Joffrey made his way through Winterfell's dim corridors, each step heavy with a strange mix of guilt and confusion. His mind was still reeling from the news of Bran's close call with an assassin. He had been the one to send Bran outside, and now the boy was lying in his room, rattled and scared. When Joffrey reached Bran's door, he paused, taking a breath before stepping inside. The room was dark, lit only by the flickering light of a few candles, and Joffrey's eyes immediately fell on Bran, who was wrapped tightly in Catelyn Stark's arms.
Catelyn looked up as he entered, her face pale and drawn, but it was her eyes that struck Joffrey the hardest. They were filled with a burning hatred that caught him off guard. Bran's small form trembled in her grasp, his wide eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, still in shock from his ordeal.
"What happened?" Joffrey asked, his voice soft but edged with the tension that had been building since he'd heard the news.
Catelyn's gaze hardened, and she held Bran closer, shielding him from Joffrey as if his presence alone was a threat. "He was found being chased by an assassin with a knife," she snapped, her voice laced with anger and fear. "A grown man with a blade coming after my son."
Joffrey nodded slowly, piecing together what she was saying. But as he looked at her, he couldn't understand why her glare was so intense, so full of accusation. Was it because he had been the one to send Bran outside? The thought gnawed at him, but the look in Catelyn's eyes told him there was more to her fury than just that. He needed answers, but Catelyn was seething and in no mood to give them.
"I'm sorry," Joffrey said, his voice calm but tight. "I'll speak to Lord Stark." He turned away, knowing Catelyn's anger wasn't something he could soothe. He needed to get to the bottom of this, and Ned Stark would be more forthcoming.
---
Joffrey found Lord Stark in his solar, the older man's face was drawn, and his usual stern demeanor was tinged with something darker. There was no warmth in his eyes when he looked at Joffrey, just a cold, barely restrained fury. The way he reverted to formality—calling him "Your Grace" instead of Joffrey—sent a shiver of unease down Joffrey's spine.
"What's going on?" Joffrey asked, trying to keep his voice steady. "Lady Catelyn said Bran was attacked."
Ned's gaze didn't soften, and when he spoke, it was clipped and formal. "The assassin was one of the royal retinue," he said, each word carefully measured. "He was caught before he could finish what he started, but he was really close to getting away with it as bran was outside the castle.." Ned paused, and Joffrey could sense the weight behind his words.
Joffrey's brow furrowed, his mind racing. That didn't make any sense. The way Ned was looking at him—like he was seeing something vile—made Joffrey's skin crawl. "I'm sorry that someone within the royal retinue would do something so heinous, Lord stark" Joffrey said, his voice strained. He tried to catch Ned's eye, but the Warden of the North was avoiding his gaze. There was something more, something unsaid.
Joffrey left the solar, the tension in the air still clinging to him like a heavy cloak. He felt a prickle of anger and confusion; why were they looking at him like that? As he turned the corner, he suddenly found himself yanked sideways, Sansa's tear-streaked face appearing before him. She was crying, her eyes wild and full of hurt. She dragged him by the hand, not stopping until they were alone in a small, empty room. The door slammed shut behind them, the sound echoing sharply.
Before Joffrey could say a word, Sansa's hand swung out, the slap landing hard across his cheek. The sting burned, more from the shock than the force, and he staggered back, eyes wide. Sansa's chest heaved with anger, and she raised her hand to strike him again, but Joffrey caught her wrist mid-air, his grip firm and unyielding.
"What the hell, Sansa?" he snapped, still reeling. "What is wrong with you?"
She pulled her arm free, tears streaming down her face as she glared at him with a fury he'd never seen before. "Did you send that assassin after Bran?" she shouted, voice cracking. "Because he saw us—saw us and your mother together in the tower!"
Joffrey's eyes narrowed, anger flaring at the accusation. "Are you insane? If I wanted Bran silenced, I would've done it that day, not days later! He's family, Sansa. He's allowed to see these things as long as he keeps his mouth shut."
Sansa shook her head, refusing to believe him. "My mother said the assassin was found with a Valyrian steel dagger. Its hilt was in Lannister colors. How can I not suspect you? You were afraid he was going to talk about it to someone." Her voice broke, trembling as she spoke. "How could you?"
Joffrey's expression turned cold, all emotion draining from his face. He stared at her, struggling to keep his temper in check. "Are you stupid?" he bit out before catching himself, and then he forced his tone back to something calmer, though no less sharp. "Is your whole family stupid?"
Sansa's mouth opened in a gasp, her shock clear as she stepped back. "What do you mean?"
Joffrey stepped forward, crowding her against the wall, his voice low and dangerous. "Who in their right mind would hire an assassin and give him a Valyrian steel dagger? Those blades are priceless, worth more than all the gold in King's Landing. No one, not even the Lannister's, would be that reckless. It's a set-up, Sansa. A damn obvious one."
Sansa's face crumpled as his words sank in. She hadn't thought of it that way, and now the pieces seemed to shift, fitting together in a way that made her chest tighten with dread. "Then who… who would do that?" she asked, her voice small, eyes searching his.
Joffrey reached out, gently cupping the side of her face, his thumb brushing away her tears. He kissed her brow softly, a gesture that was both comforting and possessive. "We'll find out," he promised, his voice a cold whisper. But then his hand moved, wrapping around her throat, squeezing just enough to cut off her breath. Sansa's eyes widened, her hands flying to his wrist as she choked, panic flaring.
"Never doubt my love for you again," Joffrey hissed, his grip tightening briefly before he released her, capturing her mouth in a fierce kiss that stole what little breath she had left. Sansa gasped into his kiss, and when he finally pulled back, she was left panting, both from fear and the rush of something darker.
Joffrey took her by the hand, his grip firm as he led her out of the room, his pace quick and determined. He wasn't going to let this accusation hang over him. He pushed through the doors to Lord Stark's solar once more, pulling Sansa in behind him.
"Lord Stark," Joffrey said, his voice steady but laced with a simmering anger. "Do you suspect me or the Lannisters of sending that assassin after Bran?"
Ned's head snapped up, and his expression darkened. "Sansa," he said sharply, his tone laced with disappointment, "you told him?"
Joffrey didn't wait for Sansa to respond. He stepped forward, squaring his shoulders. "You think I'd be stupid enough to send a killer with my own family's dagger? No one with half a brain would arm an assassin with Valyrian steel. Whoever sent that man wanted you to suspect the Lannisters, to drive a wedge between our families."
Ned's gaze hardened, but he listened, considering Joffrey's words. "And what do you suggest, Your Grace?" he asked, voice still strained, the anger barely contained.
"Act like you hate the Lannisters," Joffrey said, his tone firm, deliberate. "Let them think they've succeeded. Whoever's behind this will approach you, try to drive the wedge deeper, make insinuations. And when they do, you'll know who's really to blame."
Ned stared at him, weighing the suggestion, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife. Finally, he nodded, begrudgingly. Jeoffrey suggested as he was about to leave "It is advisable But, Sansa," he added, his voice stern, "stay away from me unless I approach you myself."
Sansa's face fell, the hurt clear in her eyes, but Joffrey only gave her a sharp look, warning her to keep her composure. She bit her lip, nodding silently as Joffrey turned on his heel and left the room, the tension still heavy in his chest. He needed an outlet, something to take the edge off the simmering anger that had been building all day.
---
Joffrey stormed through the brothel, his frustration boiling over with every heavy step. The dim, smoky haze of the place did nothing to calm him, and the chatter of patrons mixed with the clinking of goblets only grated on his nerves further. He needed a release—something, anything, to dull the edge of his anger after the day's events. His mind was a mess: Bran's near death, the accusations from the Starks, and the way Sansa had turned on him, her teary eyes filled with doubt and anger.
He pushed through the curtain that led to the private quarters, his movements quick and rough. Tyrion was seated comfortably, as usual, surrounded by half-empty wine goblets and a woman sprawled across his lap. He looked up, mildly amused by the sight of his nephew in such a state.
"Back so soon, Joffrey?" Tyrion remarked, raising a brow, his tone light but laced with curiosity. "What's the rush?"
"I need Ros," Joffrey snapped, cutting off any attempt at conversation. There was no time for Tyrion's playful jabs or thinly veiled critiques. He needed what he'd come for.
Tyrion tilted his goblet toward the back rooms, barely fazed by Joffrey's demeanor. "I haven't used her tonight," he said with a slight shrug, already sensing where this was going. "I found this cute little thing for myself instead"
Joffrey ignored him, stalking past with a determined stride. He found Ros alone in one of the private chambers, sitting on the edge of the bed, adjusting her dress with a practiced nonchalance. She looked up when Joffrey entered, immediately reading the storm brewing in his eyes. She stood quickly, offering a small, respectful bow.
"Your Grace," Ros said, her tone measured but careful, always aware of the power dynamics at play. She straightened, a cautious smile flickering across her lips. "How can I serve you tonight?"
Joffrey didn't bother with pleasantries. He grabbed her by the arm, yanking her closer with a force that was rougher than usual. "Shut up," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I don't want you to talk. I just need something to hit, and you're the closest thing."
Ros swallowed, her expression tightening, but she nodded, knowing better than to question him. She let him shove her back toward the bed, her movements fluid as she complied without resistance. She lay back, her legs parting slightly, every gesture designed to make herself easy for him. "I'm here for you, Your Grace," she said softly, her voice calm but tinged with the slightest edge of unease.
Joffrey tore at his clothes, his eyes fixed on her, the fire in his chest stoked by the sight of her spread out before him, so ready, so compliant. He pulled off his belt and tossed it aside, each movement sharp, almost violent. "You look like her," he muttered, more to himself than to Ros, his voice simmering with barely restrained rage. "You almost look like Sansa."
Ros glanced up at him, her eyes widening slightly, but she kept her expression neutral. She'd heard things like this before, knew that when a man came with someone else's name on his lips, it meant he was going to be rough. "Whatever you need, Your Grace," she said quietly, lying back fully, her legs adjusting to accommodate him. "Take it out on me."
Joffrey climbed onto the bed, positioning himself over her with a forceful shove that made her gasp. He grabbed her thighs, yanking her closer, and thrust into her without warning, his grip tight, bordering on painful. Ros arched her back, her breath hitching at the suddenness of it, but she didn't fight. This was her role, her station—to take whatever came her way without question.
"You think she's any different?" Joffrey snarled, his hips snapping against hers with a brutal pace that left little room for anything but harsh, ragged breaths. "You think Sansa doesn't like it rough, like a little whore pretending to be a lady?" He punctuated each word with a punishing thrust, watching as Ros's face contorted with a mix of pleasure and pain.
Ros gripped the sheets beneath her, her knuckles turning white as she tried to steady herself against the relentless pace. She was used to being handled roughly, but there was something different in the way Joffrey moved—something unhinged, desperate. "I'm yours, Your Grace," she panted, her voice breaking as he drove into her harder. "Let it all out. I can take it."
Joffrey's sneer deepened, and he slammed into her with renewed force, his hands roaming roughly over her body. He squeezed her breasts hard, his nails leaving faint red marks against her pale skin. "I bet you love this," he spat, his breath hot against her ear as he leaned in closer. "Being used like the trash you are. Just like she would that filthy whore."
Ros's moans filled the room, each sound a mix of genuine pleasure and the practiced response she'd perfected over years of work. She moved with him, meeting each thrust as best she could, letting him take whatever he needed. "Yes," she gasped, her voice hoarse. "I love it. Don't stop."
Joffrey gripped her jaw, forcing her to look at him, his thrusts growing more erratic, fueled by the anger that roiled inside him. "You're nothing, you know that?" he growled, his pace unrelenting. "Nothing but a hole to fill. I could kill you right now, and no one would care."
Ros's eyes glistened, but she held his gaze, her breathing ragged as she fought to keep up with his punishing rhythm. "But you won't," she whispered, a hint of defiance creeping into her voice. "You need me too much."
Joffrey's grip tightened, his fingers digging into her jaw with enough force to bruise. He pushed deeper, his movements rough and uncoordinated as he chased his own release, the fury of it driving him harder and faster. Ros cried out, her back arching as she rode the wave of his aggression, her own body trembling under the strain.
"Don't you fucking talk back to me," Joffrey snapped, his thrusts becoming frantic, each one more desperate than the last. He reached between them, his fingers finding her clit and rubbing it roughly, making her jolt beneath him. "You'll come for me, and you'll thank me for it."
Ros's head fell back, her breath hitching as she felt herself teetering on the edge, the mix of pain and pleasure too much to bear. She clung to him, her nails digging into his back as she surrendered completely to the moment. "Thank you, Your Grace," she gasped, her voice breaking as she reached her peak, her body shuddering with the force of her climax.
Joffrey's own release followed seconds later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he emptied himself inside her. He stayed there, panting, his forehead resting against hers as he tried to catch his breath. Ros lay beneath him, her body spent, her eyes closed as she fought to steady her breathing.
Joffrey pulled away, his expression hardening as he looked down at her. He felt no relief, just the hollow aftermath of his own anger. Ros turned her head, watching him as he climbed off the bed, her eyes unreadable.
"If you're going to take it out on me," she said quietly, her voice still laced with exhaustion, "then you should make it count, your grace"
Joffrey stared at her, his chest still heaving. He felt the rage simmering just beneath the surface, untouched by their encounter. He grabbed her ankle, flipping her onto her stomach with a rough yank. "You think I'm done with you?" he hissed, positioning himself behind her again. "I'm not fucking done."
Ros let out a soft, resigned sigh, bracing herself as he entered her again, his movements just as fierce and unforgiving as before. She clung to the mattress, her face pressed into the sheets as Joffrey set a brutal pace, every thrust more violent than the last.
"You're mine tonight, Ros," Joffrey growled, his grip bruising as he held her down. "And you'll take it until I say you're done."
Ros's cries filled the room, her voice a mixture of pain and reluctant pleasure as she surrendered completely, letting Joffrey use her until he'd had his fill. She knew this was her place, to take the anger of men like Joffrey and bear it with whatever dignity she could muster. And for tonight, that was enough.
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