The next morning, Joffrey sat at the royal table, the sun filtering through the tent as the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread filled the air. He ate with quiet deliberation, his eyes scanning the camp, taking in the bustling activity of the small army that surrounded him. But it was his mother's gaze that caught his attention, drawing him back to the table. Cersei was watching him again, her eyes lingering on him in a way that made him pause, his knife halfway to his mouth. There was something different about her today—a hunger, a distraction that he couldn't quite place.
She was clearly troubled, her golden hair not quite as perfectly arranged as usual, her eyes not as bright. His mind immediately flicked to Jaime. It had been months since they left King's Landing, and Cersei had barely any time alone with her brother. She must be frustrated, he assumed, her usual need for Jaime's touch left pent up and unsatisfied. He dismissed her restlessness with a wave of his hand and returned to his meal, pushing the thought from his mind.
As Robert let out a drunken laugh, his hand groping the breast of a maid who stood beside him, Joffrey leaned forward, his voice cutting through the din. "Father, may I take Ser Barristan into the woods with me?"
Robert's eyes barely flicked in his son's direction, too busy spilling wine down his chin and pawing at the serving girl. "Hah, take whoever you like!" he slurred, his words almost unintelligible. "Go... hunt... spar... whatever it is you do. But don't expect me to come with you!" He laughed again, a deep, booming sound that grated on Joffrey's nerves.
Joffrey nodded, rising from his seat, motioning for Ser Barristan to follow. The knight, ever vigilant, fell in step beside him as they made their way toward the edge of the camp. The sounds of the camp faded behind them, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the distant call of birds.
"May I ask, Your Grace, why you've requested my presence?" Ser Barristan asked after a moment of silence, his tone respectful yet curious. His eyes, though respectful, held a spark of interest, a desire to understand the prince's intentions.
Joffrey glanced at him, a determined look in his eyes. "I want to spar. I've been training for months, and I need to test my skill against the best. And you, Ser Barristan, are the best."
Barristan's brow furrowed slightly, a hint of surprise flickering across his features. "I am honored, my prince. But I must warn you, I will not hold back. It would be an insult to you and to my own skill."
Joffrey's expression grew serious, a challenge sparking in his eyes. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
They found a clearing in the woods, the air cool and crisp, the sun dappling the ground through the canopy above. Joffrey wasted no time drawing his sword, the blade gleaming in the soft light. This was his moment, his chance to prove himself against one of the greatest knights in the realm.
They sparred in silence at first, Barristan's strikes controlled but forceful, each blow a testament to his decades of experience. Joffrey met him blow for blow, his movements fast, calculated, but it quickly became clear that he was outmatched. Sweat dripped down his brow as their blades clashed, the sound of metal ringing through the air, echoing off the trees around them.
Barristan's expression was one of mild concern as the prince struggled to keep up, his lean frame moving with a grace and speed that belied his age, but not enough to match the seasoned knight. "You've been training hard, my prince," he commented, his voice steady despite the exertion. "But you are still late in your strikes. Your form is good, but your timing is off."
Joffrey grunted, his chest heaving with the effort, his frustration growing with each missed strike. He lunged forward, his sword swinging wildly, only to be easily parried by Barristan. The knight countered with a swift strike that sent Joffrey stumbling back, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
They continued to spar, but it was clear that Joffrey was no match for the seasoned knight. His blows were clumsy, his movements uncoordinated, and his frustration grew with each passing moment. Finally, after a particularly brutal exchange that left Joffrey on the ground, panting and exhausted, he called for a break.
"Enough," he gasped, his chest heaving as he sat down heavily on a rock, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "We should rest."
Barristan sheathed his sword and sat down beside Joffrey, his gaze steady and unreadable. "You are late in your training, my prince," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "But you have time to improve. With dedication and practice, you can become a formidable swordsman."
Joffrey's eyes narrowed, a hint of irritation flashing in their depths. "I am dedicated," he snapped, his voice tight with frustration. "I train every day, every moment I can. But it's not enough. I want to be the best, and I want to be the best now."
Barristan's gaze softened slightly, a hint of understanding in his eyes. "Patience, my prince," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "Greatness takes time. It takes years of practice, of dedication, of honing your skills. You cannot rush it. You must be patient, and you must be willing to learn."
Joffrey sat in silence, absorbing the words, his mind racing with thoughts of power, desire, and control. He could understand the need for patience, the need for practice, but it was hard to accept that he was not yet the best. He wanted to be a king, a conqueror, a ruler who was feared and respected by all. But he knew that he could not achieve that without the skills to back it up.
He glanced at Barristan, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Tell me about Rhaegar."
Barristan's gaze grew distant, his features tightening slightly, a hint of pain flickering across his face. "He was... a complex man. Noble, intelligent, skilled in combat, but driven by desires he didn't always control."
Joffrey leaned forward, intrigued, his elbows resting on his knees. "Why did he take Lyanna Stark? Was she so special that he risked everything for her?"
The old knight sighed, his voice tinged with regret, his eyes filled with memories. "Rhaegar often took noblemen's wives to his bed. It was common knowledge, and most accepted it—some even boasted about it, as if his attention was a mark of honor."
Joffrey's eyes widened in surprise, a disbelieving laugh escaping his lips. "They were happy to be cuckolded by the prince? I can't imagine any nobleman accepting such a thing."
Barristan's gaze met his, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "You'd be surprised, my prince. Power is a strange thing. It can make men accept things they never thought they would. And Rhaegar was powerful, charming, and handsome. Many were drawn to him, and many were willing to overlook his... indiscretions."
Joffrey shook his head, still struggling to comprehend. "But why? Why risk the wrath of their husbands, the shame of their families?"
Barristan shrugged, his eyes distant once more. "Some did it for the power, the influence they thought it would bring. Others did it for love, or what they believed was love. And still others did it because they had no choice. Rhaegar was not a man to be denied."
Joffrey sat in silence, absorbing the words, his mind racing with thoughts and questions. He could almost admire Rhaegar's audacity, his ability to command such loyalty, such desire. But he wasn't so foolish as to repeat his mistakes. No, he would be smarter than that. He would take what was his, but he would do it with control, with calculation.
"But Lyanna was different," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes fixed on Barristan's face. "She wasn't swayed by his charm or his power. She denied him."
The old knight nodded grimly. "Yes, she was different. She was strong, willful, and she loved another. She denied Rhaegar, and that denial drove him mad. It became a challenge, an obsession. He believed he could win her over, that her resistance was something he could conquer through love. But when she continued to deny him, he grew desperate, reckless. He took her by force, and that's what started the rebellion. The nobles could accept many things, but not the abduction of a Stark."
Joffrey sat in silence, his mind racing with thoughts of power, desire, and control. He could understand Rhaegar's obsession, his need to possess, to conquer. But he could also see the folly of it, the recklessness that had brought about his downfall. He would not make the same mistakes. He would not let his desires rule him. He would rule them, and he would rule everything.
"I admit, Ser Barristan, that I am much like Rhaegar in that I have desires," Joffrey said, his voice quiet but firm. ".....But I assure you, I will not let those desires rule me. I will be patient. I will practice. I will learn. And I will become the king that this realm needs."
Barristan's eyes met his, a hint of approval in their depths. "I am glad to hear it, my prince," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "I hope to serve you as king"
Joffrey smirked, rising to his feet, his eyes gleaming with determination. "One day when I rule everything. I'll try to be a good king, So that you can be proud to wear the White again" Barristan gave a thin dejected smile as if he did not believe in Jeoffrey. Jeoffrey was ready to prove him wrong.
They sparred again, their blades clashing with renewed vigor, their bodies moving with a grace and speed that belied their earlier exertions. This time, there was a newfound understanding between them, a shared purpose, a common goal.
As they finished their sparring session, their bodies drenched in sweat, their breaths coming in ragged gasps, Joffrey knew that he had taken a step forward on his path to bringing Barristan over to his side. He knows the mistakes of the past, of the folly of those who had come before him. He would not repeat their errors. He would forge his own path, create his own legacy, and he would be remembered not as a mad king, or a Debauch king or a dreamer king, but as a true ruler, a conqueror, a king who had mastered the game and played it better than anyone else.
As they made their way back to the camp, the sun high in the sky, the air filled with the sounds of the camp surrounding them, Joffrey knew that he was ready. Ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, ready to take whatever steps were necessary to secure his throne, his power, his legacy. He was ready to be king.
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