Joffrey was restless. His back ached relentlessly, the fresh burns from the fire making it impossible for him to sit comfortably or even lie on his back. He was frustrated with his body, with his scars, and the constant reminder that he had taken real damage during the wildfire. He hated the weakness it projected, yet he knew he needed to show strength—to be out and about, looking like a king who wouldn't yield to anything, not even pain.
They had been traveling again for days, and with most of the tents destroyed in the fire, the decision had been made to seek shelter at Harrenhal, the massive, ruined castle that could at least provide some shelter for the retinue. The biting cold of sleeping outside was not an option. Joffrey felt the tension in the camp—people whispered of omens, of fire and rain, of kings and gods. He needed to take control of the narrative again, steer it where he wanted.
Spurring his horse forward, he rode beside **Tyrion**, who was wrapped in thick furs and sitting comfortably on his pony.
"I hope the Wall treated you well, Uncle," Joffrey said casually, though his eyes were sharp. "And how did things go with Jon Snow? I assume you've carried out what I asked?"
Tyrion smirked, never one to miss an opportunity for wit. "As per your wishes, I offered Jon Snow the role of protector for Arya and Sansa Stark."
Joffrey raised an eyebrow. "He accepted?"
Tyrion's smirk grew wider. "No. He declined, of course, preferring to serve the Night's Watch."
Joffrey frowned, surprised. "And you just let it go at that?"
Tyrion chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, I didn't let it go. After all, you asked me to ensure he stays useful. I had a chat with the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and worked it out so Jon will serve them without taking the Black or the vows. He'll stay there, but he's free to help protect his sisters should the need arise."
Joffrey sighed. "And how much did they ask for in return?"
Tyrion looked offended, his grin mischievous. "Why, Joffrey, you wound me! Can't you believe my charms won over those somber old crows?"
Joffrey snorted. "I believe in your charms, Uncle. But I imagine they were only half as effective—seeing as you are of smaller stature."
Tyrion barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "I'd pat you on the back for that one, but I'm afraid you'd keel over from the pain. We wouldn't want the brave prince felled by a joke, now, would we?"
Joffrey's chuckle was cut short by a sharp twinge of pain as his back flared with discomfort. "Tis but a flesh wound," he muttered through gritted teeth.
Tyrion, ever quick with his wit, replied, "That's a lot of flesh to get wounded, nephew."
Their banter faded, and Joffrey's thoughts turned more serious as they continued riding. He glanced at Tyrion, his mind shifting to darker suspicions. "The fire, Uncle… it might not have been as natural as it seemed."
Tyrion looked at him curiously, the humor leaving his face. "Go on."
Joffrey hesitated. "It could have been an accident, but a fire that conveniently breaks out between my father's tent and Lord Stark's? That's hard to believe."
Tyrion's eyes narrowed, his tone more thoughtful now. "Such accidents don't usually go unnoticed. If it wasn't an accident…"
Joffrey nodded slowly. "I have my suspicions. It would have to be someone who stands to gain from killing both Robert and Stark."
Tyrion sighed, clearly impatient. "Yes, yes, I know how assassinations work, Joffrey. Stop dancing around it—who do you suspect?"
Joffrey's gaze darkened. "There's no benefit to killing both of them at once. Whoever did this must have another plan. The answer will reveal itself soon enough."
Tyrion, ever the skeptic, leaned back in his saddle. "Or it was just an accident after all."
Joffrey didn't answer. They rode in silence for a while longer until Harrenhal loomed on the horizon, its massive, scorched towers casting long shadows over the landscape. By the time they reached the courtyard, the sun had dipped below the horizon, and the cold stone of the castle offered little warmth. Joffrey's back was throbbing by now, and he knew he couldn't endure much longer without tending to the burns.
---
Inside his chambers, Joffrey removed his tunic carefully, wincing as the fabric tugged at the raw skin on his back. He remembered the **Maester**'s instructions about applying the salve and decided it was time to deal with it. As he moved, he noticed one of the young maids in the courtyard had been eyeing him with hunger. He smirked.
"Come," he called to her, his voice low and commanding.
The slim maid entered the room hesitantly, her eyes darting to his bare chest before quickly lowering them.
"I need someone to rub the salve on my back," Joffrey said, turning his head just enough to catch her eye.
She nodded quickly, stepping forward. Her gaze briefly lingered on his muscular form, but her breath hitched when her eyes fell lower. Joffrey noticed and grinned, leaning in slightly. "And perhaps… you could help me with something else?"
Her eyes trailed down to his half-hardened member, and her voice came out breathless. "I'd love to, Your Grace."
Joffrey's grin widened as he moved closer, grabbing her roughly by the waist and kissing her deeply. He pawed at her clothes, pulling them off piece by piece while she clung to his biceps with reverence, her touch delicate as if she feared breaking him. When he tore away her upper clothing, she instinctively hugged him, her hands brushing against his burned back.
A jolt of searing pain shot through Joffrey's body, making him push her back abruptly, a grimace of pain flashing across his face. "Don't touch my back," he growled, irritation lacing his voice.
She nodded apologetically, fear flashing in her eyes as he pushed her onto the bed and finished undressing her. Her body trembled under his gaze, but Joffrey was more focused now. He took the salve from the bedside table, handing it to her. "Rub this on my back," he ordered.
As she started applying the salve carefully, Joffrey spat on his hand, wetting his member, and positioned himself between her legs. He tested her entrance with his fingers, feeling her already wet and eager. Satisfied, he entered her slowly, moving with deliberate control to avoid aggravating his burns.
"Keep rubbing," he muttered through his teeth, and she obeyed, her hands gentle on his back as he began thrusting into her with steady rhythm. The mix of pain and pleasure kept him focused, and he let out a low growl of satisfaction as he continued, his pace increasing until he spilled into her with a final thrust.
Afterward, Joffrey stood, his body slick with sweat and a sense of victory washing over him. He turned to the maid, already bored of her presence. "Get dressed and leave," he ordered coldly, pulling on his own clothes as she scrambled to obey.
The girl, still catching her breath, nodded quickly and left the room, clearly overwhelmed by the experience. Joffrey smirked as he lay on his stomach, the salve cooling his back. **Sleep** came quickly after that.
---
**Jaime's Perspective:**
Ever since Joffrey had revealed that someone might know the truth about him and Cersei, Jaime felt like a man under constant scrutiny. He couldn't look at his sister the same way anymore, couldn't even bear to meet her gaze without feeling the weight of potential exposure. The truth about their relationship had been buried deep for years, but now it felt like the world was watching, waiting for it to slip into the open.
Because of that, Jaime had begun to distance himself, even from his duties as a Kingsguard. He no longer cared for protecting Robert—a man he despised—but there was a nagging guilt that came with ignoring his role. The position of Kingsguard was one of the few things he had earned in life that wasn't tainted by shame, but now, with his reputation already tarnished, he found himself caring less about it.
During the fire, he hadn't been there to protect his family, hadn't even been in the camp. He'd been riding far from the tents, ignoring Cersei and trying to forget the feelings he harbored for her. The disappointed look **Ser Barristan** had given him afterward was like a dagger. Jaime knew he'd lost whatever respect Barristan had left for him. Seeing Joffrey's burns made it even worse. Jaime should have been there in Joffrey's place, protecting the king's family. But deep down, Jaime knew—he wouldn't have jumped through the flames to save Arya Stark. He wasn't that brave.
Joffrey, however, had done it. His nephew—no, his son—had done something brave. Something Jaime hadn't expected from the boy he used to ignore. Over the course of their journey north, Joffrey had
changed, becoming someone even Barristan might follow with pride.
**Change.** Jaime knew that's what he needed. A change in his life, a break from the past. He couldn't keep ignoring reality.
That's why, later that evening, Jaime found himself walking toward Cersei's chambers. He needed to ask her about the future, about whom he should marry. If he was going to break free from this cycle of shame, he needed a new direction. But when he opened the door, entering without knocking—as he had always done—what he saw brought his world crashing down.
There, in the dim light of the room, Cersei was on her knees between **Myrcella's** legs, her mouth on her daughter like a woman starved in a desert.
Jaime's heart froze. He turned and left as quickly as he'd come, his footsteps echoing through the hallway as he tried to process what he had just seen. Cersei… with Myrcella? He had never known his sister had desires for women. He certainly hadn't imagined her doing that with their daughter.
Everything felt wrong. His world, already teetering on the edge, was now in freefall. Without thinking, Jaime headed toward **Joffrey's** chambers, desperate for answers.
---
Joffrey was lying on his front, the white salve covering his back as he rested on his bed. Jaime hesitated before entering the room. "Are you awake?"
Joffrey groaned softly in response. "Hmm."
Jaime sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from Joffrey, struggling with the words. "How's your back?" he asked quietly.
Joffrey grunted. "I'll be fine by the time we reach King's Landing."
Jaime took a deep breath, bracing himself for the question that had been eating at him. "I saw something earlier… between Myrcella and Cersei. What the hell is going on?"
Joffrey sighed, clearly annoyed. "I told them to be more discreet."
Jaime blinked, stunned. "You *knew*?"
"Of course, I knew." Joffrey's tone was calm, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. "Myrcella likes women. I suggested she keep it within the family. No one can talk if it stays between them."
Jaime's stomach churned. "That's… that's incest, Joffrey. It's wrong."
Joffrey turned his head slightly, giving Jaime a sidelong glance. "You're one to talk about incest, aren't you?"
Jaime flushed with shame, but Joffrey continued, his voice cold. "It's only wrong because children wouldn't survive. But they're not having children, are they? They can do whatever they want, as long as they're careful. Which they haven't been, seeing as you already know."
Jaime rubbed his temples, his head spinning. "It wasn't their fault. I walked in on them by accident, out of habit."
Joffrey rolled his eyes. "What were you even doing there?"
Jaime quickly explained, hoping to shift the conversation. "I went to ask Cersei who I should marry. I need a new direction."
Joffrey sighed, clearly growing tired of the conversation. "I'll give you a few suggestions, but for now, stay away from Cersei. We don't need anyone growing suspicious."
Jaime nodded, grateful for the advice, even if the rest of the conversation left him feeling hollow. Without another word, he left Joffrey's chambers, his mind still reeling from what he had seen.
Joffrey, left alone, sighed and closed his eyes. His world was slowly shifting, but there was a strange satisfaction in knowing that, for now, he still controlled it.
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