The morning sun dawned upon King's Landing as a child would open its eyes, sleepily and with a lackadaisical care until the scent of freshly baked rolls stirred his stomach and wiped away the remnants of his exhaustion. This was the starting morn for young Tommen Baratheon, who easily swept out and up off his cobalt blue bed of downy fine, tripped whilst tugging on his robe, and eagerly dashing into the adjourning dining room that had been newly built for him.
Eagerly padding into the sun streaked den, Tommen found Ser Pounce kneeled out on the veranda and with a jolly laugh, the youngest Baratheon royal scooped up the plop of gray fur and tickled the cat's stomach.
"What are you doing so early this morning, Ser Pounce?" Tommen asked curiously as the cat reached up to paw at his rosy cheek, "you ought to be cat napping, don't you know? Here, let's put you out in the sun so you can sleep and I can eat my - "
"Joffrey this cannot be done! Divorce in a royal family is a disgrace upon everyone who bears the name Baratheon and whether it is consequence to my conscious or not, I cannot have you marring what legacy we have!" came the shrill voice of the widowed Cersei Baratheon, her red skirts fluttering as she struggled to keep up with her leanly built son.
Tommen, whose hunger for baked rolls had suddenly been squelched, quickly moved himself into the darkest corner of the veranda, tucking Ser Pounce under his arm for courage.
"Well, what do you know? The little pig hasn't woken up yet to gorge himself this morning," Joffrey mused as he eyed the untouched table of decadents. "Perhaps his stomach has finally imploded." he added, a dour smirk appearing on his unhinged countenance.
Cersei grasped Joffrey's arm, forcing the young king to turn around and meet her eyes, still filled with a cold sort of fire. "Joffrey, I have never asked anything of you and I have never expected anything from you. Do me now this one favor and - "
"Oh stop your cries, mother," Joffrey gritted out, impatient and his mood ruined. He had planned on making a visit to Lady Sansa's bedchambers but that would clearly have to wait until his oppressive mother could be dealt with.
Placing a hand on his sword's hilt, Joffrey glared down at the woman who had birthed him, wearing a mask of such utter calculation that one would suspect he was estimating the fetching price for a new sow. "Mother, has anyone ever told you worrying does nothing for your aging face? You've already more wrinkles than Uncle Jaime and he's the one who's been imprisoned thrice now." the flippant tone of Joffrey's voice struck a cord with Cersei as she immediately took a step back, jaw tightening.
"Are you truly so ignorant as to ignore my words?" she demanded, half astounded and the other half aggravated. "What would the people think, my son? What would they think if they were to learn their sworn sovereign has broken his vow to a noblewoman in order to pursue a disgraced Stark girl whose already born two children with a deformed dwarf?" Cersei's voice was now a cold hiss but the desperate undertones could not be missed.
The blonde ruler rolled his eyes, arms crossed and an already peevish tick manifesting in the tapping of his right forefinger on his elbow.
"Oh, who cares what the people have to say? I'm their king aren't I?" Joffrey declared harshly with the impatience of a child waiting for his sweetmeat, "it is I who has been chosen to rule. Whatever decision I make will be a blessing unto them and if it is not, they can take up the issue with good Lord Willas and leave me be."
Without another word, the boy king swept out from the room, brushing past his mother as if she were nothing but a fly in his path. From his little nook, Tommen could make out his mother's livid expression as well as the sight of a fluffy paw in his line of sight. Somehow, Ser Pounce had managed to crawl atop his head, sprawling out atop the sector of golden blonde, a satisfied purr rumbling from his belly.
Plopping down, Tommen could only pluck the gray feline from his blonde mane and stroke his fluffy gray fur, wondering just what it was about his Aunt Sansa that infuriated his mother so.
Perhaps it's just like Joff said, Tommen mused, Aunt Sansa is younger than Mother.
Joffrey's head was spinning; not only had his mother's words put him in a foul disposition but his hands were now itching for something to destroy. His feet, however, were leading him down the hall, up the steps, to the right and before Joffrey could even blink, he was before Lady Sansa's bedchamber doors. He hesitated slightly before scoffing; he was the king after all, when did consideration for a foolish girl's feelings plague him like his father's wary acceptance?
Should I…knock? Or perhaps I should just get one of these guards to grant me entrance. After all, it's nearly time for Sansa to break her fast and now that she is a mother, she ought to be awake.
Yes, Joffrey decided, Sansa Lannister ought to be fully awake by this point and ready to tend to his needs. Without further thought, he easily pushed open the grand double doors that led to her bedroom, striding in as the king of Westeros would with a gleam of deranged displacement shining in his bright green eyes.
"My lady, King Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name, Lord of the - "
"Yes, yes, yes, we all know who I am," Joffrey snapped, cutting off the guard mid sentence, pushing him out of the room, and slamming the door closed before any other moron could dare interrupt him. He was already in a foul temperament and he did not need anyone else's ire or opinion to further spur on his suppressed rage. "Sansa," he greeted when a slim female figure stepped out from behind the changing screen dressed only in a slightly sheer robe of lavender, tied to her waist with a flimsy piece of satin and lace.
Joffrey swallowed.
Sansa immediately went into a low curtsey, her limbs moving in sync as her right foot swept in a large semicircle behind her bent left, head bowed low. "My lord," she murmured, "I did not hear you enter the chamber, forgive me I was…" she trailed off, eyes unconsciously looking towards the adjourning room where Charlemagne and Aome slept.
Hastily, Joffrey made his way forward so that he was standing only two or three feet away from Sansa. "Rise," he demanded, voice slightly rough with desire but more so, he supposed, with the thirst every new day brings. "Let me see your pretty face," tucking his hand under her chin, he forced Sansa to rise to her full height and found some joy in the fact that he was no longer shorter than she was. "You look tired," Joffrey noted, slightly disappointed in seeing dark smudges underneath Sansa's doe blue eyes. "Why have you not been sleeping well?" almost immediately what facade he had decided to put on for her fell and his voice was as sharp as a razor's blade and as cold as the Northern winter. "Have you decided to stay up late and perform your wifely duties to my imp of an uncle? Or have you simply decided to waste yourself away now that you think you no longer need to see me?"
The redhead's eyes widened, her hands clenching into fists by her sides as her throat swelled, the words being choked down as King Joffrey's onslaught continued.
"I am the king," he hissed, "you will see me when I so decree it, even if it's in the middle of the night so that I can fuck you as I please."
"Your grace, please…" Sansa managed to gasp out as Joffrey blinked.
He hadn't realized his gentle grip on Sansa's chin had turned into a strong chokehold upon her swanlike neck. He was confounded by his actions until he saw that his son's mother was now turning a peculiar shade of white. It was rather becoming, he noted offhandedly, her skin looked like fresh cream, the kind the servants brought to him during the hot midsummer days served below a bed of freshly picked strawberries. He liked this color on her, Joffrey realized, his forefinger caressing her jawline as his hand loosened around her neck slightly, causing Sansa to gasp like a dying whale.
He frowned.
She was so very pretty when her skin was as white as the clouds and her silence becoming her beauty better than any phrase she could have managed to spew out.
Really, how awful it all was! Just as he cock had begun to rise at the thought of taking her again, she begins to inhale the air as a dying solider would. What kind of lady does that? Joffrey pondered, disgusted at his beauty's gasps and irritated now that her cheeks were far too flushed from no activity. Was she purposely trying to avoid sleeping with him? Was that it?
"Get on the bed," Joffrey suddenly snapped but gave Sansa no time to move. He had picked her up in his arms and thrown her into the duvet of stormy purple; his hand reached out and ripped the flimsy robe off of her and he suppressed a satisfied moan at seeing her naked once again. Truth be told, the unconscious apodyopsis he had projected upon Sansa every time he saw her glide past had been building for weeks, taking his already pitiful supply of patience to its breaking point.
But to his great satisfaction, his imagination had once failed him; seeing her now, lying as selcouth as an oblation of sin, the king felt a fire course through his blood.
Her breasts were larger than they had ever been, full and plump and causing Joffrey's fingers to itch at the idea of touching them. Her entire body seemed to have been made softer from the births of Charlemagne and Aome and he could not entirely say that he was displeased with nature's results. Her bony hips had been made womanly and the curve of her waist, the softness of her thighs was causing a rather uncomfortable sensation to swell in his breeches.
Sansa's fingertips danced at the waistline of Joffrey's pants, almost daring him to reject her.
His eyes narrowed and without a word he found himself freed from the confines of those hand sewn breeches interwoven with gold thread and before Sansa could even utter a sound of surprise, he was buried in her. To Joffrey's suppressed delight, she was already wet and he felt something akin to satisfaction wash over him. A virgin in every way but one, he mused burying himself even deeper.
"What would you do if I asked for another child?" he demanded suddenly as he began to move inside her slick heat, one hand caressing her breast whilst his spidery fingers brushed at her nipples. There was a certain coyness in his movements that caused Sansa's thighs to clench and her stomach to flutter; his hands dancing atop her body, never quite touching.
Her limbs were lethargic but Joffrey impatient and before Sansa could even blink, he had taken her right thick and hooked it around his waist, allowing the gentle morning breeze to brush the fiery warmth of her outer folds.
"Would you push me aside in favor of the Imp?" Joffrey's voice hissed, breaking through Sansa's dreamy revere and causing her heart to burgeon with a little more ice, her mouth far too dry to answer. "Answer me!" he commanded; the hand on Sansa's breast was no longer gentle and he had instead slid it behind her head, yanking her hair down and forcing a moan from Sansa's lips.
"No!" she cried, rocking her hips with his as she felt a familiar pressure building inside of her. "More, your grace...harder." it was only in the bedroom where Sansa would ask for the harshness Joffrey displayed upon the Iron Throne.
The king of Westeros grinned, sadistic and wild and disturbed as he obeyed her commands - the only time he ever would. Briefly, he removed her hands from his hair and forced them to his back. "Claw at me, wolf bitch," he whispered into her ear, "I want you to howl." his hand then went to her jaw, brushing his fingers against the smooth skin before he slapped her, hand stinging from the effort.
Sansa felt tears well up in her eyes but this was hardly uncommon; Joffrey needed a release Margaery could not grant him. Perhaps it was her own way of revenge but when her sharp nails dug into Joffrey's back, breaking through his skin, she knew that her hands had become whips and the red ribbons upon Joffrey's back would scars only she could inflict.
"There she is," Joffrey smirked, relishing in the sting of his back when the wind kissed at the open scratches. "A filthy wolf in my bed, my own little fille de joie."
Sansa did not understand the language of Roses, something Margaery must have taught him but she could guess with great accuracy what it meant judging from his leer. And with a hatred inside her that burned with the heat of a thousand Dornish deserts, Sansa screamed when she came and loathed the man who had made her so undone in the most pleasurable of ways.
Her hands went wild as Joffrey's seed spilled in her again, going from his marred back to his hair to clutching the pillows and somewhere along the way, Sansa had knocked over a goblet of sweet wine. The oozing purple had barely stained the bed but its heady scent was intoxicating in Joffrey's lustful state and he found himself wanting to experiment.
Reaching over, he plucked the decanter of wine from the bedside table and looked at Sansa right in the eye. She appeared confused when Joffrey brought the wine server closer towards him before opening it and pouring the sweet wine all over Sansa's slick and wet cunt.
"Let's play a little game, shall we," Joffrey purred, a wanton gleam shining in his eyes. "Let us see how long it shall take for me to become drunk. I've never truly been drunk before, did you know that?" he inquired.
Sansa, dazed and muscles shaking with strange anticipation (whilst praying the gods forgive her for acting like an eager harlot), shook her head.
"No?" he smirked, brow raised as he looked down at her, chest heaving and eyes glimmering and he could so easily slit her throat but...Charlemagne. "We'll use all of it, won't we?"
"Oh yes my lord," Sansa said, voice breathy as she bent to the will of her lord sovereign.
She hoped she could pour that wine all over his shredded back.
It was near dusk when Sansa found herself rocking Charlemagne in her arms; her son, the midwife had reported, was notoriously fussy whenever Sansa left him for too long and King Joffrey's bastard was certainly clever enough to draw attention right back down to himself. Whilst Aome slept peacefully in her crib, Charlemagne would wave his fat fists in the air, cooing until some clueless chambermaid came over to praise his chubby cheeks and golden hair.
Then he would scream and scream and scream until the midwife came, berating the chambermaid until the poor girl dissolved in a fit of tears before little Charlemagne was reunited with his blessed mother.
"What will I ever do with you, my dear darling?" Sansa murmured to her dozing cub, "you are a Lannister through and through," she sighed. "You are too much like your father."
Sansa's countenance gave no indication of her rather...physical afternoon with said man for she had banished the thoughts of Joffrey's tongue and his spider-like fingers to the back of her mind. Only the pink tinge of her ears gave any clue to how her heart pounded in fear and anticipation and lust whenever she saw the emerald eyed lord of Westeros. She hated how clever his fingers were, prying and touching and spreading her thighs; she loathed his tongue, how they made her legs quiver and her stomach dissolve into mist, dawning with sparrows that sent her heart leaping up and down with no rest. Even now, Sansa could not drink pomegranate wine without blushing and that action had caused her lord husband to stare at her questioningly until Sansa took refuge in her children's nursery.
Rocking her son, Sansa tried to focus on emerald eyes and sharp, regal features rather than the muddy colored orbs and scarred countenance of her Lord Tyrion. She had done her best to try and please him, speaking to him in gaiety and joy during their meals together and always singing a soft song when they strolled the gardens. But Tyrion had eyes and ears in high places and Sansa realized after two days time that he was aware of King Joffrey's ambitious ploy of stealing away his wife.
"He will make you his queen," Tyrion had spat out coldly during supper, "he will treat you no differently than he had before and you do not seem so opposed to the idea, my lady wife."
Sansa had kept her eyes fixed to her silver plate, trying to focus on the texture of the cheese, a pale and creamy yellow, and how it appeared firm and solid but in reality, was as soft as a ripe peach. She dared not look up, for Lord Tyrion's sorrowful gaze was more than she could bear.
"Have you any idea what he will do once you willingly wed him? The moment you cease of being any use Joffrey will tear you apart and once again you shall be a pig ready for slaughter." he was being cruel on purpose, Sansa knew, because Tyrion Lannister had a secret heart of gold and he was perhaps the only Lannister who would ever speak so freely to her. "Don't you understand?" he questioned again, exhaustion and impatience coating his tone, "being married to Joffrey is no blessing. It is a curse that only the most formidable must carry; Margaery of House Tyrell is resourceful. She will keep Joffrey in his place."
The grapes were now a pleasing color, Sansa realized. A kind of translucent eggplant shade that was lightened by a mild honeydew green, streaking the dark purple like small slivers of sky on a cloudy day. Their elliptical shape was unusual, the wolf maiden noted; it was compact and unyielding but its incandescent glimmer, emphasized by the wavering moonlight, made it so very delicate. So very -
Tyrion's hand slammed on the table and Sansa jumped, her head jerking upward and meeting her lord husband's gaze with a guilty expression.
"Have you heard a word I have said to you, Sansa?" he demanded, his jaw clenched tight and the timber of his deep and gravelly voice bordering on anger. Full, unsuppressed anger.
He sounded like Joff did when he was upset with her, Sansa realized, and the sudden fear that gripped her was more than she could stand. Her lower lip trembled as her hands clenched the two armrests by her sides, fingernails digging into the dark and polished mahogany. "I - I am sorry," she managed to choke out, voice low, "I had not meant to disrespect you by diverting my attentions elsewhere."
"That is not what I am upset about," Tyrion sighed in exasperation as his hands flopped uselessly to his sides. "I am upset that, even now, you do not know how to keep yourself safe in King's Landing. Enticing the king - "
"Bearing his child grants me more safety than if I were to refuse him," Sansa suddenly snapped, a flash of white hot rage burning through her like a streak of lightening in the violent sky. "I know what everyone says about me, Sansa Stark the whore. Sansa Stark the shameless hussy. I don't care, I don't care at all. My little Charlemagne and Aome are keeping me alive and I will be damned if I do not return the favor, husband." the fiery haired Northerner spat, an energy surging through her veins in such a fierce ton that before she could blink, it had burned out and she was collapsed back into the seat.
"You have been so very kind and good to me," Sansa said gently, eyes softening as she willed Tyrion to understand. "You have been the best husband a traitor's daughter could hope for but I want you to see, my lord, that I do not need to be kept so far away from the fruit that I must dine on nothing but dewdrops and leaves. The richness may overwhelm me, yes, but it is nothing a Stark cannot adapt to."
She then curtseyed and with a flurry of silken skirts and red curls as a final burst of lavender wavered into the air, Sansa walked inside, into her bedchamber, and was gone from Tyrion's line of sight.
"Well played then, Lady Sansa," he murmured, glaring into his goblet of wine. "Well played." and with that, the widowed queen's brother plucked up the heavy golden chalice that was the ivy god's gift and threw the damned thing over the marble veranda's railing, his hand trembling as he did so.
When King Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name, announced a court meeting would commence in two days time, everyone was sent into a flurry of fear and excitement. Court meetings, where everyone would attend, were rare things saved only for executions or the declarations of a new law being sentenced down unto the people of Westeros.
Everyone, from the lowliest of lords to the highest ranking of masters had been ordered by the king to attend and Lady Sansa was no exception.
"You will be my crowning jewel," Joffrey had said softly as the two lay in bed, side by side, his arm under her waist and her own limbs pressed against his chest.
"Will you…will you not tell me what this is about?" Sansa inquired, voice barely rising above a whisper.
Joffrey smirked and in the soft candlelight, Sansa saw a vicious gleam that made her tremble.
"You will see, just as everyone else does my little flame." he reassured but Sansa found herself no less satisfied with his word than with his gift: a heavy pendent of rubies and gold. The passionate color preserved in a cold stone that Joffrey seemed to delight in.
"I am pleased to announce to those here with me that my beloved lady wife, Queen Margaery, is now with child," King Joffrey Baratheon declared to a sea of colors and cheers. "Here and now, I do so solemnly declare, this prince will be lord and ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and my true, rightful heir."
Sansa felt hollow and empty as she clapped, the ruby necklace weighing a lion's ton upon her fragile neck. From the corner of her eye, she saw his majesty smirk down at her but it was not quite vicious - almost mournful, perhaps - a mournful acceptance. But what did Sansa know? She was the stupid girl who still dreamt of happily ever afters.
"Do not fret, Lady Sansa," came the oily voice of Petyr Baelish as he lingered behind Sansa's frozen form. "Perhaps a daughter is what awaits the protector of the realm and his lady wife. After all, predictions of gender have never been an exact science," he smirked and for the first time, Sansa felt a very real fear for the queen.
What should happen, the red-haired beauty wondered, if Queen Margaery were to bear a daughter?
A/N: There will be another chapter and I have to admit, I never planned on making 'Peccadillo' as long as it is but oh well.
Here, you can probably all see that Joffrey is more temperamental than in the previous chapters and we have a lot of inner monologue. I still kind of think Joffrey's volatile temper comes from his inability to express his inner thoughts which frequently mount into paranoid delusions that cloud his judgement and his thinking. Rest assured, he'll get his due.
Thank you all for your lovely reviews! Looks like Queen Margaery is carrying Joffrey's spawn...what do you think - should Margaery bear a son or daughter? (We all know Joffrey wasn't exactly pleased with Aome...)
Review and comment.