The cold bit hard as Joffrey rode alongside his father. The past three months had been an endless string of problems, and the road to King's Landing had been anything but smooth. First, the damned snow had piled up two inches thick, making them waste hours clearing it just to move forward. Then the royal carriage broke an axle, forcing them to wait as the servants scrambled to fix it. And just last week, Tommen had gone missing when he slipped off for a piss, causing the entire camp to panic.
Through it all, Robert—his father, the king—demanded one thing above all else: entertainment. Be it wine, women, or laughter, the king required a constant stream of indulgences to keep his spirits high. His court, ever eager to please, threw themselves into it, making sure Robert never went without. But for Joffrey, watching his father guzzle wine, gorge on food, and bury his face in some serving girl's breasts, the conversation they'd had in the crypts felt like a distant dream.
Back then, Robert had spoken like a man with thoughts, regrets, even pain. Now, he seemed more like a beast, too busy stuffing himself to care about the world around him.
Joffrey glanced at his father. Robert sat heavily on his horse, slouched and sullen between the bouts of laughter and drunken japes. His gut hung over the saddle, his face red from the endless flow of wine. His booming voice carried over the wind, calling for more food, more drink, more flesh. Joffrey felt disgust rising in his throat.
He tried to talk sense into him once. Told him to ease off the drinking. The smack Robert delivered behind Joffrey's ear was enough to shut him up quick. "I'm the king, boy. Don't forget that." That was the last bit of fatherly advice Joffrey got from Robert for a while.
So instead of confronting him head-on, Joffrey had tried a different approach. He bribed Lancel, Robert's cupbearer, to start mixing more water into his father's wine, diluting it to slow down the damage. But Robert wasn't a fool. After a few days, he noticed. Demanded more "watered wine" until his gut was bloated like a pig's, and he stumbled to his tent, growling about some discomfort in his stomach.
Joffrey shook his head, his frustration mounting. If his father kept going at this pace, he'd be dead before Joffrey ever got the chance to stabilize the kingdom. And the Seven knew that when the Long Night came, a stable kingdom was the only thing that might stand a chance. Robert had to last—at least long enough for the realm to survive the coming storm.
But how? The man had a thirst for wine that couldn't be quenched. Joffrey mulled it over in his head, his thoughts darkening with each passing mile. Robert wanted the drowsiness of wine, the numbness that came with it, but the wine was killing him from the inside out. Maybe the answer wasn't in stopping the drink but replacing it. Maybe there was something else that could give him that relief without tearing his body apart.
Joffrey's frustration boiled over, and later that night, he found himself pushing the washermaid, marian, up against a tree just beyond the camp. Her plump, matronly body shook under his grip, her breasts swaying as he thrust into her, taking out his anger and helplessness in a way that only brought temporary relief.
Her flesh jiggled with each brutal snap of his hips, her moans mixed with the grunts of his own primal release. Joffrey grunted, biting at her nipple as he pounded into her from behind, his fingers digging into the soft, ample flesh of her hips. His teeth clamped down, leaving marks, while his mind was only half present—caught somewhere between the feeling of her body and the image of his father's bloated form sitting on his horse, shouting for more wine.
Joffrey's lips curled back in a snarl as he buried himself deeper, releasing inside her with a sharp grunt. He pressed his face between her breasts, biting at her soft flesh while she gasped and whimpered. His thoughts were still racing—still filled with the frustration of trying to fix something that couldn't be fixed. Could milk of the poppy help? No, he thought bitterly. Opium addiction was even worse than wine.
As he continued to move inside her, slow and languid now, he thought about how to break this cycle. The wine was rotting Robert from the inside out, but what if there was something else that could give him what he needed? Something that didn't destroy his body quite as quickly.
That's when he spotted it. A peculiar leaf, dark green with jagged edges, poking out from under some brush nearby. Joffrey recognized it—tobacco. He had tried it before in hid previous life. He knew it could be just as addictive as wine, but it didn't carry the same heavy lethargy. If anything, it made people more alert.
He could make Robert smoke. Keep his body from bloating like a pig while still giving him something to indulge in.
Joffrey's grin widened as he pulled out of the woman, leaving her gasping against the tree. "Clean me up," he ordered, his voice curt. marian, ever obedient, knelt before him and took him in her mouth, licking and sucking him clean as he stared off into the distance, already plotting.
He bent down, plucking the tobacco leaves from the ground, and stuffed them into his bag. He would test it, see how it worked, before offering it to his father.
marian finished her work and looked up at him, her face flushed, her lips swollen from her efforts. Joffrey smiled down at her, his hand reaching down to squeeze her breasts roughly. "You'll try something for me," he said, his voice low, commanding. She nodded, her breath coming in short gasps.
Joffrey rolled the tobacco into a crude cigar, lighting it with a small coal from the campfire. He passed it to her, watching as she took a tentative puff. She coughed at first, but after a few moments, her eyes widened, and she looked at him with a mixture of surprise and alertness.
"I feel... awake," she murmured.
Joffrey grinned, taking the cigar back from her. "Good," he said, tossing it aside after he'd seen enough. "Now get dressed."
The next day, as they rode, Joffrey sat tall on his horse beside his father. He pulled out a neatly rolled cigar, lit it with a glowing coal he'd taken from the fire, and took a long drag. The smoke filled his lungs, and after a moment, the familiar buzz of the tobacco kicked in. It wasn't the mind-numbing effect of wine, but it cleared his thoughts, sharpened his focus.
Robert, always watchful when something new caught his eye, looked over with a curious frown. "What are you burning there, boy?" he asked, his voice a little slurred but still strong.
Joffrey smiled, thinking of a fisherman watching his line twitch in the water. "Something I found along the way," he said, casual. "The smoke makes you feel... sharp. Alert."
Robert frowned, clearly intrigued but not yet convinced. Just as Joffrey expected, it was Ned Stark who piped up first.
"I've seen something like that before," Ned said, riding up beside them. "In the mountains, the free folk use leaves from Heart Trees. Helps them stay sharp through the cold."
Joffrey saw his father's interest deepen at that, the hook set. "Want to try it?" Joffrey asked, holding out one of the cigars he had rolled earlier.
Robert shook his head at first, waving it off. "No, no. Wine does the trick for me."
But Joffrey caught the flicker of hesitation in Robert's eyes, and when Ned reached out for one, Robert couldn't resist. "Give me that," Robert grumbled, snatching the cigar from Joffrey's hand.
The two men took their first puffs cautiously, then looked at each other in surprise, dragging more and more smoke in, almost competing to see who could handle it better. After a few long draws, Robert let out a satisfied grunt. "Damn, that's good," he said, his voice rough but pleased. "Got any more?"
Joffrey shook his head, playing the part of the regretful son. "Those were my last ones."
Robert frowned, clearly annoyed. "Bring me more of those leaves!" he barked at one of the courtiers trailing behind them.
Joffrey couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. A plan well executed. But his satisfaction was short-lived when he noticed Sansa riding beside him, her face downcast, trying to catch his eye without drawing attention. He gestured for her to leave before anyone noticed how close they really were. It wasn't the time to be seen acting anything less than hostile toward her.
Sansa's face fell as she turned her horse and rode away, clearly upset.
Robert must have noticed the interaction, because he turned to Ned with a crooked grin. "What's going on with you and your son-in-law, Stark? are you two angry with each other?"
Ned, to his credit, tried to stay neutral. "Nothing's wrong," he said, his tone defensive.
Joffrey shot a glance at his father, wondering if Robert might actually sniff out some truth, but all his father did was laugh, shaking his head. "Pissed, are you, Stark? Pissed that your little girl's got her sights set on a little shit like my boy?"
Joffrey's felt a nerve burn on his temple. He glared at Robert in annoyance at the slander he was spreading which would only be true for the past Joffrey
"Maybe," Joffrey snapped back sarcasm oozing in his voice "Lord Stark's just worried I might turn out like you."
For a second, there was silence, then Robert's laughter boomed through the air, shaking like a....leaf as he swiped the back of Joffrey's head. "Never disrespect the king!" he roared, still laughing. Then he paused, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "At least not in public." before laughing once again.
Despite himself, Joffrey smiled. For all his father's faults, Robert never acted like a king when they were joking. He acted like a father. Like a friend.
And Joffrey couldn't bring himself to hate him for that.