❝ You and I against the world, my love. Let us bring it to it's knees. ❞
Even the gods were not able to defeat Lyra Stark and Joffrey Baratheon, for once they put their minds to a cause, the gods were forced to step aside and let them past.
QUEENS...
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{ Joffrey }
✧✦✧
𝕵offrey stood in front of a looking glass, watching as the tailor fitted him for his wedding clothes. This would normally be done far closer to the time of the wedding, but the war was still raging on and it was unsure of when he would be married. If the war grew too close, then the marriage would be pulled forward, but if not, then it was to be sometime next year. With this having been done before the wedding, it meant that he would only have to stand for minor alterations in between Small Council meetings.
Joffrey pulled the jacket closer over his chest, trying to find whether it was too tight to move, as he turned to look at the back of the doublet.
"Make it tighter here." Joffrey commanded. The tailor pinned the fabric into position, as Joffrey nodded. "Good."
"That is better." His mother sat in the corner. She was drinking wine again, despite Joffrey's dislike of the drink but he refused to argue with her over this. He had to pick his battles. "It makes you look very strong."
The tailor showed him another set of fabric, and Joffrey shook his head the moment he saw it, before looking at the remainder of the fabrics. He flicked through them, before huffing.
"No flowers. Do you have more fabrics?" The tailor's eyes went wide, nodding immediately, in a worried sort of way. "Gold is probably better. Some darker colours too."
The tailor nodded, bowing his head low, before he hurried from the room. Joffrey undid the jacket that would go over his shirt, pulling it off slowly so as not to disrupt the pins or drag against his shoulder. He flung it over the back of a chair near the dining table in his chambers, before pulling a spare shirt from the wardrobe off of his room.
"That looks like a Tyrell rose. Give it to Margaery for a gown." Cersei was flicking through the samples left over, as Joffrey tensed, sensing an argument starting. "Should be more than enough fabric."
"If you have something to say, say it," Joffrey ground out, walking back over to the mirror so that he could check his shoulder. The scar was red, standing out against his skin and the young king rotated his shoulder to see how intense the pain was, before pulling his shirt on.
"Tell me what you think of her," Cersei watched him, her eyes almost hawk like as Joffrey tried his best not to tense up.
"Who?" He tucked his shirt into his trousers, before leaning over the dining room table and beginning to look through the papers that he would need for his Small Council meeting. They had some financial aspects to review, and Joffrey wanted to put forth another suggestion for alternative finances.
"Margaery," Joffrey sighed, unsure of where his mother was taking the conversation, and how she wanted him to answer.
