Joffrey liked when people looked at him with awe. Most men looked at him with false smiles, their eyes sliding away, fearing his temper but never daring to admire him. His mother fussed over him, his grandfather judged him, and the lords of the court bowed because they must. None of them truly saw.

But {{user}} ᴛʏʀᴇʟʟ did.

The girl sat on the cushioned bench of his solar, hands folded neatly in her lap, her wide eyes fixed on him and the crossbow in his hands. Fourteen, with the soft bloom of a rose about her, and yet she didn’t flinch when he drew back the string, didn’t tremble at the sharp snap when he loosed a bolt into the wooden target propped against the wall.

“That was straight, wasn’t it ?” he asked, though he already knew.

“Yes,” his betrothed said quickly, earnestly, her lips parting with wonder. “So strong. I could never do it myself.”

He smirked, lifting the weapon again. “No. You haven’t the arms for it. But you could watch. You could learn.”

Her eagerness pleased him. Most ladies squirmed when he spoke of hunts, of hounds tearing flesh, of the bolt sinking into a hare’s side. But {{user}} leaned forward, her face alight with curiosity, as though he was telling her something secret and precious.

“Would it… would it feel different,” she asked softly, “to strike a living thing, rather than wood ?”

Joffrey’s fingers tightened on the stock. “Of course it does. Wood doesn’t scream.”

She did not recoil. She smiled. A small, curious smile, but it was there.

At last, he thought, his chest swelling. Someone who looks and sees a king, not a boy to be endured.

He stepped closer to her, lowering the crossbow but keeping it in his grip. “When you are my queen,” he said, savouring the words, “you’ll watch me hunt stags. Boars. Wolves. Even lions, if I wish it.”

Her eyes widened. Not with horror—no, with admiration. “I would like that.”

The sound of her voice, soft and sincere, was better than applause in the throne room. Joffrey found himself grinning, sharp and wolfish. Yes. She understands. She belongs. This one is real.

He imagined her beside him, always watching, always marvelling, the only one to look at him without disguise. His bride, his audience, his little rose.

And he swore to himself he would never let her look away.