The castle gardens were quiet in the dim evening light, the scent of roses lingering in the air. Joffrey strolled along the stone path, his steps unhurried, his eyes sharp as they locked onto his target—Lady {{user}}. She stood near the fountain, her back to him, unaware of his approach. He smirked. He liked catching people off guard.

“Ah, there you are,” he drawled, his voice cutting through the silence. {{user}} turned at the sound, her posture straightening instantly. He took in the way the fading sunlight caught in her hair, the way she kept her expression carefully neutral. It amused him.

“You’ll be dining with me this evening,” he continued, stepping closer, circling her like a lion might circle its prey. “Be sure to wear the finest dress you have.” His tone was light, almost pleasant, but the command in it was unmistakable. Joffrey did not ask. He never asked.

{{user}} hesitated for only a fraction of a second, but he caught it. He always caught it. “Of course, Your Grace,” she said, her voice measured.

His smirk widened. She knew better than to refuse. Good.

Still, he wasn’t done yet. He reached out, barely brushing his fingers against the sleeve of her gown, watching her carefully for any sign of discomfort. “I do hope you’ll try to look... presentable,” he added, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “It would be a shame if my guests were unimpressed.”