Jeoffrey: The Hedonist (SI)

Joffrey moved through the halls of Winterfell like he owned the place, every stride oozing the confidence of a prince who knew he was destined to rule. His golden hair was combed back neatly, catching the sunlight that streamed through the high windows, and his tailored doublet clung perfectly to his fit, lean body. It was a body he'd worked hard to perfect, with secret hours spent training with the best swordsmen, building the kind of strength and poise that commanded respect without words. Today, he was more than just a spoiled boy prince; today, he was Joffrey Baratheon, a king in the making, and everyone around him would know it.

The morning began in the training yard, where the knights were already sparring under the watchful eyes of their captains. Joffrey didn't just watch—he joined in, picking up a sword and stepping into the ring without hesitation. He moved with a deadly grace, each strike calculated, every block executed with precision. The knights circled him, testing his defenses, but Joffrey was faster, sharper, his sword dancing as he disarmed one after another. Steel clanged loudly, echoing off the stone walls, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. Robb Stark, who had been sharpening his own blade, paused to watch, his expression a mix of surprise and begrudging respect.

Joffrey finally faced off with Robb himself, their blades meeting in a rapid exchange of strikes that sent sparks flying. Robb was strong, skilled, but Joffrey had the advantage of strategy, using quick, sudden movements to keep Robb off balance. With a swift maneuver, Joffrey knocked Robb's sword from his grip, sending it skidding across the dirt. He stood over Robb, offering a hand up, his smile sharp and knowing.

"You've improved," Robb admitted, panting, wiping sweat from his brow as he took Joffrey's hand.

"A king must always be better," Joffrey replied, pulling Robb up effortlessly. His words were casual, but the message was clear: he was not the Joffrey they all thought they knew. He was better, stronger, and far more dangerous.

---

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Joffrey found Cersei waiting in the dimly lit corridors, her dress clinging to her in ways that were impossible to ignore. She was a vision of calculated seduction, with her emerald gown accentuating every curve, her eyes gleaming with a hunger that went beyond simple lust. Cersei was more than just a queen—she was a woman always on the hunt for power and pleasure, and she saw both in her son.

"Joffrey," Cersei greeted, stepping forward, her voice smooth and sultry. She ran a hand along his chest, feeling the muscle beneath his fine clothes, her touch lingering. "You look every inch the king you're destined to be. Better than your father ever was."

Joffrey's smirk was wicked, his eyes locked on hers with a mix of challenge and promise. He pulled her closer, his fingers gripping her waist, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin fabric. "And better at everything else too, Mother," he said, his voice low, the words laced with a dark edge. "Robert's drunk again, isn't he?"

Cersei's lip curled in disgust. "Passed out in the stables. He reeks of ale and whores."

"Then he won't miss you," Joffrey replied, taking her hand and leading her up the winding stairs of the Broken Tower. The climb was steep, the air growing colder with each step, but the heat between them was palpable, an unspoken tension that simmered just below the surface. Joffrey pushed open the door at the top, pulling Cersei inside and slamming it shut behind them. They were alone, cut off from the world, and Joffrey wasted no time.

Cersei was on him instantly, her hands tearing at his clothes with frantic need, nails scratching his skin as she clawed at his doublet. Joffrey responded in kind, his grip firm as he spun her around, pressing her up against the cold stone wall. She gasped, arching her back, her head falling back to expose her throat. Joffrey's mouth was on her neck, biting and sucking, marking her as his. His hands roamed over her body, tugging at her dress, pulling it down to expose her breasts.

"You're mine," Joffrey growled, his voice thick with control and raw desire. He squeezed her roughly, his touch possessive, leaving her breathless. Cersei moaned, her hips grinding back against him, desperate for more. She wasn't just his mother here; she was his queen, his lover, his willing toy. Joffrey pushed her harder against the wall, his hands moving with a practiced ease as he claimed her, his every movement deliberate and unyielding.

Cersei's cries echoed in the tower, filled with a twisted blend of pleasure and submission. She clawed at his shoulders, her body arching as she gave herself to him completely. Joffrey moved faster, harder, his thrusts rough and relentless, driving her to the brink again and again until she was gasping, her nails digging into his skin. When it was over, they were both breathless, sweat-slicked and tangled together, the scent of their illicit act hanging heavy in the air.

Joffrey pulled back, adjusting his clothes with a smug grin as Cersei leaned against the wall, still panting. "You'll always come back for more, won't you?" he taunted, knowing full well the answer.

Cersei's eyes blazed with a mix of defiance and satisfaction. "Always," she whispered, her voice hoarse and raw. Joffrey left her there, slipping out of the tower with the same cool confidence, leaving Cersei to compose herself, her body still trembling from the intensity of their encounter.

Joffrey and Sansa moved through Winterfell's winding corridors, side by side, the air between them charged with a familiarity that went beyond courtly affection. They had shared stolen moments behind closed doors, whispers that turned into heated touches and soft sighs. The way Joffrey's hand casually brushed the small of her back as they walked wasn't new, but it still sent a shiver through her. He didn't have to ask permission anymore; Sansa had long since learned to respond, leaning into his touch without hesitation.

They were alone for now, away from the prying eyes of the court. Joffrey had carefully crafted this opportunity—a private jaunt through the castle to peel back more of Sansa's guarded exterior. Today, he wanted more than her shy smiles and obedient nods. He wanted to see the girl beneath the façade, the girl who had come alive under his influence.

"You've been on my mind, Sansa," Joffrey said, his voice low and deliberate as they walked. He glanced sideways at her, his touch lingering on her waist before trailing up her arm in a slow, possessive glide. "You're always so proper, so reserved. But I think I've seen glimpses of the real you—the one who doesn't care about rules or what's expected."

Sansa looked up at him, her cheeks tinged pink, but her eyes held his gaze with a newfound boldness. She wasn't the innocent, sheltered girl she had once been; she was learning to navigate the dangerous dance of desire and power, and Joffrey had become her twisted guide. "I suppose you have, Your Grace," she said, the hint of a smile playing at her lips. "I used to think I had to be perfect. But maybe… maybe I don't have to be all the time."

Joffrey's hand slipped down to rest just above her hip, his thumb tracing slow circles that sent heat pooling in her belly. "You don't," he murmured, his eyes darkening as he watched her react to his touch. "Perfection is overrated. You're better when you're just… you. That's the Sansa I want as my queen."

They turned a corner, stepping into a secluded garden enclosed by high stone walls. Joffrey pulled her close, his hand moving to her lower back, pressing her against him as he spoke softly, his lips brushing her ear. "You're not the girl everyone thinks you are, are you? Not anymore."

Sansa's breath hitched, her eyes flitting to his with a mixture of defiance and something deeper—something she was only beginning to understand. "No," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "I'm not." She looked away, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress as if searching for the right words. "Arya… Arya told me once that we shouldn't be afraid to do things differently. That sometimes, you have to break the rules to find yourself."

Joffrey smirked, his hand sliding lower, just brushing the curve of her backside before pulling back, leaving her wanting. "Your sister's a wild one," he said, amusement coloring his tone. "But she's not wrong. I've heard you've been spending a lot of time in each other's rooms… talking."

Sansa's blush deepened, and she bit her lip, looking both embarrassed and excited. She knew exactly what Joffrey meant. "Yes… we talk a lot," she said, her voice catching on the last word, knowing full well that 'talk' was their private code for something much more intimate.

Joffrey chuckled, leaning in closer, his breath warm against her skin. "Talk, huh?" he teased, his hand slipping under her chin, tilting her head up so their eyes met. "Sounds like the kind of talking that leaves you breathless and blushing. Naughty little girls, aren't you?"

Sansa giggled, a soft, breathy sound that came from deep in her throat, and Joffrey felt a swell of satisfaction at having drawn it out of her. She was his, in all the ways that mattered, and he loved seeing her come undone in his presence. "You don't mind, do you?" she asked, feigning innocence even though she knew the answer.

"Mind? I think it's perfect,just like my own family" Joffrey said, his fingers brushing her cheek, lingering just long enough to make her shiver. "Explore all you want, Sansa. You should learn everything there is to know. Just don't forget who you belong to."

Sansa's breath quickened, her body instinctively leaning closer to him, craving more of his touch. She nodded, almost shyly, but with an undercurrent of mischief. "I won't."

Joffrey had Sansa pressed against the cold stone wall of a secluded alcove within Winterfell, his fingers tracing the delicate line of her back, slipping under the thin fabric of her dress. His touch was deliberate, possessive, skimming over the curve of her waist and the dip of her spine. Sansa's breathing quickened, her eyes fluttering shut as his mouth hovered near her ear, teasing her with whispers that sent shivers through her.

They had stolen moments like this before, their trysts becoming a routine hidden beneath the veneer of courtly duty. Joffrey's touch had gone from tentative to assured, his hands claiming her with a confidence that mirrored his growing control over the game of power he was playing. For Sansa, these moments were a heady mix of fear and exhilaration—Joffrey's hold over her was like nothing she'd experienced, a blend of dark charm and a dangerous promise that made her pulse race.

Joffrey's lips brushed her jaw, light at first, then more demanding, tasting the soft skin just below her ear. His fingers wandered lower, exploring the curve of her hip before sliding to the front, toying with the laces of her bodice. He pulled her closer, savoring the way her body responded, pressing against his. "You know you're mine, don't you?" he whispered, his voice thick with possession. "Not just in the eyes of the court, but in every way that matters."

Sansa's eyes flickered open, her breath hitching as she looked up at him, caught between the urge to pull away and the thrill of being so completely seen. Joffrey's touch was familiar now, a slow burn that she'd learned to crave, even if she didn't fully understand why. She nodded, her lips parting as she tried to find her voice. "I know," she murmured, the words soft, almost lost in the space between them. She could feel his breath on her skin, warm and intoxicating, filling her senses.

Joffrey's fingers curled around the neckline of her dress, tugging it down just enough to expose the pale skin of her shoulder. He kissed the newly bared flesh, leaving a faint red mark that would bloom into a bruise by morning, a visible reminder of their secret rendezvous. Sansa gasped softly, her hands gripping his shoulders as she steadied herself, her mind torn between the propriety she'd been raised with and the reckless desire that Joffrey awakened in her.

"I want everyone to see you as mine," Joffrey said, his voice a low growl against her ear. "Not just in name, but in every way." His hands moved boldly, sliding down her sides before finding the hem of her dress and slipping beneath, feeling the soft warmth of her thighs. Sansa's breath caught, her heartbeat thundering in her ears as Joffrey's touch roamed higher, testing the boundaries he had already pushed past so many times before.

Before she could respond, the sound of rapid footsteps echoed down the stone corridor, snapping them both back to the present. Joffrey pulled away just as Bran and Rickon Stark rounded the corner, their faces flushed from running, oblivious to the tension they'd just walked in on. They were chasing each other in wild circles, too lost in their game to notice the compromising position they had interrupted.

Joffrey's jaw clenched, irritation flaring behind his carefully controlled expression. He positioned himself between Sansa and the over-eager boys, shielding her from their view. "Bran, Rickon," Joffrey called out, his tone sharp, commanding their attention. "Slow down before you hurt yourselves."

The boys skidded to a stop, panting and grinning, unaware of the prince's annoyance. Bran looked up at Joffrey, his eyes bright with the carefree confidence of youth. "We were just playing knights!" Bran said excitedly, swinging an invisible sword at Rickon, who dodged with a laugh.

Joffrey forced a smile, masking his frustration. He needed to get rid of them quickly, to regain the moment he'd been savoring with Sansa. "I've got a better game for you two," he said, his voice dripping with the false charm he often wielded. "It's called the Hiding Game. One of you runs ahead and hides, and the other has to track them down. But it's not just about hiding—you've got to keep moving, stay quiet, and outsmart each other. Think you're up for it?"

Bran's competitive streak flared, and he nodded eagerly. "I can hide better than Rickon," he said, glancing at his younger brother, who frowned, determined not to be left out.

Rickon puffed up his chest. "I'll find you faster!"

Joffrey chuckled, giving them a light shove toward the courtyard. "Go on, then. Bran, you start. But remember—stay close. No going too far." He watched as they dashed off, racing each other toward the woods with the careless enthusiasm of children who believed they were invincible.

Turning back to Sansa, Joffrey's smirk returned, his focus sharpening as he picked up right where they had left off. His hands resumed their exploration, slipping around her waist as he leaned in, claiming her lips in a kiss that was far less restrained than the first attempt. Sansa's soft moan vibrated against his mouth, her body melting into his, but there was still that flicker of doubt in her eyes.

"We shouldn't," Sansa whispered between kisses, though her hands betrayed her words as they clutched at Joffrey's tunic, pulling him closer. "Someone might see us."

Joffrey grinned against her lips, undeterred. "Let them see," he murmured, his hand traveling lower, squeezing her backside possessively. "You're already mine, Sansa. In every way that counts. And we're betrothed—it's only a matter of time until you're my queen. Why hide it?"

His words sent a thrill through her, an intoxicating mix of arrogance and promise that left her dizzy. She didn't protest further, letting herself be swept away by the heat of his touch, by the way Joffrey's mouth moved against hers, hungry and unrelenting. They lost themselves in each other, Sansa's soft gasps mingling with the quickening rhythm of their breath, each stolen moment deepening the hold he had over her.

Joffrey had Sansa pinned against the cold stone wall of a secluded alcove in Winterfell, his hands exploring every familiar curve of her body. His touch was rougher now, more demanding, as if he couldn't get enough of her. Sansa's breath was hot against his ear, her voice barely above a whisper but filled with an unmistakable need. She wasn't the shy, blushing girl he'd first taken; she was bold, eager, and every bit the minx who matched his hunger with her own.

"Claim me again, Joffrey," she breathed, her fingers curling into his hair, tugging just enough to make him growl low in his throat. Sansa's eyes were half-lidded, her lips parted in anticipation, already flushed with the memory of every stolen encounter they'd shared. She wanted him, needed him, and she wasn't shy about asking for it.

Joffrey smirked, his fingers slipping under the fabric of her dress, hiking it up inch by tantalizing inch. He felt the heat of her skin, the way she trembled at his touch, and it drove him wild. "You're insatiable, aren't you?" he murmured against her neck, biting down just enough to make her gasp. Sansa's nails dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer, urging him on. She was soft and warm against him, her body arching as his hands roamed over her, pulling her even tighter to him.

Sansa's hips pressed forward, grinding against Joffrey with a desperation that only made his own desire flare hotter. "I am," she admitted shamelessly, her voice breaking into a moan as his fingers found their way between her thighs, teasing her, brushing against her with the lightest of touches. "And I know you love it."

Joffrey's grin widened, his touch growing bolder, more insistent. He pushed her back harder against the wall, his hand slipping under her underclothes, feeling the wet heat waiting for him. Sansa let out a breathy laugh, biting her lip as Joffrey's fingers stroked her, working her up slowly, deliberately, until her soft moans filled the space between them. He watched her, captivated by the way she lost herself in his touch, how her eyes fluttered shut and her body moved to meet every caress.

"Look at you," Joffrey whispered, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "You're already so ready for me. What would the lords and ladies say if they saw their sweet Sansa like this? Begging her prince to take her in the shadows."

Sansa's eyes snapped open, her gaze fierce and unashamed. "Let them see," she said, her voice filled with daring as she wrapped a leg around his waist, pulling him closer. "I'm yours, aren't I? Show me, Joffrey. Make me feel it."

Joffrey's composure broke, the control he usually wielded so carefully slipping away as he yanked her dress higher, his mouth crashing into hers with bruising intensity. His hands gripped her thighs, lifting her up against the wall, pinning her there as he freed himself from his clothes. Sansa's fingers fumbled eagerly at his belt, her breath hitching with every touch, every desperate motion.

Joffrey positioned himself between her legs, feeling her wetness against him as he pushed forward, burying himself inside her in one hard thrust. Sansa's head fell back, a cry tearing from her lips that was muffled only by the stone walls around them. She clung to him, nails raking down his back as he set a punishing rhythm, each movement sending shudders through her.

Joffrey groaned, the sound low and primal, as he took her with an intensity that bordered on rough. Every thrust was a reminder of his claim, a declaration that Sansa was his in every way that mattered. She met him eagerly, her body moving in time with his, her gasps and moans spurring him on. He watched her face, saw the way her eyes fluttered shut, the way her mouth formed his name like a prayer.

Sansa's legs tightened around him, pulling him deeper, and Joffrey lost himself in the feel of her—soft, warm, and so willing. She was his perfect match, not just in public but in these dark, hidden corners where propriety vanished, and all that remained was the raw, undeniable pull between them.

Their pace quickened, each thrust harder, more urgent, until they were both lost in the heat of it, their bodies moving together in a frantic, desperate rhythm. Joffrey's grip tightened, his fingers digging into her thighs as he pushed her to the edge, and Sansa's moans grew louder, breathless cries of pleasure that echoed around them.

Joffrey held her close, feeling her pulse around him, and with a final, deep thrust, they shattered together, Sansa's scream muffled against his shoulder as he buried his face in her hair, his own release tearing through him in hot, blinding waves. They clung to each other, breath ragged, bodies trembling, caught in the throes of a passion that neither of them could deny.

Slowly, the world around them came back into focus, and Joffrey pulled away, adjusting his clothes as he watched Sansa slide down the wall, her legs shaky, her cheeks flushed with the afterglow of their stolen encounter. She looked up at him, her eyes still dark with satisfaction, a lazy, satisfied smile tugging at her lips.

"You always know how to take what you want," she said, voice soft but filled with an unmistakable pride.

Joffrey grinned, leaning down to brush a final kiss against her swollen lips. "And you always give it so freely," he replied, his tone a mix of arrogance and affection. "That's what I love about you."

But as Joffrey left the alcove, the high of his conquest quickly faded when he noticed the commotion brewing in the great hall. Stark soldiers moved with urgency, their voices low and anxious, and at the center of it all stood Ned Stark, his expression taut with worry. Joffrey's stomach twisted as he spotted Rickon standing alone, looking lost and tearful.

"Where's Bran?" Joffrey asked, his earlier bravado vanishing. He looked around, expecting the boy to come running in at any moment, but the empty doorway sent a cold dread washing over him.

One of the guards approached, his face grim. "Bran's missing, Your Grace. He was last seen running into the woods, but he hasn't come back."

Joffrey's heart sank, and he cursed under his breath, a rare crack in his usually composed demeanor. He'd sent them off to play, sent Bran running into the woods without a second thought, all so he could have more time alone with Sansa. And now, Bran was missing. The weight of his decision hit him like a punch to the gut.

"Dammit," Joffrey muttered, his mind racing with worst-case scenarios. Had Bran wandered too far? Had he fallen, or worse, encountered something dangerous? The fear gnawed at him, tearing through the confident façade he so carefully maintained. "Lord Stark," Joffrey said, his voice tight, betraying the guilt that was clawing at him. "I'll help with the search. We'll find him. I promise."

Ned nodded, his jaw set in determination as he rallied his men. "Spread out and search every inch of the woods," Ned ordered, his voice cutting through the murmur of worried voices. "We'll bring him back."

Joffrey joined the search, his pulse hammering as he pushed through the underbrush, shouting Bran's name until his throat burned. Every empty clearing, every shadowy thicket felt like a reminder of how badly he'd failed. He should have known better, should have kept a closer eye on them. Instead, he'd let his own desires take precedence, and now Bran was out there, alone.

He called out again, his voice cracking with desperation. "Bran! It's Joffrey! Come back!" The woods were silent, the only response the rustle of leaves and the distant cries of other searchers. Joffrey's mind raced with guilt, imagining Bran hurt, lost, or worse—images he couldn't shake no matter how hard he tried.

As Joffrey stumbled through the dense foliage, he was about to consider diving into the cold, dark waters of the godswood pond himself, searching every inch if it meant finding Bran. But just as he reached the edge, a guard came running up, breathless but with a faint smile of relief.

"They've found him, Your Grace," the guard panted, wiping sweat from his brow. 

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