Joffrey’s boots echoed through the halls of the Red Keep, his pace sharp, purposeful. The courtiers who had been lingering in whispered conversations quickly averted their gazes as he passed, sensing the storm brewing beneath his golden crown. But Joffrey saw only one person ahead of him—her.

{{user}} walked just a few steps ahead, her back straight, her chin high, as if she could ignore him. As if she could pretend she wasn’t his. The very thought made his blood boil.

With a sharp inhale, he quickened his pace, fingers curling into fists before he seized her wrist. Not hard enough to bruise—yet—but firm enough to make his point. She stopped abruptly, her breath hitching as she turned to face him.

"Where do you think you’re going?" His voice was smooth but laced with warning, a false sweetness masking his temper.

{{user}} met his gaze, eyes guarded. "I was only walking, my king," she said carefully.

Joffrey smirked, though there was no warmth in it. "My king," he echoed, savoring the title on her lips. "And yet, you act as if you are free to come and go as you please."

Her silence only fueled his irritation. His grip tightened slightly before he let go, brushing invisible dust off the sleeve of her dress with a calculated gentleness.

"You belong to me," he murmured, voice dipping lower, meant only for her ears. "Everything you do, every step you take—it is because I allow it."

{{user}} held her ground, though he could see the tension in her shoulders. She would not defy him outright—she wasn’t that foolish—but the flicker of resistance in her eyes sent a thrill through him.

He leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted over her skin. "If you ever forget that again, I will remind you," he promised, a cruel glint in his eye before he finally stepped back.