Jeoffrey: The Hedonist (SI)

Joffrey sat at the head of the table, playing the role of dutiful prince, though his mind was far from the feast. He barely tasted the food on his plate, glancing occasionally at Sansa across the hall. She was smiling, leaning in to listen to something her grandfather, Hoster Tully, was saying. The sight made Joffrey’s lips curl slightly in satisfaction. It was good for her to connect with her family—it kept her happy, kept her under his thumb—but the circumstances of the night made it clear that he had to ignore her, at least for now. Too many eyes, too many ears. His focus needed to be on the bigger picture.

He turned to his father, Robert, who was already deep into his cups, his eyes glazed over with drink, but his mind was still sharp enough for a conversation. Joffrey saw the opportunity to plant more seeds of control.

“Father,” Joffrey began, picking at his food casually, “where is the Blackfish tonight? He hasn’t joined us.”

Robert grunted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Bah, Brynden? Off brooding somewhere, no doubt. The man’s more comfortable swinging a sword than sitting at a feast. Always been that way.”

Joffrey chewed thoughtfully before speaking again. “He’s a great warrior, but Lord Hoster’s the one who controls the real power here. When it comes to politics, the Blackfish is nothing compared to his brother.”

Robert’s brow furrowed, more in confusion than disagreement. “Hoster? He’s an old relic, boy. How could he possibly hold power when lords like Tywin Lannister and Jon Arryn were around? Compared to them, the old fish is practically invisible.”

Joffrey leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Don’t underestimate him. Until Jon Arryn’s death, Hoster Tully had the ear of the realm. His daughter being Jon’s wife gave him access to every whisper in the capital. You’d be surprised how much of a hand the Riverlands had in the realm’s politics.”

Robert took a deep swig of wine, the name of Jon Arryn darkening his expression. “Lysa was always a bit mad, but I suppose she did give the Tullys some influence. Not that it did them any good. No one’s going to respect the Tully name when they’re up against Lannister gold.”

Joffrey nodded, letting his father’s words settle before pushing forward. “True. The richest always have power, and the mightiest have their armies. But the one who stands between them can benefit from both. That’s the Tully advantage—they’re neighbors to both the crown and the wealth of the West.”

Robert frowned, pausing mid-drink. “What are you getting at, boy?”

Joffrey’s plan was taking shape, the pieces falling into place as smoothly as a well-played game of cyvasse. He had to be careful, though, had to guide Robert without making it too obvious. “If it ever came to a fight between the Lannisters and the Baratheons, the Riverlands would be the battleground. The Tullys could tip the balance. They could win the war for the crown, and in return, they could claim titles that go far beyond the Riverlands. Imagine them as Wardens of the West, should the Lannisters lose.”

Robert chuckled, but there was a hint of understanding in his laughter now. “Hah! The Tullys don’t have the strength to hold their lands without help but They’ve got the Starks and the Arryns behind them but Tywin will never challenge my rule boy. As long as I have you and your siblings”

Joffrey smirked. “Exactly, Father. That’s why Lord Hoster might be the most powerful man in Westeros who failed because of one small thing. He’s got the backing of two great houses and the land that ties the realm together. If you had not married mother, the Tullys will have been the key to controlling the Riverlands, and by extension, the entire North.”

Robert slammed his fist on the table, laughing heartily as his cup of wine sloshed over the sides. “Aye, maybe you’re onto something there, boy. You know, there’s power in marrying your daughters to powerful lords, but the problem is very few men listen to women. The Lannisters might claim they’ve got power over me, but the truth is I do little for Cersei other than tolerate her.”

Joffrey nodded thoughtfully. His father’s words rang true. Cersei was only tolerated by him, but she was far more dangerous than Robert realized, even the kings tolerance is more power than anyone can ever think. Still, it was a good lesson. Marriages weren’t everything. True power came from more than just strategic alliances. Control was earned through manipulation and influence.

The rest of the meal passed in a blur of noise and clatter, Robert growing louder and more belligerent with each cup of wine. Joffrey excused himself as soon as he could, retreating to his chambers to prepare for the next morning. There were always more moves to make, more plans to set in motion.

The next day, Joffrey was up early, dressed in his training clothes and ready to make an impression on the men of Riverrun. He made his way to the courtyard, where the soldiers were already hard at work, running drills under the watchful eyes of their captains. Joffrey joined them, sparring with the guards, showing them how a prince fought—not with arrogance or cruelty, but with skill and precision. He knew how to earn respect, how to make people see him as more than just a spoiled boy in a crown.

But while Joffrey busied himself with training, something else was happening in another part of the castle.

Myrcella’s POV

Myrcella sat in her room, tapping her fingers against the arm of her chair, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. She had Joffrey’s promise to handle her marriage, but that wasn’t enough. She needed more—craved more. Being here, in Riverrun, so close to her mother but unable to be alone with her, was driving her mad. Cersei was always surrounded by courtiers, guards, and ladies-in-waiting, making it impossible for Myrcella to steal even a moment of privacy.

The need inside her had been growing, gnawing at her insides with every passing day. Unlike her brother, she couldn’t simply pay for the company of a woman. She was a princess, and everything she did was watched, scrutinized. But she had needs, damn it, and those needs weren’t going away anytime soon.

That’s when the thought struck her. Joffrey had been ignoring Sansa recently, something about needing to avoid suspicion for one of his plots. But Myrcella didn’t care about whatever game Joffrey was playing. Sansa was right there—beautiful, naive, and eager to please. And if Joffrey wasn’t paying attention to her, then maybe Myrcella would.

She sent for Sansa, under the pretense of wanting company. The girl arrived quickly, looking flushed and excited at the thought of being summoned by a princess. Myrcella smiled as Sansa entered the room, gesturing for her to sit on the plush chair by the fire.

“I’m so glad you came,” Myrcella said, her voice sweet and inviting. “I’ve been feeling a bit lonely.”

Sansa smiled shyly, folding her hands in her lap. “Of course, Princess. I’d be happy to keep you company.”

Myrcella watched her closely, noting how Sansa’s fingers twisted nervously around the fabric of her dress. She was such a sweet little thing—so easy to manipulate. Joffrey had done well in getting her under his control, but Myrcella had her own methods. And she intended to use them.

“Has Joffrey spoken to you much since we arrived?” Myrcella asked, her voice casual, as if she were merely making conversation.

Sansa’s face fell slightly, and she shook her head. “No, not really. He’s been so distant. I don’t understand why.”

Myrcella gave her a sympathetic smile, leaning forward as if to share a secret. “I think he’s just being cautious. There are too many people around. You know how it is. Walls have ears.”

Sansa huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “But this is my grandfather’s home. Why would he need to be so careful? It’s ridiculous.”

Naive little thing, Myrcella thought. She could see why Joffrey had so much fun with her. Sansa was like a blank canvas, so eager to believe anything you told her.

“Well,” Myrcella said softly, leaning in even closer, “has he touched you at all since… you know, that attempt on Bran’s life?”

Sansa’s cheeks flushed pink, and she shifted in her seat, her thighs pressing together. “No… he hasn’t,” she admitted, her voice small, embarrassed.

Myrcella licked her lips, her mind racing. Sansa was wound up, full of frustration, and Myrcella could work with that. “Neither have I,” she whispered, letting her voice drop into something more intimate, more tempting.

Sansa’s eyes widened slightly, and she swallowed hard, clearly unsure where this was going. “But Joffrey isn’t… he’s not with us right now.”

Myrcella smiled, her hand reaching out to rest on Sansa’s knee. “He doesn’t have to be.”

Before Sansa could protest, Myrcella leaned in and kissed her, her lips soft but insistent. For a moment, Sansa froze, her body stiff with shock, but then she melted into the kiss, her hands reaching up to clutch at Myrcella’s shoulders, pulling her closer.

Their lips moved together, slow at first, but quickly gaining urgency as Myrcella deepened the kiss, her tongue slipping into Sansa’s mouth. The little Stark girl moaned softly, her body pressing against Myrcella’s as if she couldn’t get close enough.

Myrcella pushed her gently back onto the bed, their bodies tangled in a mess of skirts and limbs. Sansa’s breath hitched as Myrcella’s hands roamed freely, sliding down her sides, feeling the soft curve of her waist. She could feel Sansa’s heartbeat racing under her palm, the excitement, the nerves, the fear all mixing together in a way that made Myrcella’s pulse quicken with desire.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Myrcella whispered against Sansa’s lips, her hand moving down to brush the hem of Sansa’s dress, teasing the skin beneath. “No one has to know.”

Sansa’s body trembled beneath her touch, her breath coming in shallow gasps as Myrcella’s fingers slipped under her dress, sliding up the inside of her thigh. The warmth there, the wetness—Myrcella smiled against her mouth, knowing exactly what she was doing to the poor girl.

Sansa whimpered softly, her hips shifting instinctively toward Myrcella’s hand. “Myrcella, we shouldn’t…”

Myrcella silenced her with another kiss, her fingers finding their way between Sansa’s legs, pressing against the damp fabric of her smallclothes. “Don’t worry,” she murmured, her voice low and seductive. “I’ll take care of you.”

Sansa moaned, her head falling back against the pillow, her body arching up to meet Myrcella’s touch as the princess’s fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finding the slick heat between her thighs. Myrcella grinned, enjoying the way Sansa gasped, her body trembling as she surrendered completely.

They moved together, their bodies entwined, the heat between them building with every kiss, every touch. Myrcella’s hands were everywhere, exploring, teasing, driving Sansa to the edge of pleasure, until finally, they reached that peak together, their moans lost in the quiet of the room, their bodies shuddering in release.

For a long moment, they lay there in a tangle of limbs, their breaths heavy, their skin slick with sweat. Myrcella smiled lazily, her fingers tracing the curve of Sansa’s hip as they slowly came down from the high of their shared pleasure.

Sansa turned her head to look at her, her eyes wide and dazed, her lips still slightly parted. “Myrcella… I…”

Myrcella smiled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her lips. “Shh. Don’t think about it too much. Just enjoy it.”

Sansa blushed, her face flushing pink as she nodded, clearly still processing what had just happened.

Myrcella smiled to herself. Sansa was under her spell now, just as she had been under Joffrey’s. Sansa lay there, flushed and breathless, still coming down from the heat of what had just happened. Myrcella watched her, a lazy smirk curling her lips as she traced light circles on Sansa’s hip, enjoying the soft rise and fall of her chest as she caught her breath.

For a moment, Sansa seemed lost in her thoughts, her brow furrowed slightly as if trying to make sense of what had just happened. Myrcella knew the look well—confusion mixed with desire, a girl’s mind at war with her body. Sansa might be innocent, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew this was wrong. She knew what they’d done would cause a scandal if anyone found out. But right now, in the quiet of Myrcella’s chambers, there was no one to judge them. No one to interrupt.

Sansa finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve… never felt anything like that before.” Her words trembled with uncertainty, her wide eyes flicking to Myrcella’s, searching for some kind of reassurance.

Myrcella leaned in, her lips brushing against Sansa’s ear as she whispered, “You deserve to feel good, Sansa. And I can give you that. Joffrey’s too busy playing his games, but you and I… we don’t have to wait for anyone.” She pressed a lingering kiss to Sansa’s neck, feeling the girl shiver beneath her touch.

Sansa’s hand hesitantly came up to touch Myrcella’s arm, her fingers gentle, almost unsure. “But what if… what if someone finds out?” she asked, her voice trembling with fear now, the gravity of the situation beginning to settle in.

Myrcella chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “No one will find out. You’re safe with me, Sansa.” She cupped Sansa’s chin gently, turning her face toward her. “Besides, who would dare say anything to the future queen? You’re betrothed to Joffrey. No one would dare question you, and no one will question me.”

Sansa bit her lip, her eyes flicking away again, uncertainty clouding her features. “I just… I don’t know. Joffrey hasn’t been paying me any attention, and now this… I feel like I’m betraying him.”

Myrcella rolled her eyes slightly, her fingers sliding down Sansa’s arm in slow, deliberate strokes. “Betraying him? Sansa, you’re doing nothing wrong. Joffrey hasn’t touched you in days. Why should you wait for him when he clearly has other things on his mind?” Her fingers reached Sansa’s hand, entwining with hers. “This isn’t betrayal. It’s just… us.”

Sansa’s breath hitched, and Myrcella knew she had her. The Stark girl was too wrapped up in her own confusion, her own longing, to argue further. Myrcella leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Sansa’s lips, and this time, the girl didn’t pull away. She melted into the kiss, her body arching slightly toward Myrcella’s, seeking that warmth again.

Myrcella deepened the kiss, her tongue teasing Sansa’s lips apart as her hands began to roam again, this time slower, more languid, savoring the feel of Sansa’s soft skin beneath her fingers. She could feel Sansa’s breath quicken, her body responding to the touch, her hands clutching at Myrcella’s back, desperate for more.

But just as Myrcella was about to push further, there was a knock at the door.

Both girls froze, their eyes snapping to the door in panic. Sansa’s face turned pale, her wide eyes filled with fear. Myrcella, however, kept her cool. She slid off the bed gracefully, adjusting her dress as if nothing had happened, her mind already spinning with excuses.

“Who is it?” Myrcella called out, her voice calm and steady.

“It’s your lady-in-waiting, Princess,” came a voice from the other side of the door. “Your mother has requested your presence in the solar.”

Myrcella cursed silently, but kept her expression composed. She cast a quick glance at Sansa, who was sitting up now, pulling her dress back into place, her hands trembling slightly.

“I’ll be right there,” Myrcella called back, her voice smooth as silk. She turned to Sansa, giving her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. No one will know.”

Sansa nodded, though she still looked shaken, her hands clutching the edge of the bed as if grounding herself.

Myrcella bent down, pressing a soft kiss to Sansa’s forehead. “We’ll continue this later,” she whispered, her voice laced with promise. She straightened up, smoothing out her dress and giving Sansa one last lingering look before heading for the door.

As she stepped out into the corridor, her mind was already working on how to handle the situation. She had to tread carefully with her mother. Cersei was no fool, and she had a way of sniffing out secrets, especially when it came to her children. But Myrcella was confident. She could handle this. She always did.

Sansa sat on the bed for a long moment after Myrcella left, her mind spinning with everything that had just happened. Her lips still tingled from the kiss, her body still humming from the touch of Myrcella’s hands. But beneath the haze of pleasure, there was something else—something darker. Fear. Guilt.

She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to calm the racing thoughts in her head. Myrcella had said no one would find out, that they were safe. But what if someone had seen them? What if someone had heard? What would Joffrey say if he found out? What would her mother say?

Sansa stood abruptly, pacing the length of the room. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling suddenly exposed, vulnerable. She had never done anything like that before—never even thought about it. And now, after one kiss, one touch, everything felt different.

It felt good, a voice whispered in the back of her mind. It felt right.

Sansa bit her lip, shaking her head as if trying to banish the thought. She couldn’t think like that. This was wrong. It had to be. She was betrothed to Joffrey. She was supposed to be his queen, his wife. She wasn’t supposed to be…

Her thoughts trailed off, confusion and shame swirling inside her. She knew what she was supposed to be but What was she supposed to do though?

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