Paul adjusted to his new body as naturally as breathing. Being Joffrey Baratheon felt like slipping into a velvet glove—soft, luxurious, and full of power. He stretched in the plush confines of the carriage, muscles coiling under his princely robes, a lazy smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
The boy had been cruel, petty. But Paul—no, **Joffrey** now—was something else. There was no need to squander power on pointless cruelty when he could enjoy the spoils of the game instead.
The journey North had just begun, the court buzzing with the prospect of Winterfell. Ned Stark, that stiff-necked wolf, was set to become Hand of the King. Paul's mind spun quietly, not with schemes of blood and betrayal, but pleasures, opportunities—both carnal and noble. **Why burn bridges when you could build them to a bed?** Cersei was watching him again, her sharp eyes fixed on his every movement, waiting for her son's usual temper to flare. He glanced her way, catching her gaze with a sly smile. "Don't worry, Mother. I'm not planning on burning down Winterfell."
Her expression softened, but only slightly, suspicion still lurking beneath her beauty. "I should hope not, Joffrey. We're here for diplomacy." "Of course," he drawled, tilting his head just so. "Diplomacy... and perhaps a little fun."
Cersei huffed, clearly unimpressed, but Paul leaned back, letting the comment hang in the air. The royal court was his stage now, and he'd play it at his leisure. The convoy stopped for the night, the sprawling encampment bustling with activity.
Paul strode out of the carriage, the cool night air biting against his skin. The servants scurried about, and one caught his eye—a slender girl, arms full of linens, her hair falling loose from her bonnet.
He didn't break his stride, barely sparing her more than a glance, but as he passed, his voice slipped out with casual ease, as if he were talking to no one in particular. "You'll want to secure that better, love. The wind up here's stronger than you think."
The girl froze, staring after him, eyes wide. His tone was light, playful, as though he didn't care whether she responded or not—just a passing comment, as easy as breathing. Paul didn't wait for a reply. He wasn't fishing for gratitude or lingering gazes.
He had power, **station**, and that meant people flocked to him without effort. If she wanted to come back later, she'd find him easily enough. Walking through the camp, he spotted his guards exchanging idle banter by the fire.
Paul—**Joffrey**—moved through them like a wolf among dogs. He felt the eyes of noblemen and servants alike, their whispers rising behind him like a constant hum. It amused him. This was his court, and he would wield it like an instrument.
His charm wasn't blunt or overplayed. He didn't need to lean on anyone's shoulder to show interest; his words were smooth, offhanded, deliberate. Later, as he sat by the royal tent, wine in hand, he watched the camp with an almost lazy interest.
The flicker of firelight played across his face, his thoughts drifting between the pleasure of his body's newfound strength and the quiet plotting in his mind. He didn't need to be loud or brash to get what he wanted—he was royalty. **Royalty didn't beg. It commanded.**
The tent flap rustled, and a young serving girl entered, her head bowed low. Paul—no, Joffrey—didn't even glance up immediately, taking a slow sip of his wine before flicking his eyes toward her.
She was the same one he had passed earlier, her cheeks flushed. **Of course. They always come.** "Good evening, my lord," she murmured, her voice trembling slightly, though she tried to hide it.
His smile barely flickered as he leaned back in his seat, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his goblet. "You've done well tonight," he said, his tone offhand, as if commenting on the weather. "The linens were placed perfectly."
Her surprise was palpable, but he didn't care for her reaction. It was enough that she was here, drawn by his passing words and his presence. He didn't need to belabor it. "What's your name?" "Lyla, my lord." "Lyla."
He rolled the name around his mouth like it was a flavor to be tasted and discarded at will. His eyes drifted past her, dismissive, as though she was a mere thought in the grand scheme of his night. "I trust your family is well?"
She blinked, the question throwing her off guard. "Y-yes, my lord. We… we struggle, but we manage." "Mm." He let the hum of the camp fill the silence, not pressing, not pleading. He didn't need to. The weight of his station, his casual charm, did all the work for him. "If you ever need help, Lyla, feel free to ask. A prince's favor can be... useful."
Her breath hitched, but he had already turned his gaze away, watching the fire crackle in the brazier beside him. He wasn't interested in whatever fumbling reply she might offer. His power was there, lingering in the air between them like a fragrant wine, and he knew it would stick to her long after she left his presence.
As she scurried away, her eyes still wide with awe, Paul—no, **Joffrey**—smiled to himself. This was how power should be wielded: not with cruelty or force, but with the slightest nudge, a careless touch of charm that left them all yearning for more.
Winterfell awaited, but for now, he would savor the night, letting the world move around him at his leisure. His desires, his plots, they would unfold in due time—casually, as if everything he sought fell into place with the barest whisper of his will. Because it would. After all, what was power if not the freedom to do as you pleased, without ever needing to ask?