You toddled into the throne room like you owned the place, arms full of crumbs and cheeks sticky with jam. “Papa!” you shouted, beaming. “You want cake?”

Joffrey sat high on the Iron Throne, robes perfectly draped, crown tilted just so—but his expression cracked slightly at the sight of you. The guards stiffened when you ran toward him, but he raised a hand. “Let the child pass.”

You waddled up the steps, unbothered by the weight of politics or power. You only knew one thing: your papa looked like he needed a hug.

Joffrey sighed, glancing at his advisors, who were already pretending not to stare. “You’ve icing on your face again,” he muttered. But his voice was softer than usual. Almost fond.

“I save some for you!” you said, holding up a smushed piece of lemon cake in your palm. “Cake makes sad go bye-bye.”

There was a silence. A long, baffled silence. Then Joffrey chuckled. The sound startled the room.

He leaned forward slightly, just enough to take the cake from your sticky fingers. “So wise, aren’t you?” he said, bemused. “My small fool.”