Jeoffrey: The Hedonist (SI)

The broken tower was filled with the lingering warmth of their shared intimacy, the air thick with the faint scent of sweat, sex, and forbidden pleasure. Joffrey lay sprawled on the stone floor, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath, surrounded by the three women he had claimed as his own. Sansa, still flushed from their heated encounter, was buttoning her dress with trembling fingers, her cheeks a rosy pink. Myrcella rested against her mother, Cersei’s arm draped protectively around her shoulder, their shared experience leaving them all tangled in a web of secrecy and unspoken desire.

They began to collect themselves, the cold of the night air cooling their heated skin as they adjusted their clothes, smoothing out rumpled skirts and straightening tousled hair. But as Sansa stood and pulled her dress back over her shoulders, her gaze drifted toward the broken window, and her eyes widened in shock.

There, perched precariously on the narrow ledge just outside the window, was Bran Stark, his small face pale in the moonlight, eyes wide with a mix of fear and something darker—curiosity, maybe, or the innocent fascination of a boy who had seen far more than he was ever meant to. He had been watching, hidden in the shadows, his presence unnoticed until now.

Joffrey’s smile faded, replaced by a cold, calculating look as he saw the boy clinging to the stone ledge. He moved with deliberate calm, smoothing his tunic as he approached the window, his footsteps slow and measured, each step echoing in the quiet room. Bran’s eyes darted to Joffrey, filled with a mix of defiance and terror, as if he were deciding whether to leap away or beg for mercy.

“Well, well,” Joffrey said softly, his voice carrying a dangerous, mocking edge. “Little Lord Bran, sneaking around like a rat in the walls. What exactly did you think you were doing up here?”

Bran’s face flushed, his small hands gripping the stone tightly. “I—” he began, his voice trembling, the words catching in his throat. “I was just climbing. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t know—”

“You were watching Sansa, weren’t you?” Joffrey interrupted, his tone low and accusatory. He reached out, grabbing Bran by the arm and hauling him inside with a quick, rough pull. Bran stumbled, nearly falling as he was dragged into the room, his face paling as he realized he was now trapped with the prince and the three women he had been spying on.

Joffrey loomed over him, his grip still tight on Bran’s arm. “You were watching Sansa as she got dressed, weren’t you?” he continued, his voice dripping with false pity. “Such a nasty little habit, watching girls when they think they’re alone. What would your father think? What would he say if Sansa told everyone that you were spying on her?”

Bran’s eyes filled with tears, and he shook his head frantically. “I didn’t mean to!” he cried, his voice breaking. “I didn’t just see her! I saw—”

But Joffrey squeezed his arm tighter, cutting him off with a sharp, warning look. “You saw Sansa getting dressed. That’s all you saw. Do you understand me?” His voice was soft but threatening, each word laced with a promise of retribution should Bran dare to speak the truth of what he had witnessed.

Bran swallowed hard, his defiance crumbling under Joffrey’s gaze. He nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “Yes… I saw Sansa. Only Sansa.”

“Good boy,” Joffrey said, his tone suddenly light, as if they were merely discussing the weather. He released Bran’s arm, patting him on the shoulder with a mockingly gentle touch. “It’s best that you keep this between us. Now, come sit with us and let’s forget all about it, shall we?”

Joffrey led Bran to the furs where Sansa, Myrcella, and Cersei were seated, each of them watching the interaction with their own mix of curiosity and caution. Bran sat down awkwardly, his small frame hunched, his eyes darting nervously between the women. Sansa, still shaken from the ordeal, forced a smile, her fingers brushing Bran’s arm in a small, comforting gesture, as if to say, “It’s all right.”

Cersei watched the boy with a sharp, assessing gaze, but she made no move to scold him. Instead, she smirked, amused by the idea that yet another Stark had stumbled into something far darker than they could comprehend. She leaned back, pulling Myrcella closer, her fingers idly toying with her daughter’s hair.

“Why don’t we play a game?” Joffrey suggested, settling himself beside Sansa, his demeanor casual but still dripping with a quiet menace that made Bran shiver. “Something simple. A story, maybe? Everyone can take turns, tell us something interesting.” He glanced at Bran, his smile almost inviting. “You first, Bran. Tell us something… fun.”

Bran hesitated, his small hands twisting in his lap. He wanted to bolt from the room, to escape the suffocating tension that hung in the air, but he knew better than to refuse. His mind raced, grasping for a safe, harmless story—something that wouldn’t anger the prince, something that wouldn’t dredge up the horrors he had just witnessed.

“I… I went hunting once,” Bran began, his voice small and timid. “With Robb. We saw a stag—”

The women listened, Sansa nodding encouragingly, her own nerves settling as the harmless game distracted them all, at least a little, from what had just transpired. They shared stories, mostly lighthearted and inconsequential, tales of the North and childhood games, things meant to ease Bran’s fears and make the room feel less heavy, less dark.

But Joffrey’s mind was already elsewhere. He watched the boy, his smile thin and amused, but his thoughts were spinning ahead to his next conquest, his next plaything. The women had been satisfying, each in their way, but there was one more prize he hadn’t yet fully claimed: the washerwoman, Marian, whose body he had teased and touched but never taken fully. His appetite was still ravenous, and tonight, he intended to sate it.

As the game wound down and Bran was finally dismissed, his small form slipping gratefully from the room, Joffrey rose, his gaze flicking briefly over the three women. “You all did well,” he said casually, his tone a strange blend of affection and command. “But I have something else to attend to.”

Cersei smirked, watching her son with a knowing look, but said nothing. Sansa merely nodded, her eyes still wide, lingering on Joffrey as he left the tower, his movements purposeful and unhurried.

Joffrey’s footsteps echoed in the dimly lit corridors of Winterfell as he made his way toward the servants’ quarters, his pace quickening with anticipation. The castle was quiet at this hour, most of its inhabitants lost in the bustle of the Great Hall or tucked away in their chambers. But Joffrey’s mind was fixed on something else entirely—Marian, the washerwoman who had captivated him since their journey north. He had tasted her submission once, but tonight, he intended to claim her fully.

He found her in the washroom, alone, bent over a basin as she scrubbed linens, her sleeves rolled up, her fingers red from the cold water. The room was dim, the faint light of a single lantern flickering against the stone walls, casting long shadows that danced with each subtle movement. Marian’s back was to him, her posture slumped from a long day’s work, her mind focused on the mundane task before her. She didn’t notice Joffrey at first, too absorbed in her chores, but when his boots clicked against the stone floor, she turned sharply, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Your Grace,” Marian gasped, dropping the linen back into the water as she straightened, hurriedly wiping her wet hands on her apron before dipping into a flustered curtsy. Her cheeks flushed as she looked up at him, a mixture of fear, excitement, and something more simmering beneath her expression. She had not expected him, not tonight, and certainly not with the intense look in his eyes that promised something far beyond the teasing touches of their last encounter.

Joffrey’s smile was slow and deliberate, his gaze sweeping over her with a hungry appreciation. Marian was different from the noblewomen he was accustomed to—fuller, softer, with a mature sensuality that stirred a darker, more primal desire in him. She was a woman accustomed to hard work, her body marked by years of labor, but there was a warmth to her that made her presence uniquely inviting. Tonight, Joffrey didn’t just want her submission; he wanted all of her.

“You work so hard, Marian,” Joffrey said, his voice low and smooth as he approached, closing the distance between them. “Always busy, always doing your best for others. But tonight, I want you to do something for me.”

Marian’s breath hitched at the intensity of his gaze, her heart pounding as she remembered the feel of his hands on her before—the way he had explored her with a casual dominance that both frightened and excited her. She nodded slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, Your Grace. Anything you need.”

Joffrey’s smile widened, pleased by her compliance. He reached out, gently tilting her chin up with his fingers, forcing her to meet his eyes. Her skin was warm and flushed, and she shivered under his touch, feeling the unspoken command in the way he held her. “I need you,” Joffrey murmured, his voice dropping to a whisper that sent a shiver down Marian’s spine. “And tonight, I’m going to take you.”

Marian’s lips parted, her breath quickening as Joffrey’s hand slid down her neck, tracing the line of her collarbone before moving lower. She had felt this touch before, had dreamed of it in stolen moments of solitude, but now, with Joffrey standing before her, his intent unmistakable, every nerve in her body came alive. She didn’t resist when his hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer with a firm, unyielding grip. Instead, she leaned into him, her own hands finding the front of his tunic, clutching the fabric as she met his gaze with wide, eager eyes.

“Do you want me, Marian?” Joffrey asked, his tone soft but insistent, his thumb brushing lightly against her lower lip. “Because I’m not going to stop this time. I’m going to take you right here.”

Marian’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink, but she nodded, unable to deny the heat that coursed through her veins, the way her body responded to his touch. She wanted him—had wanted him since their first encounter, since the first time he had laid his hands on her with that blend of command and possessiveness that left her breathless. “Yes, Your Grace,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and unbridled desire. “I want you.”

Joffrey’s smirk grew, and he wasted no time in claiming what was now his. He kissed her hard, his mouth capturing hers in a hungry, demanding kiss that left no room for doubt. Marian moaned softly against his lips, her hands sliding up his chest, feeling the lean, firm muscles beneath as she pressed herself against him. Joffrey’s kisses were fierce, his teeth nipping at her lips, his tongue delving deeper, exploring every inch of her mouth as he took control.

He spun her around, pressing her back against the cold stone wall, his hands lifting her skirt with a swift, practiced motion. Marian gasped, her body arching against him as she felt the rough texture of the stone behind her and the hard heat of Joffrey’s body in front. His hands roamed her thighs, squeezing, exploring, and Marian’s breath hitched as he pulled her undergarments down, leaving her exposed to his touch.

Joffrey’s fingers traced the wet heat between her legs, and Marian shivered, her head falling back against the wall as he teased her, feeling the slickness that had already begun to gather. He smirked, pleased by how ready she was, how her body seemed to crave his touch as much as he craved the feel of her. “So eager,” he murmured, his voice laced with satisfaction. “I knew you’d be ready for me.”

Marian’s moans filled the room as Joffrey continued to explore her, his touch growing bolder, more demanding. He moved his fingers in slow, deliberate circles, watching the way her body responded, the way her hips rocked against him, seeking more. Marian’s breaths came in ragged, desperate gasps, her mind lost in the sensation of Joffrey’s touch, the intoxicating mix of pleasure and power that left her trembling.

Joffrey’s patience wore thin, and he pulled back just enough to free himself, his hands fumbling with his trousers as he released his aching length. Marian’s eyes widened, a soft gasp escaping her lips as she looked down, her gaze meeting the hard evidence of Joffrey’s desire. She swallowed hard, her body quivering with anticipation as he positioned himself between her thighs, the tip of his cock brushing teasingly against her entrance.

“Tell me you want it,” Joffrey growled, his voice thick with need, his grip tightening on her waist as he held her in place. “Beg me for it, Marian.”

Marian’s breath hitched, her eyes locking onto his, and she nodded frantically, her voice barely more than a whimper. “Please, Your Grace,” she gasped, her hands gripping his shoulders as she felt the pressure building, the need to be filled consuming her. “Please… I want you. Take me.”

Joffrey didn’t hesitate. He thrust into her with a single, powerful motion, burying himself to the hilt inside her slick, welcoming heat. Marian cried out, her back arching against the wall as she felt him stretch her, the sensation both overwhelming and exquisitely satisfying. Joffrey’s grip tightened, his hands bruising in their insistence as he began to move, each thrust deliberate and forceful, claiming her with every powerful stroke.

Marian’s moans turned to gasps, her body writhing beneath him as he drove into her, his pace unrelenting. She clung to him, her nails digging into his back as she lost herself in the rhythm of their bodies, the intoxicating pleasure that pulsed through her with every thrust. Joffrey’s breath was hot against her neck, his lips biting at her skin, leaving marks that would serve as a reminder of his possession.

“You’re mine,” Joffrey growled, his voice thick with triumph as he pounded into her, each thrust sending shivers of pleasure racing up Marian’s spine. She nodded, her voice lost in the cascade of sensations that left her gasping, her body shuddering with every movement. She was his, completely and utterly, and the knowledge of it only heightened the intense pleasure that coursed through her veins.

Joffrey’s pace quickened, his thrusts growing harder, more frantic, as he felt the tension building within him. Marian’s cries filled the room, her body arching as she neared her own peak, driven higher by the relentless rhythm of Joffrey’s hips. She could feel the coil of pleasure tightening inside her, the edge drawing nearer with every thrust, every rough kiss that claimed her.

With a final, powerful surge, Joffrey drove into her one last time, his release crashing over him in a wave of pure, unbridled ecstasy. Marian’s own climax followed moments later, her body convulsing around him as she cried out, her head thrown back against the wall as she was swept away by the overwhelming rush of pleasure.

They collapsed together, a tangled mess of limbs and ragged breaths, their bodies still trembling with the aftershocks of their shared release. Joffrey pulled back, his smirk returning as he watched Marian slump against the wall, her chest heaving, her eyes glazed with the lingering haze of satisfaction. She looked up at him, her expression dazed but content, and Joffrey knew that she was his now—fully, completely, without question.

“You were perfect,” Joffrey murmured, his voice soft.

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