Jeoffrey: The Hedonist (SI)

Joffrey woke to the cool breeze drifting through the open tent flap, a sharp contrast to the heat and fire from the night before. He blinked his eyes open, his body stiff and sore as he shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable despite the burns on his back. He was lying on his stomach, the bandages tight around him, and he turned his head just enough to see Cersei, Sansa, Arya, and Robert standing near the bed. Their faces were a mix of concern, guilt, and, in Robert’s case, a gloating pride that immediately grated on Joffrey’s nerves.

Robert’s booming voice broke the silence. "Finally! You did something worthy of the Baratheon name, boy. Faced the fire head-on. Fought it like a true Baratheon!" There was a self-satisfied grin on his face, like Joffrey’s burns were just another notch in the family’s legacy of reckless bravery.

Joffrey chuckled weakly, despite the pain it caused his ribs. "Yes, Father, I fought the fire myself."

Cersei, however, was far from amused. Her face tightened with fury, and she turned sharply toward Robert. "Our son is hurt! He burned half of his back saving everyone, and all you can think of is glory? Does everything have to be about the Baratheon name with you?" Her voice was sharp, biting through the room like a blade.

Robert shrugged nonchalantly, unfazed by her outburst. "Yes," he answered plainly, and with that, he turned and walked out of the tent, leaving an awkward silence in his wake.

Arya, still sitting quietly by the bed, had tears in her eyes. She looked small, covered in soot, her hair matted and face streaked with dirt. She finally spoke, her voice fragile. "I… I’m so thankful you saved me, Joffrey." Her words were sincere, and for the first time, Joffrey saw her as something other than the wild girl who disrespected his station. She was vulnerable, shaken.

Joffrey raised an eyebrow at her and then glanced at the soot still marking her face. "Arya, why haven’t you washed up yet? You look like you’ve been rolling in the ashes all night."

Sansa, standing beside Arya, wiped her own tears, her voice trembling. "She refused to leave your side until you woke up. She didn’t want to move…"

Joffrey shook his head, though his voice softened a touch as he spoke to Arya. "You’re Lord Stark’s daughter and the sister of my betrothed. I would have saved you no matter what, even if you were just some scullery maid. Now, go wash up. You’ll make yourself sick."

Arya hesitated for a moment, then nodded, wiping her eyes. Sansa gently took her hand, guiding her younger sister toward the exit. Once the two Stark girls had left, Joffrey shifted his gaze to Cersei, who was watching him closely.

"How bad is it?" Joffrey asked bluntly, already feeling the tight, raw sting of the burns on his back.

Cersei sighed, her lips tight. "You’ve lost some hair on the back, and there are burns across your skin, large ones. You’ll heal, but…" She paused, her tone softening for just a moment. "You’ve been through worse than I expected."

Joffrey gave a half-smile, wincing as he adjusted his position. "You don’t have to sugarcoat it, Mother. I’m not that fragile."

Cersei smirked lightly. "You can still wear a tunic if you want. Your hair is not completely gone."

Joffrey chuckled, but then his expression grew serious. "Do you know where the fire started?"

Cersei’s eyes darkened as she crossed her arms. "Robert’s tent," she said quietly, watching his reaction closely.

Joffrey sat up slightly, his mind racing with the implications. A coincidence like that was hard to swallow. He knew Robert had enemies, and he also knew how easily those enemies might try to use fire to solve their problems. He glanced at Cersei, suspicion flickering behind his eyes. "Did you have a hand in this?"

Cersei’s expression didn’t change. "No, Joffrey. If I had, it would have been cleaner." She gave a faint smile. "You should know by now I don’t make such messy plays."

Joffrey nodded, though his mind still churned. "A murder shouldn’t be clean, Mother. It should be messy, so no one knows when or how the blow will fall."

He moved his head slightly and felt the skin on the back of his neck stretch painfully. The burns were worse than he had realized. He winced, turning toward one of the maids who was mixing herbs nearby. "Get me a Myrish glass," he commanded, his voice firm despite the pain.

Cersei frowned, her eyes narrowing in concern. "You should rest, Joffrey. You don’t need to worry about how you look right now."

Joffrey shook his head, determination hardening his features. "I’m fine."

Cersei leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Your speech yesterday—it brought the rain and saved the tents. The camp believes you are blessed. They think your rule will be prosperous, divinely chosen."

Joffrey smirked faintly, his voice dropping to a whisper only Cersei could hear. "I gave that speech because I knew it was going to rain."

Cersei suppressed a laugh, shaking her head as the maid returned with the Myrish glass. Joffrey took it and examined himself. His hair hadn’t burned as badly as they had made it sound, but from the top of his ears downward, it was singed off in uneven patches. It looked ugly, but Joffrey had an idea to make it work for him.

He handed the glass back to the maid. "Bring me a knife or a pair of scissors."

Cersei raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "You don’t have to go bald just because of a little hair on your back being burned off."

Ignoring her, Joffrey took the blade when it was handed to him and instructed the maid to hold the Myrish glass in front of him. With careful precision, he used the blade to shave the sides of his head, leaving the top untouched. As the hair fell to the floor, Cersei watched, a glint of surprise in her eyes.

When he finished, Joffrey grinned at his reflection and winked at the maid who was holding the glass, her eyes wide with new admiration.

"Well?" he asked, turning to Cersei.

Cersei looked him up and down, and for the first time in a while, she seemed genuinely impressed. "It suits you."

Joffrey smirked. "I’ll look good bald too, don’t worry."

Cersei chuckled, shaking her head. "You would."

After putting on a tunic, Joffrey stepped outside, eager to see the damage for himself. As he moved through the camp, he noticed the reverent looks from the people—soldiers, knights, even servants. They watched him with awe, as if he were something more than human, as if his survival of the fire and the rain that followed were signs of something divine.

He approached Lord Stark, who was speaking with one of the commanders. When their eyes met, Joffrey saw something surprising in Stark’s gaze—reverence. It was a strange thing to see in the eyes of such a hardened, stoic man.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Ned Stark said, his voice heavy with sincerity. "For saving my daughter. I… I should have been there…"

Joffrey waved him off. "Anyone would have done the same."

Ned shook his head. "A king wouldn’t have to. But you did."

Joffrey grinned internally. *He sees me as a king already*, he thought, pleased. With the North and the Riverlands potentially under his influence, any future conflict would be that much easier to handle.

"I wanted to set an example," Joffrey said aloud, his voice measured. "Future kings should do good, not just be good."

Ned nodded solemnly, and Joffrey stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Stark could hear. "We shouldn’t talk too much. People still think we’re enemies."

Ned’s jaw tightened, but he nodded again. Joffrey continued, his tone colder now. "This fire… it started between my father’s tent and yours. Whoever did this wanted you both dead. They’re hoping for war."

Stark’s eyes hardened, and he nodded slowly, understanding the gravity of what Joffrey was implying. For the sake of appearances, Joffrey shot Stark a glare, then turned and walked back toward his tent, satisfied that the seeds of doubt had been sown.

Once inside, Joffrey tried to rest, lying on his stomach to avoid putting pressure on his burns. The pain was dull but ever-present, making it impossible to find any real comfort. After a while, frustrated, he attempted to lie on his back, but the pain flared sharply, forcing him back onto his front.

Defeated, he sat up, staring at the tent wall, his mind still racing with thoughts of the fire, his father, and the dangerous game that was unfolding. He was just starting to drift into deeper thoughts when the tent flap opened quietly.

Sansa slipped in, her face soft with worry.

"You shouldn’t be here," Joffrey said immediately, though his

voice lacked its usual harshness.

Sansa walked over to him, placing a finger over his lips, silencing him. "I made sure no one saw me," she whispered. Her eyes were filled with tears again, but this time, they weren’t tears of fear—they were tears of guilt.

"I’m so sorry," she said, her voice trembling. "I should never have doubted you. I listened to my mother’s poison, but… you saved Arya. You saved us."

Joffrey looked at her, feeling a rare flicker of warmth in his chest. He reached up, gently wiping the tears from her cheeks. "I forgive you, Sansa," he whispered. "But we can’t be seen together, not yet. Not until we’ve killed our enemies."

Sansa nodded, her face lighting up with quiet determination. "No one will see us. I’ll come to you only in the dead of night, when everyone is asleep. I won’t doubt you again."

Joffrey smiled, and his gaze softened as he asked, "What will you do with me in the dead of night?"

Sansa giggled, her cheeks flushing, and she leaned closer. "Whatever you want."

With that, she let her robe fall to the ground, revealing her naked body to him, pale and beautiful in the dim light of the tent. Joffrey's eyes roamed over her, mesmerized by the sight of her curves, her softness. She slipped onto the bed beside him, spreading her legs in silent invitation.

Joffrey moved carefully, positioning himself above her, the pain in his back forgotten for the moment. He entered her slowly, resting his head on her soft chest, letting her warmth surround him as he moved inside her. His pace was slow, sensual, careful not to hurt his back, but Sansa’s moans were filled with pleasure.

"I missed this," she breathed, her voice husky. "I missed you… I was so foolish."

Joffrey kissed her chest, her neck, her mouth, all while continuing his slow thrusts. "I’ll give it to you every day," he whispered against her skin. "Until you beg me to stop."

Sansa moaned louder, her body tightening around him as he moved within her, her nails grazing lightly against his shoulders, careful not to hurt him. They stayed like that for what felt like hours, slow and intimate, until Joffrey finally spilled inside her, collapsing onto her chest, his breath heavy and satisfied.

Sansa let him stay inside her, holding him close until morning came. When the first rays of sunlight crept through the tent, she slipped away quietly, dressing in silence before leaving him to his rest.

Joffrey lay back, smiling to himself. The world outside was full of fire and enemies, but for now, here, with Sansa, he had found a moment of peace.

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