Joffrey lounged in the corner of the Winterfell training yard, watching as Robb, Theon, and Jon traded jabs at each other, their voices light and filled with the easy camaraderie of young men at ease in each other's company. The northern air was cool, and the sun hung low in the sky, bathing the scene in a warm, golden glow. Despite the chill, Joffrey felt oddly at home among them, enjoying these moments of casual talk about the North, politics, and women.
It was strange, this sense of kinship he felt with the Stark boys and Theon Greyjoy, especially knowing that, in his mind, he was four years their senior. But here, Joffrey could let his guard down a little, enjoy the banter, the shared laughter that felt both youthful and grounding. They were warriors, princes, and lords, but in moments like these, they were just young men figuring out the world together. Jeoffrey asked them what they thought of their home to gauge their thoughts.
"The North's different," Robb said, leaning back against the rough stone of the keep, a thoughtful look on his face. "People don't forget who you are, who your family is. Honor matters here, more than it does in south."
Jon nodded, his expression serious as ever. "It's harsh, but it's honest. No room for pretending when the winter wind's biting at your heels."
Theon laughed, a bit louder and brasher than the others. "Aye, but the women are still warm enough to keep the cold at bay, eh?" He winked, and the boys snickered, exchanging knowing looks.
Joffrey smirked, sipping the wine he'd brought with him as he told them "Honor might bee uplheld here but remember where it came from" They started to trade insults that do not hurt each other but still are a problem. He enjoyed these conversations, the easy flow of topics ranging from politics to swordplay, and of course, the occasional crude joke about women. It was a welcome change from the constant posturing of the court. Here, he didn't have to play the prince—he could just be another young man sharing the fire with his friends.
They talked for a while longer, swapping stories and trading jests, until the shadows began to lengthen and the chill in the air deepened. Joffrey made his excuses, a half-smile playing on his lips as he left the yard, feeling lighter than he had in days.
---
Back inside the castle, Joffrey wandered the quieter corridors, his mind still lingering on the conversation with the Stark boys. He found himself drawn to the servants' quarters, seeking the comfort of something else that had become familiar on this journey north. As he rounded a corner, he spotted the washerwoman who had caught his eye before—a plump, middle-aged woman whose soft curves and ample bosom had already been his to explore once during their journey.
She was busy with her work, her hands deep in soapy water, scrubbing linens as if her life depended on it. Joffrey approached her, his steps light, his smile easy but laced with intent. She looked up, startled by his sudden presence, but quickly dipped into a hasty curtsy, her cheeks flushed with both embarrassment and something else—a flicker of recognition and anticipation.
"Your Grace," she murmured, keeping her eyes lowered as she fumbled with her work, the water sloshing around her wrists.
Joffrey stepped closer, his gaze roaming over her, taking in every inch of her with a casual but hungry interest. He leaned against the wall, folding his arms as he watched her with a sly grin. "I never got your name," he said, his voice smooth, almost playful. "I'd hate to keep calling you 'washerwoman' when you've been so... accommodating."
The woman swallowed nervously, her eyes darting up to meet his briefly before flicking away again. "It's Marian, Your Grace," she answered, her voice trembling slightly. She knew what he wanted—knew how this game worked. And as much as she tried to keep her composure, there was no hiding the blush that crept up her neck.
"Marian," Joffrey repeated, savoring the sound of it. He stepped closer, his fingers grazing the edge of her chin, lifting her face so that she had no choice but to meet his gaze. "Tell me, Marian, do you enjoy your work?"
Marian hesitated, caught between the fear of displeasing him and the unsettling thrill of his attention. "I do my best, Your Grace," she replied, her voice barely a whisper.
Joffrey's hand moved, tracing a slow line down her neck, his touch light but deliberate. He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "I think you do more than your best," he murmured, his fingers trailing lower, brushing over the swell of her breasts, feeling the rapid thump of her heartbeat beneath his palm. "You're good at pleasing your betters. Isn't that right?"
Marian shivered, her breath hitching as Joffrey's hand slipped lower, teasing the soft flesh of her waist. She nodded, unable to find her voice, her body tensing under his touch. He was in no rush, exploring her with slow, teasing caresses, his fingers dipping beneath the fabric of her dress, grazing the sensitive skin beneath. She tried to stifle her reactions, but every brush of his hand made her knees weaken, her breaths coming in quick, shallow pants.
"You're a good little washerwoman, aren't you, Marian?" Joffrey taunted, his voice dripping with condescension, but also with a sick kind of fondness that kept her on edge. "You'll tell me anything I want to know, won't you?"
Marian bit her lip, nodding as his hands roamed freely, squeezing her soft curves, exploring her as though she were an object meant for his pleasure alone. She told him what he wanted to hear—details of her life, her work, anything that spilled out under his careful, insistent touch. He listened, half-interested, but mostly relishing in the control, the power he wielded over her, how she bent to his will with every teasing stroke of his fingers.
When he was finished, Joffrey stepped back, straightening his clothes with a satisfied smirk as Marian stood there, flushed and breathless, her cheeks burning with a mix of shame and arousal. He left her with a parting squeeze of her ass, a low chuckle rumbling in his throat as he turned and walked away, leaving her alone and trembling in the dim light of the servants' corridor.
But as he stepped out of the shadows, he nearly collided with Catelyn Stark, who was standing in the hallway, her expression a storm of fury and disgust. She had seen enough to know exactly what had happened, and her blue eyes were cold as she glared at him, her mouth set in a thin, disapproving line.
Joffrey's smile faltered, but only for a second. Before Catelyn could turn away, he reached out, his hand closing around her wrist in a firm, unyielding grip. He pulled her sharply into a nearby empty room, shutting the door behind them with a decisive click.
Catelyn jerked her hand away, her eyes blazing with anger. "How dare you," she hissed, her voice low but trembling with barely contained rage. "You have no right—"
Joffrey's smile returned, sharp and dangerous. "Careful, Lady Stark," he interrupted, his tone icy and commanding. "You wouldn't want anyone finding out about you and Petyr Baelish, would you? How you two used to play when you were young? What would Lord Stark think if he knew? I wonder how he'd take to hearing the old tales of your youth."
Catelyn's eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. The threat hung in the air between them like a knife, and though she tried to keep her composure, the weight of his words cut deep. Joffrey didn't know the truth of what had passed between her and Baelish, but the implication alone was enough to silence her.
She stared at him, her fury tempered by the cold realization that she had no way of denying it without making things worse. Joffrey's eyes glittered with triumph, and he stepped closer, his hand sliding up her arm, his touch both mocking and intimate. "You'll stay quiet, Lady Stark. You'll keep your mouth shut, and you'll do as you're told."
Catelyn's breath hitched, her cheeks flushed with humiliation as Joffrey's hand moved to her back, pressing her against the wall. She tried to turn her head away, but he caught her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You will listen to me, or your secrets will become stories whispered throughout this castle," he whispered, his voice laced with venom.
Joffrey's lips found her neck, kissing the soft skin just beneath her ear, and Catelyn stiffened, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She wanted to scream, to push him away, but the threat hung over her like a shadow she couldn't escape. Joffrey's kisses turned rougher, his hand sliding down her back, squeezing her ass, exploring her body with a casual cruelty that made her shudder.
He trailed kisses down her neck, biting lightly at her skin, his hands roaming over her breasts, squeezing just hard enough to make her gasp. He pushed his thigh between her legs, forcing her to feel his presence, the heat of his body, the weight of his control. Catelyn's breath came in short, ragged gasps, her mind a whirlwind of shame and helpless fury.
Joffrey's hand slipped beneath her skirts, his fingers finding the heat between her legs, teasing her with slow
, deliberate strokes. Catelyn bit her lip, struggling to keep silent, to maintain some semblance of dignity as Joffrey explored her with a methodical cruelty. She hated him, despised every touch, but she knew better than to fight back. His fingers pressed deeper, and Catelyn's body betrayed her, shuddering under his touch, a soft, unwilling moan escaping her lips.
Joffrey's smile widened, pleased by her reaction. He withdrew his hand, wiping his fingers on her dress with a look of casual disdain. "Remember, Lady Stark," he said softly, his voice dripping with mockery. "You come when I call. And you stay silent."
Catelyn nodded stiffly, her eyes burning with unshed tears as she turned away, hurrying from the room without another word. She felt tainted, humiliated, but there was nothing she could do—nothing but endure and pray that he would lose interest.
---
Joffrey strolled into the great hall, his mood lifted by the power he had just wielded. The feast was in full swing, and he spotted Sansa across the room, her eyes lighting up as she saw him. He approached her, his smile easy, his voice light as he greeted her with the kind of flirtatious charm he reserved only for her.
"Sansa," he said, taking her hand and pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. "You look radiant tonight."
Sansa blushed, her heart fluttering at his attention. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and adoring, completely unaware of the darkness that lurked beneath his polished surface. For now, she was content to bask in his affection, the prince who was slowly becoming everything she wanted and feared.
Joffrey played the part perfectly, his touches light, his words sweet, all the while savoring the private power he held over the women of Winterfell—over Sansa, over Catelyn, over every life that crossed his path.
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