Six months into the journey North, Joffrey—Paul, really—wasn't wasting a damn moment. Every day was spent sculpting his new body, grinding each muscle into something sharp and defined. He wasn't aiming to be some brutish oaf like his father.
No, every movement was precise, calculated, designed to make him look like a predator in a court full of sheep. He didn't need raw strength; he had the Kingsguard for that—useless as they were—and the Hound, a loyal monster lurking in his shadow.
Joffrey just needed the look, the poise of someone you didn't dare cross. Appearances were everything, and he knew better than anyone that if you looked the part, no one questioned what was underneath.
Mornings were a grind of sweat and silence. Joffrey pushed his body through relentless exercises, chiseling himself into something sleek and dangerous. He wasn't some pampered prince anymore—every push-up, every lunge was a step toward the predator he saw in the mirror. His nights were no easier.
Secret sparring sessions sharpened his skills, honing a fighting style that was all speed and precision. In the privacy of his tent, he flexed his arms, running his hands over the taut lines of his muscles, smirking at the reflection of his biceps.
Soon, everyone would see he was no longer the sniveling boy they remembered—he was royalty, carved and crafted to command. Today, finished with his routine, Joffrey stalked through the camp, letting the cool evening air kiss his sweat-soaked skin.
He felt powerful, restless. His thoughts drifted to his father, Robert, likely drowning himself in ale and tits at the royal tent. Joffrey's lip curled in disgust. "Robert Baratheon," Joffrey thought with disdain, "the drunken fool who can't think past his own cock." It was pathetic.
His father was a king who lived for nothing but booze and flesh. Joffrey would never be like that, not in public at least. He had bigger ambitions, and he'd be damned if he let anyone see him lose control. As he approached the royal tent, raucous laughter and muffled moans spilled out.
Joffrey pushed aside the flap, just enough to catch a glimpse of the debauchery inside. Robert, red-faced and bloated, was surrounded by women, their bodies overflowing from tight, low-cut dresses. He pawed at them like an animal, rough hands squeezing their breasts, his filthy laughter echoing through the space.
Joffrey watched, disgusted but also aroused by the raw display of power. The maids—middle-aged, full-bodied, and eager—pressed against Robert, their generous curves impossible to ignore.
Joffrey's eyes lingered on the soft flesh of one woman's tits, nearly spilling out of her bodice as she leaned into the king's side. 'He could have them too, any of them.' All he had to do was beckon, and they'd drop to their knees, desperate for the prince's attention.
The power, the control—it was intoxicating. But Joffrey wasn't like his father. He wouldn't debase himself so openly. "No," Joffrey thought, tearing his eyes away, "I'm better than this. My pleasures will be on my terms."
Still, the heat lingered in his veins, a throb of unsatisfied hunger. He turned on his heel, marching away from the tent before the sight could drag him under. The tension in his chest didn't ease, though. He was still wound tight, the desire simmering just below the surface.
Joffrey's feet carried him to the riverbank, a place where the air was cleaner, cooler—where the serving women often gathered to wash the linens. It was quieter here, the sound of water splashing and women's voices mixing in the cool dusk.
Joffrey's eyes immediately locked onto the maids. Their skirts were hitched up, legs exposed, backs bent as they scrubbed clothes in the river. They weren't the delicate young things who served the nobles; these were seasoned women, full-figured and confident in their work. Their damp dresses clung to every curve, outlining hips and breasts in ways that left little to the imagination.
Joffrey let his eyes roam, savoring the view like it was his right. And why not? He was the prince. One maid looked up, catching his gaze before quickly glancing away, cheeks flushed and a nervous smile playing at her lips.
She whispered something to the maid beside her, and soon the quiet giggles spread among them. Joffrey smirked, feeling that familiar rush of power. They loved the attention, these women who were so used to being invisible.
Their bodies straightened, chests pushed forward just a little more as they worked, showing off in the prince's presence.
"Good evening, ladies," Joffrey called, his voice smooth, almost disinterested, like he was merely passing by.
He kept his distance, but his eyes did their own exploring, lingering on the curves of their hips, the bounce of their tits with each scrub of the linens. "Good evening, my lord," one of them replied, dipping into a quick curtsy. Her breasts jiggled with the motion, and Joffrey's gaze darted down, savoring the sight before dragging his eyes back up.
He wasn't here to ogle openly—but he couldn't help himself. The pleasure was in the restraint. "Work going well?" Joffrey asked, his tone smooth, masking the real question on his mind. The maids exchanged knowing looks, their smiles widening.
"Well enough, my lord," another maid responded, her voice light and teasing. "But the water's freezing. It'd be nicer if it were warmer."
"Warmth is a luxury," Joffrey replied with a sly smile. "I heard there are many ways to warm the body..." His eyes dipped again, just for a second, over the deep valley of a maid's cleavage. The temptation was always there, gnawing at him. "....by that I mean wine or a hearth"
The maids giggled, knowing they were being admired, basking in it. Joffrey let himself enjoy the fleeting satisfaction of their attention. He could have them, any of them, and they knew it. He could look, tease, even flirt without ever crossing the line into the vulgar excesses of his father. With a small nod, Joffrey turned and walked away, the burn of unsatisfied need still pulsing under his skin.
The hunger was always there, just out of reach, but Joffrey took pride in his control. He wouldn't let his lust define him—not yet, anyway. For now, it was enough to know he could command their gazes, their blushes, and their secret desires.
Soon enough, when the time was right, he would take what he wanted. And when he did, it wouldn't be a drunken stumble like his father. It would be deliberate, controlled, and every bit as satisfying as he imagined. But today, he'd settle for watching, for knowing that every breathless glance and whispered giggle was because of him.
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