You're my son, after all. At your age, I used the same damn excuse. 'Just visiting my uncle,' huh?" He chuckled, though it was tinged with something darker, a knowing edge.

 

Joffrey stared at his father, taken aback. He didn't think Robert had cared enough to notice his late-night escapades to the brothel. "I—"

 

"Don't try to deny it," Robert interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "I know what you're up to. It's no different than what I did at your age. But if you're going to keep at it, at least be smarter about it. Either find pleasure where it can't be traced back to you, or learn to keep it in your pants."

 

Joffrey smirked slightly, though inside, he felt a pang of irritation at being caught. He wasn't some foolish boy running off to slake his desires without thinking of the consequences. "Don't sweat it, Father," he said, his voice light but with a hard edge. "I'm your son, after all."

 

Robert barked out a laugh, clapping Joffrey on the back with a heavy hand. "Aye, that you are, boy." He sighed, the weight of their conversation still lingering as they began the walk back up to Winterfell, side by side.

 

---

 

Joffrey stood in the training yard, his sword in hand, the cold air biting at his skin as he squared off with Jon Snow first. Theon and Robb Stark stood by, waiting their turn, their faces carefully composed, though Joffrey could see the tension behind their eyes. It wasn't real anger—no, this was all for show, a carefully orchestrated performance for the eyes watching from the shadows of Winterfell.

 

The morning light filtered through the grey clouds, casting a dull glow over the muddy ground. Joffrey could feel the weight of the eyes on him, the castle's inhabitants observing the confrontation from balconies and windows. He knew what this was—knew it from the subtle looks exchanged between Jon, Robb, and Theon earlier. They were putting on a show, trying to sell the idea that the tension between the Starks and Lannisters was reaching a boiling point. And he was playing his part just as well.

 

Jon lunged first, his strikes fast and precise, his face set in a determined scowl. Joffrey parried, the clash of their wooden practice swords echoing in the courtyard. Each hit came harder than the last, Jon's movements fueled by an intensity that felt just a little too real. But Joffrey saw through it—saw the way Jon's eyes flicked ever so briefly to the side, gauging the reactions of the onlookers.

 

Joffrey grinned, twisting his sword to catch Jon's next strike with a loud crack. He forced himself to stumble back, exaggerating the impact, making it look as though Jon had gotten the better of him. Jon pressed forward, swinging at Joffrey's side, and Joffrey barely dodged in time, his feet sliding in the mud.

 

"Come on, bastard," Joffrey taunted, keeping his voice just loud enough for the crowd to hear. He grinned, making it look like he was on the defensive, even though they both knew he was holding back. Jon's scowl deepened, his strikes growing fiercer, and for a moment, Joffrey wondered if Jon was letting more than just the performance bleed into the fight. The bastard had always carried a chip on his shoulder, and now was his chance to vent it.

 

Jon landed a solid blow to Joffrey's ribs, the wooden sword cracking against his side with enough force to make him wince. Joffrey grunted, doubling over slightly as he caught his breath. He looked up, catching Jon's eyes for a split second. There—a discreet nod. The message was clear: Good, keep going. Let them see.

 

Joffrey straightened, forcing a grin despite the pain in his side. "Is that all you've got, Snow?" he sneered, swinging his sword upward. Jon blocked it, but Joffrey pushed forward, knocking him off balance. He saw Jon's eyes flicker again, and with a final heavy swing, Jon let himself fall to the ground, his breath coming hard and fast.

 

The crowd murmured, some chuckling at the sight of the prince besting the Stark bastard. Joffrey extended his hand to Jon, pulling him to his feet with a firm grip. Another quick nod passed between them—subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone watching closely. Jon walked away, wiping the sweat from his brow, leaving the field open for the next round.

 

Robb was up next. He stepped forward with his practice sword raised, a fierce grin on his face that barely concealed the game they were playing. Joffrey knew Robb well enough to recognize the same calculating mind behind that cocky smile. They both knew the stakes here, and they both knew that this wasn't really about swords and pride.

 

Robb moved faster than Jon had, his strikes more controlled, his footwork sharper. Joffrey matched him blow for blow, their swords clashing in a rapid series of strikes. Robb came at him with force, pushing him back across the yard. Joffrey blocked and parried, gritting his teeth as Robb's sword came dangerously close to his shoulder.

 

"Careful, Stark," Joffrey said through a clenched jaw, his voice low enough that only Robb could hear. "We don't want to get too real now, do we?"

 

Robb smirked, twisting his sword to deflect Joffrey's next strike with ease. "Just putting on a good show for the crowd, Your Grace," he replied, his voice equally low. He swung again, this time aiming for Joffrey's legs, and Joffrey jumped back, barely avoiding the hit. He stumbled, making it look clumsy, and the crowd murmured again, sensing the tension between the two.

 

Joffrey caught Robb's eye as they circled each other, and for a moment, they exchanged another silent understanding. Robb lunged forward, his sword aimed at Joffrey's chest, but at the last second, he pulled back just enough for Joffrey to twist and counter, landing a blow to Robb's side. Robb let out a grunt, dropping to one knee as Joffrey's sword pressed against his throat.

 

They held the pose for a second, both of them breathing heavily, the yard silent as the onlookers waited to see who would make the next move. Joffrey lowered his sword, stepping back and offering Robb his hand. Robb took it, his grip firm, and Joffrey pulled him to his feet with another quick nod. Another message shared between them. Well played.

 

Theon was the last to step forward. Unlike Jon and Robb, Theon's grin was wider, more exaggerated, as if he was enjoying the theatrics a little too much. His strikes came quick and reckless, forcing Joffrey to move faster than before. Theon was clearly aiming to make a spectacle of it, each swing of his sword designed to draw the crowd's attention.

 

Joffrey parried, sweat dripping down his temple as he focused on keeping up with Theon's rapid strikes. He could feel the bruises forming from Jon's earlier hit and the soreness from Robb's blows, but he pushed through it. Theon's attacks were more erratic, more showy, but there was something gleeful behind his movements, as if he was enjoying the pretense more than the fight.

 

"You're getting sloppy, Greyjoy," Joffrey hissed, ducking under a wild swing. Theon laughed, a sharp, cocky sound that echoed in the yard.

 

"Just trying to give them a good show, Your Grace," Theon shot back, twirling his sword with a flourish. He lunged forward, but Joffrey saw the opening and took it, bringing his sword down hard on Theon's arm. Theon let out a yelp, stumbling back as his sword clattered to the ground.

 

Joffrey didn't waste the opportunity. He stepped forward, pressing his sword against Theon's chest, his eyes locked on Theon's with an unspoken command: stay down.

 

Theon smirked, giving Joffrey the tiniest nod before raising his hands in mock surrender. "You got me, Your Grace," he said loudly enough for the crowd to hear, his tone filled with just enough arrogance to make it believable.

 

Joffrey stepped back, allowing Theon to stand as the crowd murmured in approval. He caught Theon's eye again, giving a small nod of approval as they both turned to face the spectators. It had been a good show—one that would reinforce the narrative they were trying to sell.

 

Joffrey turned, his eyes scanning the spectators, and caught sight of Cersei standing by the edge of the yard, her face twisted in anger. She looked ready to explode, her gaze locked on the Stark boys, her hands clenched into fists. Joffrey knew that look—she was going to do something stupid. He needed to get to her before she made a scene.

 

As he began walking toward her chambers, Sansa appeared beside him, her expression timid and tearful. "Joffrey," she said softly, falling into step beside him. "I… I wanted to ask for your forgiveness. I was wrong to doubt you."

 

Joffrey didn't break his stride, his eyes fixed ahead as he waved her off. "No," he said sharply. "You should be angry with me. Everyone in court should see it. They should believe it."

 

Sansa hesitated, her brow furrowing in confusion. "But there's no one around now."

 

"The walls have ears, Sansa," Joffrey said, his tone clipped. "They always do."

 

Sansa's shoulders slumped as she fell back, watching him disappear down the hall.

 

---

 

When Joffrey entered Cersei's chambers, she was pacing furiously, muttering curses under her breath. "Those Stark boys," she hissed, her eyes flashing as she whipped around to face him. "They'll pay for this. Every last one of them will get what they deserve. I'll see to it—"

 

Joffrey stepped close, cutting her off mid-rant by placing a hand over her mouth. "Enough," he whispered, his voice calm but firm. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close, his lips brushing her ear. "We planned this, remember? The whole thing was a setup."

 

Cersei blinked, her anger momentarily subsiding as she looked up at him. "What do you mean?"

 

Joffrey's hand slid down, gripping her waist as he began to lift her skirt, his fingers brushing the bare skin of her thighs. "It's to bring out whoever's trying to turn us against the Starks," he murmured, his voice low and smooth as he worked his hand higher, his fingers slipping between her legs. "We need them to think there's real hatred, real division. It'll make the snake show itself."

 

Cersei gasped softly, her anger giving way to something else as she leaned into Joffrey's touch. "You're brilliant," she whispered, her body trembling as his fingers teased her, slipping inside her with ease. "Absolutely brilliant."

 

Joffrey grinned against her neck, his fingers moving slowly, deliberately, as he continued. "Jaime will be back at Casterly Rock by the end of the moon," he said, watching her reaction closely.

 

Cersei's eyes widened in shock, her body stiffening. "What? Why would you—?"

 

"Because whoever is after us knows about you and Jaime," Joffrey interrupted, his fingers curling inside her, making her moan softly as she bucked against his hand. "And they'll use that against us."

 

Cersei's breath came in ragged gasps, her hands clutching at Joffrey's arms as she gave in to the pleasure coursing through her. She finished with a shudder, her head falling back as Joffrey licked his fingers clean, a satisfied smirk on his lips.

 

"Don't worry," Joffrey whispered, his voice soothing as he kissed her neck. "I'll take care of you. You're all mine now."

 

Cersei nodded, her body still trembling, her eyes half-lidded with the afterglow. "You're all I need," she whispered, her voice soft and breathless.

 

Joffrey left her lying on the bed, her body spent, and made his way back to his own chambers. On the way, he found the Hound, leaning against a wall, his face as expressionless as ever. He asked the hound to follow him and once they were in a quiet place he asked The hound innane questions that made the hound irritated before going for the big question.

 

"What do you think should happen to your brother?" Joffrey asked, his voice casual but laced with authority.

 

The Hound shrugged, his dark eyes narrowing. "I don't care what happens to the Mountain."

 

Joffrey stepped closer, his voice taking on a harder edge. "What do you think should happen?" he repeated, his tone demanding an answer.

 

The Hound's lip curled into something resembling a sneer. "He should burn."

 

Joffrey nodded slowly, satisfied. "Be a good dog, Sandor," he said, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "And one day, you might just get to see it."