Jeoffrey: The Hedonist (SI)

Joffrey stood on the balcony, watching the chaos unfold below as the royal retinue scrambled to prepare for the journey back to King’s Landing. The servants ran around like headless chickens, saddling horses, loading carts, and rushing to make everything ready. The Starks were nowhere in sight, which suited Joffrey just fine. He’d spent the day ignoring them, making sure they felt every bit of his disdain. He liked watching them squirm, knowing something was coming but not having a clue what it was.

His eyes landed on Tyrion, already on his horse, about to set off for the Wall. Joffrey pushed through the crowd, weaving through the frantic movement until he was at his uncle’s side.

“Uncle,” Joffrey called, his voice low but commanding.

Tyrion pulled his reins, looking down at him with that ever-present smirk. “Yes, Your Grace? What can I do for you on this fine day?”

Joffrey stepped in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I need you to do something for me.”

Tyrion’s smirk didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “And what might that be?”

“Convince Jon Snow not to go to the Wall,” Joffrey said, his tone sharp and cold. “Bring him to court instead.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, clearly confused. “And why would you want the bastard in King’s Landing? He’s hardly a fit for court politics.”

Joffrey’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “Not for politics. I need someone to toughen up Tommen. Snow’s sword will do the trick.”

Tyrion’s expression shifted, calculating, but he nodded. “As you wish, Your Grace. I’ll see what I can do.” With that, he kicked his horse into motion and disappeared into the crowd, heading toward the North.

Joffrey watched him go, satisfied, then turned and made his way back into the castle. He had unfinished business. He moved through the corridors until he found Lady Catelyn Stark in the great hall, overseeing the maids as they packed food and supplies. She was sharp, quick with her commands, and didn’t notice him until he was right beside her.

Catelyn turned, startled to see him standing so close. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice icy. “What do you want?”

Joffrey smirked, his eyes dark with intent. “What do you think I want, Lady Stark?”

She huffed, folding her arms, her glare cutting into him. “You’ve only had one thing on your mind all day, haven’t you?”

Joffrey’s grin widened. “You’re not wrong. And I’m sure your daughter will enjoy every bit of it.”

Her eyes narrowed, full of hate. “Stop ignoring Sansa. You’ve played enough games.”

He shook his head, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a near growl. “I can’t stop until the rat shows itself.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her glare sharp enough to pierce armor. “And what the hell are you doing talking to me, then?”

Joffrey laughed, the sound cold and mocking. “The way you’ve been glaring at me all day is all the acting we need. Now, will you come with me, or should we keep this charade going?”

Catelyn hesitated, but after a tense moment, she rolled her eyes and followed him. He led her through the winding halls, away from the busy servants and prying eyes, until they reached a small, forgotten room. It was dimly lit, the air stale, but Joffrey didn’t care. This place would do just fine.

The second the door closed behind them, he grabbed her by the arm, yanking her roughly toward him. His mouth crashed into hers, forcing a kiss that was all teeth and tongue. Catelyn resisted at first, her body tense against his, but it didn’t take long for the fight to drain from her as he pressed her against the cold stone wall. His hands were already roaming her body, tearing at her clothes with an almost vicious impatience.

He pulled her gown down, ripping the fabric as it fell to the floor. Her bare skin was exposed to the cool air, goosebumps rising across her chest as his hands cupped her breasts, squeezing them roughly. “You’re already wet, aren’t you?” he growled against her ear, one hand dipping between her legs, his fingers finding her slick with arousal.

She let out a small, involuntary gasp as his fingers worked her, slipping inside and curling just right. “You’re fucking disgusting,” she spat, her voice strained, but her body betrayed her, hips rolling against his hand.

Joffrey laughed, dark and low, pulling his hand away only to shove her down onto her knees. “Get on your knees. Let’s see if that filthy mouth of yours can do something useful.”

She glared up at him, hatred burning in her eyes, but she obeyed. Her hands moved to his pants, undoing them quickly before pulling his cock free. She hesitated for only a moment before taking him into her mouth, her tongue working the head as she began to suck, slow at first but quickly picking up the pace as he grabbed her hair and forced her to take more.

Joffrey groaned, his fingers tangling in her hair as he fucked her mouth, thrusting his hips forward, watching her lips stretch around his cock. “You hate this, don’t you? But look at you, on your knees, sucking me off like a good little whore.”

Catelyn gagged slightly but didn’t pull back, her hands gripping his thighs as he continued to thrust into her mouth, using her without mercy. When he was done, he yanked her up by the hair, spinning her around and bending her over the small table in the corner of the room. “Now, let’s finish what we started.”

Without another word, he entered her from behind, slamming into her with brutal force. Catelyn cried out, her hands gripping the edge of the table as he fucked her hard, each thrust sending jolts of pain and pleasure through her. Joffrey’s hands were everywhere—on her hips, pulling her back against him, on her breasts, squeezing and pinching her nipples as he pounded into her.

“You like that, don’t you?” he growled, his voice rough and breathless. “You like being fucked like this, don’t lie to me.”

She didn’t answer, biting her lip to keep from making any more noise, but her body told him everything he needed to know. She was trembling, her legs shaking as he drove into her over and over, faster and harder, until she finally broke. Her orgasm hit her like a wave, her body shaking uncontrollably as she moaned, her voice ragged and strained.

Joffrey grunted, spilling inside her with one last deep thrust, his body shuddering as he came. But he wasn’t finished. He pulled out, his cock still hard and dripping as he wiped it on her ass before turning her around.

“Open your mouth,” he commanded, stroking himself as he aimed his cock at her face.

Catelyn, panting and flushed, glared up at him, but she obeyed, parting her lips as he came again, thick ropes of cum landing across her face and breasts. He didn’t stop there, rubbing the head of his cock across her lips, smearing the last drops over her skin as he grinned down at her.

“When the time comes, after Robb’s ready to rule, you’ll bring your husband to King’s Landing,” he said, his voice low and taunting. “And you’ll stay there until dear old Ned is made Hand. Understood?”

Catelyn nodded, wiping the cum from her face with her fingers, licking them clean with slow, deliberate movements as she glared up at him, still defiant even in her submission.

“Good,” Joffrey said, pulling up his pants and fastening them. Without another word, he turned and left the room, leaving her there, naked and spent.

He made his way back to his chambers, feeling a sense of satisfaction settle over him. He had handled everything just as he’d wanted. And there was more work to be done.

Joffrey’s chambers were quieter than he had left them, the air thick with a strange tension. The sword he had come for still rested by his bed, untouched, but something else drew his attention as soon as he stepped into the room.

Arya Stark, her small, lithe body bare against the pale sheets, was lying in his bed, eyes gleaming with a mixture of defiance and curiosity. Her legs were crossed casually, one arm draped over her chest, as if her nudity was nothing more than a fact of the moment.

“What are you doing here?” Joffrey asked, his voice cold but edged with surprise. He didn’t expect to find her here, especially like this.

Arya sat up slowly, her eyes locked on his as if daring him to react. “I’ve been watching,” she said, her tone flat but with an undercurrent of something darker. “I saw what you do to Sansa... what you did to my mother.”

Joffrey’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t bother to hide his annoyance, but Arya wasn’t fazed. She sat there, calm, as if waiting for him to make the next move.

“I want you to do that to me,” Arya said bluntly, her voice steady, unwavering. She didn’t flinch, didn’t shy away from her words.

Joffrey clenched his jaw. Arya was too bold, too reckless. That fire in her—it wasn’t the same submissive spark that Sansa had, or the bitter frustration of Catelyn. Arya wanted control, even in this. “You’re too young,” he said, shaking his head as he stepped toward her, pulling a quilt from the side of the bed and tossing it over her. “Even for me.”

Arya frowned, disappointment flickering in her eyes as she pulled the quilt tighter around herself. “I’m not a child,” she snapped, her voice sharp. “I want what they have. What you give them.”

Joffrey crossed his arms, staring her down. “You’ll get it when the time’s right,” he said firmly. “Until then, go back to Sansa. I’m sure she’ll be happy to... talk with you.”

Arya’s frown deepened, but she slid off the bed and began pulling on her clothes without another word. As she dressed, Joffrey watched her, his mind churning. Arya was dangerous in her own way—she was quick, she was clever, and she was entirely unpredictable. He would need to handle her carefully.

Once Arya was dressed, she shot Joffrey one last look before storming out of the room, her small frame bristling with frustration. Joffrey didn’t follow. He had no intention of entertaining her now. That time would come later—when she was properly ripened for the games he played.

After Arya left, Joffrey sheathed his sword and headed back out, his mind still focused on the web of control he was spinning around the Starks. He had work to do before they left for King’s Landing, and there was one more loose end he needed to tie up.

Bran.

He found Bran in the courtyard, talking to Rickon, the two brothers engaged in a quiet conversation about bows and arrows. Bran had a bow slung over his shoulder, and Rickon’s young face lit up as Bran gave him tips on how to handle the weapon. Joffrey approached them slowly, his presence looming over the two boys.

“Bran,” Joffrey said, his voice steady as his eyes locked onto the older Stark boy. Bran froze for a moment, his eyes widening with that familiar fear. He’d seen too much—witnessed something that could unravel the delicate balance Joffrey had been constructing.

Rickon fell silent, sensing the shift in the air, and Bran quickly stood up straight, his hand tightening on the bow’s handle. “Your Grace,” he muttered, his voice trembling just enough for Joffrey to catch it.

Joffrey smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Come with me. I’d like to have a word.”

Bran nodded slowly, casting a quick, almost pleading look at Rickon before he followed Joffrey to a secluded corner of the courtyard. There, with the noise of the castle just a dull hum in the background, Joffrey turned to face Bran fully.

“We’re going to talk about what you saw in the tower,” Joffrey said, his tone firm but not aggressive. “You didn’t see what you think you saw. Understand?”

Bran blinked, confusion flashing across his face. “I—I saw you and... your family. In the tower.”

Joffrey nodded, stepping closer. “You saw me with Sansa. That’s what you’re going to tell anyone who asks.”

Bran hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. “But...”

Joffrey’s hand shot out, gripping Bran’s shoulder, his fingers digging in just enough to make his point clear. “Listen to me, Bran,” he said quietly, leaning in closer. “If anyone asks, you tell them you saw me with Sansa. No one else. Do you understand?”

Bran nodded quickly, his eyes wide with fear. “I understand,” he whispered, his voice shaky. “I won’t say anything else.”

Joffrey smiled, patting Bran’s head like a child. “Good. And one more thing.” He leaned in even closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “If you ever hear a crow in your dreams... or see one outside... kill it. It’s a bad witch. It tried to take me, too.”

Bran’s brow furrowed in confusion, but he nodded again, clearly too frightened to argue. “I’ll kill it,” he said softly.

“Good boy,” Joffrey murmured, straightening up. He gave Bran one last pat on the head before turning and walking away, leaving the boy standing there in stunned silence.

As Joffrey walked back toward the castle, a satisfied smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He had just cut off one more threat. Bran was too young, too scared, to challenge him. The pieces were all falling into place.

The game was far from over, but Joffrey had a firm hand on the board.

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