Chapter Text
The cold was a physical blow, a sudden, violent theft of warmth that left him gasping.
He tried to scream, but his lungs were wet and heavy. Someone struck him, a sharp, stinging slap that forced the first ragged breath into his chest. The air tasted of iron, blood, and the cloying, sickly-sweet scent of burning herbs.
"A Prince," a voice quavered. It was a sound like dry leaves skittering on stone. "A healthy boy, Your Grace. The Gods are good."
Vision came in fractured blurs. Torchlight assaulted eyes that had known only darkness. Looming shapes resolved into faces—a man with a beard like a drift of snow, his chains clinking softly; a woman, her face a mask of sweat and triumph, framed by hair of beaten gold.
Cersei.
The name did not bring comfort; it brought a terrifying clarity. The blurry ceiling, the stone walls, the heavy velvet—he knew where he was. He knew when he was.
He was the abomination. The product of treason. The boy born to die choking at his own wedding feast.
Panic, cold and sharp, tried to seize him, but the infant body had its own instincts. He was being handled, wiped down with rough linen that scraped his raw skin. He was small. He was vulnerable. In this world, weakness was a death sentence.
"Give him to me," Cersei commanded. Her voice was not the shrill harpy's screech of her later years, but the fierce, possessive growl of a lioness with her first cub.
He was placed into her arms. She radiated heat. Her fingers traced his face, possessive and heavy. "Joffrey," she whispered. "You shall be Joffrey. And you shall be King."
The Grand Maester, Pycelle, cleared his throat. "The wet nurses are prepared, Your Grace. The birthing was hard... you must rest."
"Bring them," Cersei said, her eyes never leaving Joffrey's face.
Two women were ushered into the light of the braziers. To the Maester, they were livestock. To Joffrey, staring through the haze of newborn eyes, they were the difference between life and death.
The first was a stout woman, her bodice already unlaced. She smelled of stale sweat and sour milk. Her breasts were heavy, full of the white, mature milk of a woman who had been nursing for months.
The second was a girl, no older than fifteen. She looked frightened, her eyes red-rimmed, likely having lost her own babe or had it torn away only hours before. She smelled of blood and the birthing bed.
Pycelle gestured to the stout woman. "This one is proven, Your Grace. Her milk is plentiful and rich. She will fatten the Prince."
No.
The thought was a desperate scream in his mind. Not the white milk. Not yet.
He knew the statistics of this world. He knew of the Bloody Flux, the Spring Sickness, the fevers that carried off half the children before their fifth nameday. The Red Keep was a pit of disease, its water suspect, its air foul.
He needed the first milk. The colostrum.
The stout woman reached for him. Her milk was food, nothing more. It lacked the golden, antibody-rich slurry that a newborn gut required to seal itself against the rot of the world. In a modern hospital, it was standard; here, it was often discarded as "bad milk" by the ignorant.
Joffrey summoned the only weapon he possessed. He twisted his small, fragile body away from the stout woman and unleashed a shriek of pure, discordant refusal.
"Hush," Cersei soothed, rocking him. "He is hungry, Pycelle. Why does he turn?"
"Perhaps he is... overwhelmed, Your Grace," Pycelle mumbled, reaching to guide the infant back to the matron.
Joffrey fought. He flailed his limbs, his face turning a mottled violet as he held his breath, refusing to latch. When the nipple brushed his mouth, he clamped his gums shut tight. He would not fill his stomach with empty calories when he needed armor.
"He wants none of her," Cersei said, her voice sharpening. She looked at the younger girl. "Try the other."
"She is... fresh, Your Grace," Pycelle warned. "Her milk has not yet come in fully. It will be thick and yellow, not fit for—"
Give me the yellow milk, you old fool, Joffrey raged silently. Give me the immunoglobulins. Give me the growth factors.
Cersei, impatient, waved the girl forward. "If he will not take the one, he must take the other. I will not have him starve."
The girl approached, trembling. She lifted Joffrey gently, her hands shaking. As she brought him close, he smelled the specific, earthy scent of a fresh mother.
He did not fight. He quieted instantly, the sudden silence in the chamber more jarring than his screams.
He latched.
The fluid was difficult to extract, thick and golden-yellow. It tasted nothing like the sweet milk he knew from a previous life. It was salty, dense, and warm.
Colostrum.
He drank with a grim, singular focus. This was not hunger; it was preparation. Every drop was a layer of defense against the bacteria of the middle ages, a shield against the infections that killed royal and commoner alike. He was coating his insides with the strength he would need to survive his grandfather, his father, and the game that awaited him.
"See?" Cersei's voice drifted down, satisfied and smug. "He knows what he wants. He has the will of a king already."
Joffrey closed his eyes, swallowing the thick fluid. Let them think it is will, he thought, the exhaustion of the birth finally overtaking him. It is survival. I will not die a weakling in a bed of blood. I will live.
Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed the chapter, kudos and comments are always hugely appreciated.
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Alternate Versions: This story is also cross-posted on Questionable Questing, where you can find the latest, most current chapters.
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Up Next: Keep an eye out for my upcoming historical alternate history—an Otto of Greece SI dropping soon!
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