I lift my head, the pain in my neck making the effort to decouple my cheek from the suction force of the compressed horseshit tenfold. My neck's not broken though, which is a real coup considering how fast that truck was going.

Truck?

There's no truck, there's just the stableboy's horrified face! I recognize him, but how could I possibly? I haven't seen him before in my life! But I have! I don't know his name, but he's the new stableboy, he replaced the last one that wound up stabbed to death! How do I know that?! Where the hell am I?!

"Where am I?!" I ask in a tone angrier than I intended. The stableboy's face is as pale as the moon, and he starts stammering, which pisses me off.

"WHERE-" I gasp. The wind's knocked out of me. Actually, it's been knocked out of me this whole time. I start sucking for air, the warm haze of the horseshit entering my lungs along with precious oxygen.

>"I was takin' the muck to the water when you just- you fell into it- Oh, Gods be good, I didn't mean for you to fall in it!"

>"Don't apologize, lad! If you weren't there when he fell, he'd be dead!" Another voice bellows to my side.

I fell?! I didn't fall, I was hit by a truck in my car! If I had the lung capacity to scream that at him, I would, but I don't, so I just sputter, and try to shift into a better position where my torso isn't compressed. My plate armor inhibits my already limited range of motion, and the horseshit beneath me wobbles, and I realize I'm not on the ground, but in a wheelbarrow. A wheelbarrow full of shit, that I somehow have seen the stableboy pushing to empty into the river before, even though I never saw anything of the sort.

Just as I'm about to scream out for the futility of trying to move, several hands reach down to assist me rotating myself, and I realize I'm surrounded by servants, each one hysterically asking if I'm alright.

Of course I'm not all right, I just fell into a wheelbarrow of horseshit!

Fell? From where?

As my servants pull me into a sitting position, I bend my neck painfully back to look up. At first, I see the pale red stonework of my keep's walls, then, at the top, spikes, upon which the heads of my sworn enemies and traitors to the kingdom are mounted, tarred to stay the decomposition that all my subjects may get the opportunity to know the price of treason.

What? What enemies?

Then, just a bit lower and to the left, I see them on the wallwalk, and all my panic and anger evaporates, leaving only the weary, aching pain that permeates my skeleton.

Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark stare down at me with mortified, widened eyes and gaped mouths.

I look down at the golden crown in my hand, its crenellations shaped into the antlers of a stag, crusted with rubies and black diamonds, smeared and caked in shit.

And suddenly, I understand.

The piping hot bathwater eases my aching back, but the bewilderment of my situation is at the front of my mind, and the incessant scrubbing from my servant girls isn't exactly relaxing either.

>"Eyes closed, your grace!"

Not again! I wrench my eyes shut as another deluge of scalding water is poured over my head, the buxom, young girl hurrying off with the pail to refill it with clean water from what I can only presume to be a boiling cauldron. I can't even open my eyes, as another older but still comely maiden takes the opportunity to rake at my cheek with the hard bristle of her brush.

"I'm FINE!" I bellow, sitting up out of the tub to the chagrin of my vertebrae. The cleaning crew that I somehow recognize as my personal retinue of chambermaids all back up from the edge of the tub, all except the oldest one, who ceases scrubbing my cheek only to go down to assault my neck with a brush surely bristled with wrought iron wool.

>"Now, your grace, a King musn't go about covered in dung! The longer you hold still, the sooner you can be out of that tub and back into clean clothes!"

Her authoritative tone is both aggrevating and placating. Mother chose this one well.

Mother...

I crumble back into the tub, wincing again as delicate, soft skin that does not belong to me is scourged to the bone with that damned brush. My other servant girls take my surrender as a cue to unclench their buttoxes and resume their auxilliary torments to my person. In spite of the ubiquitous physical discomfort I'm experiencing, I do my best to ruminate on my situation.

When I woke up this morning, I was Martin Carter, a 32 year old accountant. I ate the same breakfast I always eat, a microwavable Jimmy Dean sausage egg bagel, and then got in my car to go to work. Except I never made it to work. The last thing I remember was trying to swerve out of the way of a semi truck that was somehow coming at me head-on on the wrong side of the road. The next thing I knew, I was 13 year old Joffrey Baratheon, a character in my favorite epic low fantasy novel franchise, and I had just fell into a wheelbarrow full of shit.

Fell? No, pushed.

I was pushed off of the wallwalk. I remember it like it actually happened to me. I was showing Sansa Stark her father's severed head, spiked on the wall of the Red Keep for all to see. At the time, I remember feeling an overwhelming glee at seeing her appalled and despairing face, but that wasn't me that did that! I would never do something so cruel, much less take such pleasure in it! All I feel now recalling these memories that aren't mine is shame and disgust! I don't blame her for pushing me! I'd have done the same! I remember reading that part in the book and hoping she'd actually push Joffrey, but she didn't!

But she just did, and she did it to me.

I'm Joffrey now.

I don't remember actually falling, and I barely remember the march from the wheelbarrow in the courtyard to my apartment in Maegor's Holdfast, only being fussed over by an increasing entourage of servants, Kingsguard, and for some reason, Varys, the Master of Whispers. They turned me over to my chambermaids, who somehow already had a boiling tub of bathwater prepared to dunk me in after they stripped me naked. I recall one of my maids trying to hurry off to inform my mother, only to be rebuffed by one of my Kingsguard, who had already sent a cohort to do just that.

Mother... Oh, Gods, Cersei's my mother, isn't she?

My left arm is lifted to be scrubbed, which is stupid because my sleeve had been up to my wrist when I plunged into the shit.

Like many fans of the Song of Ice and Fire series, I do not count Cersei Lannister among my list of favorite characters, and though I've fantasized about meeting the woman in person to take her down to size either through wit or through violence, the prospect of doing so in the feeble, injured body of her adolescent son somehow does not seem so tempting. For the first time since I lifted my head from horse dung, my real memories and other memories seem to be in agreement in presuming that as soon as that woman hears about what happened, she will beeline through the Red Keep into my chamber to agonize over me and swear bloody vengeance.

Oh fuck, Sansa!

Sansa pushed me! She pushed me from the wallwalk, and everyone saw! The stableboy and those other servants that helped me up from the wheelbarrow! Cersei will know! Someone will tell her, and once they do she won't rest until Sansa's head is cut from her shoulders, tarred, and impaled right next to her father's! I rise up from the bath in defiance of the agony my back is in, water spills from the rim of the tub and splashes on the stone floor. My servant girls all back away from the tub again, even the older, but still buxom one with the scrub brush.

What do I fucking do?!

> Intercept Cersei. Perhaps she hasn't given the order to execute Sansa Stark, and I can distract her by letting her fuss over me.

> Order my Kingsguard to deliver Sansa to me at once, perhaps overriding any orders Cersei might have already given.

> Something else?

>>6408634
> Order my Kingsguard to deliver Sansa to me at once, perhaps overriding any orders Cersei might have already given.
Yet another Joffreyquest eh?

>>6408634

> Order my Kingsguard to deliver Sansa to me at once, perhaps overriding any orders Cersei might have already given.

>>6408656
Let's hope this one avoids the incest fetishists and gooners that killed the last one AND bastard of westeros

>>6408634
> Order my Kingsguard to deliver Sansa to me at once, perhaps overriding any orders Cersei might have already given.

>>6408634
>Order my Kingsguard to deliver Sansa to me at once, perhaps overriding any orders Cersei might have already given.
>>6408667
>Let's hope this one avoids the incest fetishists
Ahyup, stopped voting/reading as soon as Myrcella whipped out her Tommen-peeping diary.

>>6408667
>Bastard of Westeros
Fuuuuck I miss that kino

>>6408656
>>6408667
>>6408673
>>6408675

> Order my Kingsguard to deliver Sansa to me at once, perhaps overriding any orders Cersei might have already given.

To stake my rescue of Sansa on distracting Cersei would be folly. My Kingsguard, on the other hand, took an oath to serve me and me alone. I march out of the privy and head towards the antechamber. My maids waddle behind me in frantic tow, begging me to dry and get dressed first, but I ignore them. Throwing the door open hurts my back like bloody hell, but there's no time to waste.

There are two white cloaks standing on either side of my antechamber door, and they both peer down at me with a start, but neither dare mention their liege's state of nature. The corridor's devoid of the entourage of servants that escorted me into the holdfast, which is both a relief and cause for urgency.

> "Your grace!"

"Where is Sansa Stark?"

> "She's been confined to her chambers for now, my liege. Four of my brothers are guarding her door. We pulled her out of Clegane's clutches near the Water Gate- your dog was blind with rage and tried to beat us away- we believe he was trying to throw her off of the walkway and into the rush!"

The other one quickly adds,

> "We'd just as soon have done the same, grace, but far be it from your Kingsguard to deliver the King's justice without his leave!"

"That's- Good! One of you go fetch her to my chambers."

> "Sire...? Is that truly a wise decision? Your lady mother has ordered-"

"My lady mother did not receive your oaths, I did! You will bring Sansa to my chambers at once!"

> "My King, we are your sworn protectors. To bring a traitor that made an attempt on your life into your own bedchamb-"

"There are many kinds of traitors! One kind is the sop that makes his king repeat himself a third time!"

They finally get the message, and one hurries off down the corridor towards the spiral stone staircase, his armor clanking as he jogs down the stairs. I'm noticing, as I speak, that the parlance of this world seems to come naturally to me, in addition to Joffrey's particular stubborn turn of phrase. Whether that's a consequence of my unbelievable circumstance or my own memories of reading the book is yet unclear. The remaining white cloak fixes his gaze forward, which reminds me I am still naked.

I return to the bedchamber and my harem of doting maidservants and surrender to their synchronous pleading to get dressed. By the time I hear my antechamber door swing open, I am fitted in a red and gold doublet, burgundy breeches, and fine leather boots, along with a darker red cape.

Before I can concieve of whether I should play the part of Joffrey so as not to confuse Sansa, or rather stray out of character and be gracious and reassuring so as to relieve her of the undoubted crushing anxiety she's experiencing, my balls leap up into my throat.

> "Sweetling! Oh, Joffrey! Let me see it, are any bones broken?"

Cersei Lannister prances into the bedchamber, and my chambermaids break away from my immediate person to linger quietly at the edge of the room. Cersie- my mother- clutches my head with soft, firm hands and starts moving it around to appraise any injury.

"Agh- not so hard- my neck!"

I regret the outburst. Cersei's head snaps to one of the maids, and in a less dulcet voice than she spoke to me, demands,

> "Why is he dressed?! He needs to be examined by Maester Pycelle!"

The maid meekly replies,

> "His grace had sent Maester Pycelle away before we bathed him, my Queen."

Did I? It's still a blur. All I truly recall when I was being hurried to my apartment was repeatedly demanding that the shit I was caked in be taken off of me. Cersie does not seem satisfied with that answer, and she searches my face to see the truth of it. My expression doesn't seem to satisfy her either, but she leaves the issue and begins pawing at my torso, pressing gently against my ribs.

> "Does this hurt, child? How about here? Any pain?"

"Just my back, mother."

> "Oh, my poor brave boy. It was very foolish to bid Pycelle away, we will send for him at once and he will see to you."

"But-"

I just remember, as Cersie grabs my arm and verifies that, indeed, no bones are sticking out of it, that I sent a white cloak off to fetch Sansa. My kingly instincts are telling me that if Cersie should be here when she arrives, whatever disaster I was attempting to avoid will erupt before my very eyes.

How do I send her off, though? She clings to me like a beggar in Flea Bottom, prodding every limb and muscle for evidence of a mortal wound. She's even going back over areas she's already investigated as if she's paranoid she'd somehow missed a broken bone.

> Say "Really, mother, I am fine. Why don't you see for yourself by accompanying me to Maester Pycelle's chamber?"

> Say "I'm only a bit bruised, mother. Why don't you fetch me some mild potion from Pycelle, or better yet, some wine?"

>>6408704
>> Say "I'm only a bit bruised, mother. Why don't you fetch me some mild potion from Pycelle, or better yet, some wine?"

"I'm only a bit bruised, mother. Why don't you fetch some mild potion from Pycelle, or better yet, some wine for me?"

Cersei's green eyes flash with a nurturing concern.

> "Yes, of course my child. You must be sore, my poor little lion, some wine might do your aches good, and if they persist into the evening we'll have Pycelle prepare a draught of Milk of the Poppy."

Miraculously, her talons release my shoulder, which she had held steady like a vice to scrutinize my neck. I try to hide my elation. It worked! She'll have to go all the way to the Grand Maester's Tower from my apartment, which isn't that long of a walk, but still might buy me some time to figure out how to keep her away for a bit longer while I think of how to save Sansa.

Cersei turns to one of the maids.

> "You. Fetch my lord son a skin of wine, and on your way see that Pycelle comes here with whatever tinctures he deems necessary for your king's health."

> "Aye, my Queen."

Cersei promptly turns back towards you and grips at your shoulders again, her soft, delicate fingers digging into the gaps behind your collarbone.

"A-ah-! Mother! I told you to fetch it for me! I don't want Pycelle here, or you!"

In my frustration, I give the game away somewhat. Why did I come out and say that? Now she'll be suspicious. She isn't suspicious, though, or at least she doesn't look it. She simply clicks her tongue and coos softly, placing a hand on my cheek while her other finger continues prodding into the tender flesh between my neck and torso.

> "Nonsense, sweetling, you cannot expect me to leave your side so soon after you nearly died. It is a mother's duty to protect her children. I will stay right here and keep you safe."

Another flash of placation and frustration. I bite my tongue. She uses the hand on my cheek to gently tilt my head to the side, and I wince in pain.

> "Poor dear. I will personally see to it that the little whore never gets another chance to harm you."

It would have been naive of me to think that vengeance against Sansa was not occupying her thoughts at least as much as concern for my wellbeing, but I still feel a chill as she says it.

My chill turns into a pit of dread when I hear a knock on the antechamber door. One of the maids hurries towards it.

"Don't answer it-" I begin to plead, when I feel my mother's grip on me tighten slightly.

> "Shoosh, my darling, that will be your wine and drugs. Pycelle will look over you closer and make sure you are-"

The green of my mother's eyes suddenly brighten with a fierce intensity. Five white cloaks pass through the antechamber, one of them holding the arm of a figure in the center of them, obscured by the taller, broader knights.

> "What on Earth is SHE doing here?!"

Cersei nearly spits the words out. The formation unfolds into a line, revealing Sansa Stark's fiery red hair framing fearful pale blue eyes. The knight holding her arm shoves her in front of the line of Kingsguard, and she stumbles before righting herself, her gaze tittering between myself and my mother. She looks like a cornered kitten that I remember, with a pang of disgust and guilt, killing, and also probably like how I looked in real life right before that truck hit me.

> "Our Lord King commanded that we bring her to his chambers."

Cersei glances at me, but she looks more annoyed than suspicious, and her gaze just as quickly centers back on Sansa.

> "My lord son is in shock from his fall. You should have known better than to put him in further danger by bringing this traitorous bitch before him."

"It's alright, mother, I-"

> "It is NOT alright. These men are your sworn protectors, they know better than to-"

Cersei is cut off by the antechamber door opening yet again. This time, my wine and drugs have really arrived, along with my wizened Grand Maester, who shuffles in with all the grace that could be expected of the awkward situation he just intruded upon. All eyes are on him as he passes the line of white cloaks and sets the wineskin and pouch of herbs down on my bedside table. Cersei jerks her head back towards Sansa, and before she can even open her mouth, I just know she'll order the white cloaks to take her back to her chambers- or worse. I blurt out,

"Are you alright, my lady?"

Sansa almost flinches when I address her, and gapes at me after. Cersei is staring at me also, equally aghast at the concern I have for my would-be assassin.

> "I- my liege, I-"

> "She is fine. SHE was not shoved off of a wallwalk and plunged fifty feet into horse manure. Maester Pycelle, please check that my lord son's head is not injured. Even with his gracious magnanimity, he should not show such concern for a bloodthirsty traitor's health if his wits are about him."

Maester Pycelle hobbles over towards me, and Cersei's hands clench at my shoulders again to keep me still. She turns back to give Sansa a final, spiteful glare before she orders my Kingsguard,

"Get her out of my sight, the dungeon should suffice for now."

Sansa's face pales even worse than it was. A hand grabs her arm again, and she pulls against it, but the knights fall in around her, their armor clinking and cloaks fluttering as she cries,

> "NO-! PLEASE, MY QUEEN, NOT THE DUNGEON! ANYWHERE BUT THE DUNGEON!"

She's not the only one panicking. If Maester Pycelle has milk of the poppy in that bag, or worse, if that wineskin is actually dreamwine, then the next time I wake may be too late to intercede on Sansa's fate. This could very well be my last chance to save her.

But I draw a blank.

> What can I say to save her?!

>>6408761
>"Mother I wished to mete out my own justice upon her, personally, here and now. Not to a crowd of lowborn scum and duplicitous highborn. 'And I am a bit embarrassed and wanted to do it alone. She won't get the better of me with my focus upon her.'"
Whisper the bit at the end at her. Get everyone out of the room and pretend we did some fucked up shit to her. If it works. It won't work. Sansa's dead. RIP little bird.

>>6408761
Tell her we wish to execute the traitor by fire right now. Hopefully she'll calm down by the time the pyre is prepared

>>6408761
>Mother i wish to extract my own justice before before you do, besides killing or otherwise hurting her will only anger the north after we killed her father.

>>6408858
+1

File: Bobby B.jpg (64 KB, 999x671)

64 KB JPG

>Joffreydemption Quest
>Last of the Pride Quest
>Myrcella Quest
"I AM SURROUNDED BY LANNISTERS!"

>Mother i wish to extract my own justice before before you do, besides killing or otherwise hurting her will only anger the north after we killed her father.

"Mother," I say, straightening my aching back and finding Cersei's grip on my shoulders not so strong after all, "I am the King, am I not? Is it not mine own prerogative to extract my own King's justice on a would-be regicider? We have already executed her traitor father, and her little sister escaped us because all of you are incompetent."

Pycelle's hands retreat from me after that, and to my surprise, so do my mother's. I can see my Kingsguard stiffen as well, which is good. Reminding them of that failure will give me more purchase over my Queen mother with them in this standoff.

"Now, the northmen are already in rebellion, but I will not waste our only hostage by executing her for what might have been. Nor will I maim her, or starve her in the dungeon if it can be helped."

I summon all the knowledge of what Cersei has done, and what I also know she will have done, and glare into her beautiful green eyes. I see the slightest waiver in her constitution, and she clenches her jaw, and tepidly reaches to stroke my cheek.

> "Of course, sweetling... That was foolish of me. You won't begrudge your own mother for taking small leave of her senses... when her first son almost falls to his death, will you?"

I leave her hanging. The room is so quiet one could hear a needle drop onto the silk sheets of my bedding. I milk this moment, it's the first bit of quiet peace I've known since I climbed out of the shit cart.

"Now, even with my sore bones, I am sure I have nothing to fear from a private word with Sansa Stark. We are not on the wall right now, and if it will please you, mother, I will retain one of my Kingsguard in case the bitch gets any notions to finish what she started."

Cersei's lips draw thin as she inhales quietly and gazes down at the floor. Just as quickly, she regains her pretention and gives a soft, coddling smile.

> "Of course, dear. Please indulge Maester Pycelle with an examination, at least, and do have a draught of medicine or wine or whatever my sweet king needs to feel better."

"If it would please my Queen mother."

Granting that at least seems to ease the tension in her face, though I wonder if that too is an act. Probably not. Cersei gives Pycelle a look and starts for the door with enough dignity that one could believe that taking her leave was her own idea. Cersei stops at the line of Kingsguard, which reminds me I only asked for one to remain. I nod at one at the end, taking care not to select the knight that had handled Sansa so roughly, and the others exit before my mother, opening the door for her and forming around her when they enter the corridor.

I count to twenty, and then I look at Pycelle.

"You may wait outside my chambers until I call for you. I don't expect my condition to deteriorate significantly in the next ten minutes."

He sputters geriatrically.

> "O-of course, my liege. Only, any strenuous physical action may worsen whatever injuries you may have, if I may, I would perform a very brief physical examination-"

"I am going to stand perfectly still until I summon you. You may rest easy, Grand Maester, and see that you do so outside of my chamber."

The old man nods with his jaw slacked, and waddles to the antechamber, lingering for a few moments. Just as I'm about to urge him further, he goes through the door, and I realize he was likely waiting to be sure Cersei was gone, so that she didn't realize her informer would not be present for my talk with Sansa.

Sansa...

I finally look at Sansa. I must confess, I had been avoiding doing so. Her gaze is firmly planted on her own feet, and she seems much more anxious than usual, though that is to be expected, given today's turn of events.

The sole white cloak I had bid stay reoriented himself to be directly behind her. I recognize him in the same queer way I've recognized everything that I haven't truly experienced. He is Ser Boros Blount, a somewhat craven incompetent that is only happy to fight when his opponent is smaller than him, and better still, unarmed, and best of all, a little northern girl hostage. I recall he was appointed during my late king father's reign, which gives me some comfort that he does not owe his appointment, like others in my Kingsguard, to my mother. I still mislike the presence of anyone besides myself and Sansa, but this is probably the best I can manage for now.

Opening my mouth, I draw another blank, but this time I have the luxury of more than a moment to contemplate my words. How do I approach this? Is it better to ease Sansa's fears or ought I to remain "in character," so to speak, even with so few souls present to note the discrepancy? Should I even bother trying to play the part of Joffrey, anyway? It's not like anyone has any reason to suspect I'm not actually him, and even if they did, proving that the king's mind is occupied by an imposter is more of a philosophical quandry than a practical, provable issue. On the other hand, Joffrey's incendiary temperament does afford certain guaranteed influence, as I just witnessed with my Kingsguard.

> Commit to Joffrey as he is known, a petulant, cruel brat.
> Invent an explanation for my sudden change in demeanor.
> Ignore an explanation entirely and simply reassure her.

>>6409156
> Commit to Joffrey as he is known, a petulant, cruel brat.
We should probably keep the Joffrey persona up in front of everyone except Sandor. Also, the walls have ears. Don’t need Varys learning something’s up.

>>6409156
>Commit to Joffrey as he is known, a petulant, cruel brat.
Even if we want to change Joffrey to be better we need to do it gradually or the sharks in court will eat us alive. Anyway we can start by telling Sansa to strip and whip her with a riding crop. It would be humiliating but wouldn't leave a permanent mark on her.

>>6409156
>Commit to a slightly more mature Joffrey- still contemptuous, arrogant, and cruel, but less so then before
Pretty easy to explain a change in outlook based on very nearly dying.

>>6409156
>Commit to Joffrey as he is known, a petulant, cruel brat.

>>6409296
>Don’t need Varys learning something’s up.
Here's the fun thing, as a psychobrat motherfucker, you could just walk up to Varys with a couple Kingsguard and tell them to beat him to death. Fuck it, right?

>>6409156
>> Ignore an explanation entirely and simply reassure her.

>>6409304
+1