Jeoffrey: The Hedonist (SI)

Joffrey strode through Winterfell with an easy confidence, his mind buzzing with satisfaction from his recent conquests. He had taken his pleasures freely and thoroughly, leaving the women in his wake marked and claimed, but now it was time to address more serious matters. There was business to attend to—family business. And first on his list was Jaime Lannister, who had been growing increasingly agitated with the lack of time spent with Cersei. His mother had complained to Joffrey more than once about Jaime's restlessness, and now it was time to address it.

Joffrey found Jaime in the armory, practicing his swordplay against an unfortunate training dummy. His strikes were sharp, precise, the golden lion roaring across his chest plate as he moved. But there was an aggression in each swing, a barely contained frustration that spilled over with every clash of metal.

Joffrey waited until Jaime's blade stilled, then approached with a casual smile. "Uncle," he greeted, his tone light. "I've been looking for you."

Jaime glanced up, wiping the sweat from his brow. He looked at Joffrey with a mix of irritation and something more vulnerable—concern, perhaps, or fear. "Have you?" Jaime's tone was guarded, his brow furrowed. "I've been... busy."

Joffrey nodded, pretending not to notice the tightness in Jaime's voice. "I hear you've been struggling, keeping out of sight. That you've been looking for Mother." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "But I need to tell you something important. Someone's been watching you two."

Jaime's face paled, the cocky mask he usually wore slipping as genuine panic flashed in his eyes. He sheathed his sword hastily, his voice dropping to a strained whisper. "What do you mean someone's watching? Who? What have they seen?"

Joffrey kept his expression neutral, but inside, he relished the power he held in that moment. "I don't know who exactly, but I've seen enough to know that whoever it is, they're getting bold. We can't risk this, Uncle. If word gets out..."

Jaime ran a hand through his hair, pacing back and forth, his mind clearly racing. The idea that his love for Cersei could be exposed terrified him more than any battlefield ever could. "I can't just leave her, Joffrey. She's... she's everything to me."

Joffrey's eyes softened, though the expression was more calculated than genuine. He placed a hand on Jaime's shoulder, squeezing gently. "The best thing you can do for her, for both of you, is to let her go. Return to Casterly Rock. Marry someone. Do your duty. It's the only way to keep her safe. To keep this whole family safe."

Jaime's jaw clenched, the inner battle clear in his expression. For a moment, Joffrey thought he might refuse, might let his emotions overrule his sense. But then Jaime's shoulders slumped, the fight draining from him as he accepted the truth he didn't want to face.

"I love her," Jaime murmured, his voice raw, vulnerable in a way Joffrey had never seen. "I've always loved her."

"And you always will," Joffrey replied softly, playing the part of the concerned nephew. "But sometimes love means stepping back. You have to think of her first, Uncle. I'll speak to Father. I'll make sure he understands."

Jaime nodded, his resolve crumbling under the weight of Joffrey's words. "Fine," he said, though the word sounded hollow. "I'll go. For her."

Joffrey watched as Jaime turned away, his heart clearly heavy with the decision. For a brief moment, Joffrey almost felt a twinge of pity for his uncle—but only for a moment. This was necessary. Jaime would leave, and Cersei would be his to manage as he saw fit, without the complication of her brother's constant presence.

---

The mist hung thick and low over the woods surrounding Winterfell as the hunting party rode out at dawn. The cold northern air stung their faces, and their breath formed small clouds in the chill. Joffrey rode near the front of the group, stealing glances at his father, King Robert Baratheon, who was riding just ahead. Robert looked every bit the king, broad-shouldered in his heavy fur cloak, a perpetual scowl on his face as he surveyed the terrain. His eyes were bright with anticipation—Robert loved hunting almost as much as he loved his wine.

Next to Robert rode Lord Eddard Stark, his features as stern and rugged as the land around them. Stark had barely spoken a word since they set off, his focus entirely on the hunt, but Joffrey was determined to get through to him. Stark's approval was worth more than the flattery of any courtier; it was real, unvarnished, and honest. Joffrey needed to prove that he wasn't just a spoiled southern prince.

Behind them were the younger men—Robb Stark, Jon Snow, and Theon Greyjoy—talking quietly among themselves. Robb had an easy smile and the kind of confidence that came naturally to the heir of Winterfell, while Jon watched everything with the sharp, observant eyes of an outsider. The Hound, Sandor Clegane, lumbered at the rear, grumbling now and then as he kept a watchful eye on Joffrey.

"Wake up, lads!" Robert bellowed, his voice echoing through the trees. "We're not out here to sleep! There's game to catch, and my belly's rumbling already."

Joffrey glanced over at his father, who was clearly in his element. Robert loved these hunts—an escape from the suffocating walls of the Red Keep and the never-ending burden of the crown. Here, in the wild, he could be the warrior he once was, if only for a little while.

"Eager as ever, Your Grace," Theon quipped from his horse, grinning as he rode up beside Robert. "But the beasts might still be sleeping. We can't all be as loud as a king."

Robert roared with laughter, slapping Theon on the back hard enough to make him wince. "Quiet or loud, it doesn't matter, boy! The hunt's in the blood! I'll show you how a real king brings down a beast."

Joffrey watched them, but his attention quickly returned to Lord Stark. He rode up alongside the older man, trying to read the stoic lord's expression. Stark's gaze was fixed ahead, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere as he guided his horse through the trees with practiced ease.

"Lord Stark," Joffrey began, trying to sound both respectful and friendly, "this forest… it feels different from what I'm used to. Wilder, somehow."

Stark turned his head, his expression neutral but not unkind. "It's not King's Landing," he said simply. "The woods up here have a life of their own. There's a quiet power in them."

Joffrey nodded, eager to engage. "I'd like to understand that power. Sansa speaks of Winterfell often. I'd like to know it better, especially since we'll be family soon." He hesitated, then added, "You don't need to call me 'Your Grace,' Lord Stark. I'd like it if you just called me Joffrey."

Stark glanced at him, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, but he nodded. "Very well… Joffrey. You seem eager to prove yourself today."

"I am," Joffrey admitted, his tone genuine. "I want to earn your respect."

Stark looked at him for a long moment, and though his expression was guarded, there was a hint of approval in his eyes. "Respect is earned in actions, not words. Keep your wits about you today, and you might just get it."

They continued riding deeper into the forest, the sound of hounds barking signaling they had picked up a scent. The dogs pulled ahead, eager and restless, noses to the ground as they followed the trail of something big. Stark dismounted first, crouching beside the fresh tracks in the mud. Joffrey and the others gathered around, curiosity piqued.

"What are we tracking?" Joffrey asked, eager to learn.

Stark traced the outline of a hoofprint with his gloved hand, studying it closely. "Boar," he said, his voice low. "A big one, by the look of it. You can tell by the depth of the print. It's fresh."

Robert's eyes lit up at the mention of boar, his grin spreading wide. "Now that's more like it!" he roared, gripping his spear tightly. "Nothing like a good boar hunt to get the blood pumping! Keep your wits about you, lads; these bastards are mean when cornered."

"Especially when wounded," Sandor added gruffly, his voice tinged with warning. "Don't let your guard down, even for a second."

The hunting party moved cautiously through the trees, their excitement tempered by the danger of their prey. The tension in the air was palpable, each man alert as they followed the hounds deeper into the woods. The sound of rustling leaves and snapping twigs filled the silence, every noise heightened by the anticipation of the hunt.

Joffrey rode close to Stark, watching his movements closely. He wanted to mimic the calm, deliberate way Stark approached the hunt, his every action precise and measured. Stark's respect was not given lightly, and Joffrey was determined to earn it through action, not empty words.

The boar appeared suddenly, crashing through the underbrush with a furious snarl, its eyes wild and its tusks sharp. It charged forward, a blur of muscle and rage, and Joffrey's heart leapt into his throat. Robert reacted first, raising his spear and aiming for the beast's flank, but the boar veered at the last moment, dodging the blow and barreling toward the rest of the party.

Joffrey didn't hesitate. He spurred his horse forward, positioning himself between the boar and the others. His grip tightened on his spear, the weight of it familiar in his hands. He felt a rush of adrenaline, the raw instinct of the hunt surging through him. He took a deep breath, steadying himself as the boar charged, and in one swift motion, he hurled the spear.

The spear struck true, sinking deep into the boar's side. The beast let out a guttural roar, its charge faltering as it stumbled, legs buckling beneath its weight. It thrashed wildly, kicking up mud and leaves, its fury unabated even as it was brought low.

"Get back!" Stark shouted, his voice commanding as he moved forward with his own spear. He drove it into the boar's neck with a powerful thrust, ending its struggles with a final, violent twist. The boar's body stilled, its breaths ragged and shallow before going silent.

Joffrey dismounted, his heart still racing as he approached the fallen beast. He wiped his brow, feeling the thrill of the kill mingled with a newfound respect for the wildness of the hunt. Stark joined him, inspecting the boar with a critical eye before looking up at Joffrey.

"You did well," Stark said, his tone serious but approving. "But it is a dangerous beast to tackle alone and without experience"

Joffrey nodded, swallowing back the adrenaline. "Thank you, Lord Stark. I knew I could handle myself."

Stark gave him a long, considering look, then nodded. "You did more than that. You showed courage. But remember—hunting's not just about strength or speed."

Robert joined them, his booming laughter breaking the tension. "That's my boy! You've got your mother's looks but your father's spirit. We'll feast on this beast tonight, and I'll toast to your aim!"

Joffrey managed a smile, feeling a warm rush of pride. His father's approval was loud and boisterous, but it was Stark's quieter nod of respect that truly mattered. He had set out to prove himself, and he had done it.

As the men set about dressing the boar, Stark guided Robb and Jon through the process, explaining each step with the patience of a seasoned hunter. Joffrey watched, eager to learn from the way Stark taught his sons—not with harsh commands, but with quiet, measured instruction that showed a deep respect for the land and its creatures.

Jon glanced at Joffrey as they worked, his expression one of mild curiosity. "You handled that well, your grace" Jon said, his voice edged with a hint of surprise. "Most wouldn't have stood their ground like that."

Joffrey shrugged, trying to downplay his satisfaction. "You can't hesitate out here. You said it yourself The North doesn't care about titles."

Jon nodded, his expression thoughtful. "No, it doesn't. But it looks like you handled it better than some would've expected."

The next day, they were on the move again, tracking deer this time. Joffrey stayed close to Stark, trying to read the older man's mood, waiting for the right moment to test the waters with another jape. They were riding along a narrow trail when Joffrey spoke up, his tone casual.

"I once heard of a knight who tried to hunt with his visor down," Joffrey said, loud enough for Stark and the others nearby to hear. "He missed every shot, but at least he kept his dignity."

Jon chuckled, shaking his head. "Must've been blind as a bat."

Joffrey grinned, but his eyes were on Stark, who was adjusting his bow. There was the faintest flicker of a smile on Stark's face, gone almost as soon as it appeared. It wasn't much, but it was enough to encourage Joffrey to keep going.

Later, around the fire, the men were swapping stories of past hunts and battles. Joffrey listened, soaking in the camaraderie. When there was a lull in the conversation, he seized his chance.

"You know," Joffrey began, poking the fire with a stick, "my father once told me he could outdrink, outfight, and outwit any man in Westeros." He paused, glancing at Robert, who was busy with his ale. "I told him I believed it… except for the outwit part."

There was a moment of silence, and then Robert let out a bellowing laugh, sloshing his drink. "The boy's got a tongue on him! Gods, I'll drink to that!"

The others laughed, too, and Joffrey caught Stark's eye across the fire. Stark's smile was subtle, almost hidden, but it was there, and for the first time, it felt real. Joffrey knew that the Warden of the North wasn't one to be easily amused, but the simple, unforced moments—the small japes and shared silences—were slowly chipping away at Stark's guarded exterior.

The breakthrough came unexpectedly, on the fifth day of the hunt. They were resting by a clearing, the hounds panting as they sprawled on the ground. Joffrey, sitting near Stark, tried one last jape, not even thinking about it too much—just a small, silly remark to pass the time.

"Do you know what you call a knight who's terrible at jousting?" Joffrey asked, mostly to the group but loud enough that Stark would hear.

"What?" Robb asked, intrigued.

"A free meal for the crows," Joffrey said, grinning.

Robb chuckled, and Jon snorted, shaking his head. But it was Stark's reaction that surprised Joffrey most—a quiet, genuine laugh, soft but unmistakable. Stark looked over at Joffrey, his expression relaxed, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

"Not bad," Stark said, his voice carrying a rare warmth. "Not bad at all."

Joffrey felt a surge of satisfaction. It wasn't the jape itself—it was the realization that Stark was starting to see him as more than just the king's son or Sansa's betrothed. The walls were still there, but they were thinner now, worn down by the honest moments they'd shared in the forest.

As they packed up to head back to Winterfell, Stark rode alongside Joffrey, the two of them exchanging quiet remarks about the hunt. It wasn't a grand friendship, but it was something—a mutual respect, built not on titles or duty, but on the simple, unspoken bond that formed between two men in the wild.

Joffrey knew he had earned a place in Stark's eyes, not as a perfect prince, but as someone trying.

I tried to use jokes I found online and failed spectacularly.

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