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

> Commit to Joffrey as he is known, a petulant, cruel brat.
>>6409304
>>6409306
>>6409323
Playing the cruel boy king for now is probably the best course. My concern, mind, is not to become a monarch beloved by all like The Old King Jaehaerys, but to amend the damage I have caused and to mitigate any further suffering that the court, the Lannisters, and especially my mother may yet inflict. Sansa’s gaze is still fixed downward, and there’s a sinking dreadful certainty in me that I can never amend the pain I have caused her.

>>6409304
An odd notion, to tip my hand to the Hound. It might be useful that my sworn sword not regard me as a monster going forward, not to mention beneficial to my continued long-term health.

“So, you must be quite disappointed to see me standing before you. What have you to say for yourself?”

She takes a long pause, never looking up from the floor.

> “I’m s- Your grace, what I did was unforgivable. I know not what came over me, truly.”

What came over you was seeing a heartless savage mock your dear father that he killed, mere feet away from a lethal drop.

“I know what came over you. Your traitorous blood overrode your better senses, and you thought to kill your King, just like your father did.”

She finally makes eye contact at the mention of her father.

“Do you deny it?” I raise my voice. She does not flinch.

> “I don’t deny it. You are right. It was my traitor’s blood. Would that I could take it back, or fall in your place, but the Gods are not so kind as to let us take back what has already been done.”

Well put.

“By rights I ought to give your father’s head company with your own. My mother would let me, you know, though she would sooner you be cut, flayed, and bathed in boiling oil than let Ser Ilyn Payne give you a quick taste of the king’s justice.”

She cringes at that, and her gaze retreats back to her shoes. Despite herself, I can see her hands trembling, which she tries to disguise by rubbing them over each other, as if she were washing them. I let the moment hang, though not too long, lest she has an embolism from the prolonged stress.

“However. We are still betrothed, and I will not forsake my vows so easily as you northmen seem to be wont to. Your head will not roll for this.”

She’s still tensed up and shivering like a wet mouse.

“-Nor will you be confined to the dungeon,”

There we are. She’s still wringing her hands, though more deliberately now. She obviously did not believe the sincerity of my earlier protest that she not be tortured or killed, but hearing that I won’t confine her to the dungeon gives her face such relief that it’s visible, even with her eyes still pointed down. It makes the next part all the more difficult.

“-But you shall still be punished. Ser Blount.”

Sansa doesn’t even have time to brace before Ser Boros Blount’s fist connects with the side of her head from the back, knocking her off of her feet and sending her tumbling to the ground.

Without further instruction, he grabs her by the collar of her pink dress and lifts her up from the ground, laying another punch into her. Small mercy that Blount takes such pleasure in his work, because I am unable to stifle a wince when he hits her a third time. A string of blood slithers down her cheek from the corner of her mouth, and I grit my teeth as a fourth, and fifth blow find their mark before I cannot contain myself any longer.

”STOP!

Ser Blount stays his coiled arm, and his face jerks in my direction. I was too loud, too angry, and the confusion in his expression shows it. I straighten myself up again, back agonizing in protest, and scoff blithely.

“I do not want a toothless wench to kiss upon my wedding day. That will do. For now.”

Blount grins, his yellowed teeth glinting, and he nods, letting go of Sansa’s dress so that she drops to the floor of my bedchamber like a ragdoll. Would that I was half as adept at hiding my contempt as Sansa is, but something in my face wipes the grin off of his.

“That will be all. Confine her to her chambers. If anyone, even my queen mother, should attempt to move her, I will know the reason. Send Pycelle in on your way out.”

> “Aye, grace.”

Blount taps Sansa, who is stirring on the floor, with his boot.

> “Up with ye. C’mon.”

She just about manages to put her hands on the ground to lift herself up when he grabs her arm and yanks her to her feet. He marches her into the antechamber and throws the door open. Pycelle shuffles in after he leaves.

Later, I am naked and alone in my bedchamber with a bottle of milk of the poppy, drakesroot, and a skin of Dornish red wine on my bedside table.

> “By the grace of the Seven,”
Pycelle said,
> “You do not appear to have any mortal damage. The pain you are feeling is likely a bruising of your spine which will, in time, mend on it’s own. Small doses of milk of the poppy should be all you need, but if the pain becomes less than bearable, his grace should imbibe warm water or tea with this drakesroot.”

My own guess is that I have one or more hairline fractures on my spine, though I can’t expect the Grand Maester to have any knowledge of modern medicine, and I certainly was no doctor in my previous life. At any rate, his prognosis matches my own, which is to abstain from horseback riding, training, or any other physically strenuous activity for the foreseeable future. Fine by me. I am certainly not the least fortunate young man to ever take a fall in this world.

I grab my doublet from atop my bed and move to put it back on before realizing just how exhausted I feel. Having sat on the bedding during some of the examination, I’m tempted to revisit it’s downy softness and take a nap, or more likely, a long rest. I can’t stand guard outside of Sansa’s chambers all hours of the day, I remind myself, but I wonder if I’d be overlooking something by sleeping just now.

> Go to sleep.
> Wait, what about…

>>6409568
>> Go to sleep.
I can't think of anything else.

>>6409568
> Wait, what about
Send a Raven to the Wall, to enquire about it's state.
Then sleep.

>>6409568
>Go to sleep
Whatever, not like we can do anything useful now

>>6409686
I don’t remember there being any parchment in here, but I look anyways. Nothing of the sort. The drawers that aren’t empty merely contain rings and bracelets and necklaces of silver and gold, studded with all sorts of gems. Those and a few daggers, hilts also ornately bejeweled. I’d just as soon run down the spiral steps to order Pycelle to send a raven, but with the state of my back that old fossil might actually outpace me.

>>6409646
>>6409725
I toss my doublet to the end of my bedding and ease myself down onto my silk sheets. It’s an aggravating pain tilting my back until I am parallel with the ground, and comfort and peace finally find me. Sleep comes fast.

My back fucking aches, and this bumpy ass medieval road isn’t helping. Whatever, I didn’t save up for this souped-up 80’s Corolla to go slow. I flatten the petal and throw the clutch, putting it into 5th gear and really getting my money’s worth. All these large trees fly past me, giving a strobing effect to sunlight, which would definitely give me a seizure or something if I wasn’t perfectly healthy.

Down the road, I see a cat trying to cross, a group of smaller kittens in tow. Nice try! I turn the steering wheel just enough to ensure I roll over them all, sending their little bodies flying in all directions and misting my windshield with blood. Strike! There’s soft sobbing to my side, and I realize there’s a little girl in my passenger seat, no older than a 6th or 7th grader. She’s obviously upset about the cats, which pisses me off, but she knows better than to complain, which pisses me off even worse, for some reason.

Just as I’m about to say something, I see a huge caravan further down the road, a bunch of stinking refugees blocking the whole way. “What the fuck! Pick a lane!” I gun it, and even though I’m already going top speed, I can feel my Corolla accelerate even more. My back doesn’t hurt anymore, I’m fucking flying. If I let them pass, they’re gonna eat all my food and crowd my streets. Fuck. That.

The girl screams, but it’s too late. I tear into the crowd at top speed, my metal chariot cutting into the crowd like a bullet hitting soft flesh, the road’s even bumpier now, and blood and teeth and limbs rack against the windshield like a hailstorm. The impact’s slowing me down, which enrages me. I kick against the pedal in protest as I feel my speed dropping, and just before I finally relent and throw the gear down one, my car crashes against something solid, the girl flies into the dashboard and breaks her neck.
I can’t see what it is, because of how much blood’s on the windshield, but I know it’s that fucking truck. I kick my door open. I can’t wait to set my guards on this cunt. I’m gonna draw and quarter him in front of the big church. I’m gonna make his mom and wife and children watch, too. He was on the wrong fucking side of the road. I step out of the car.

You ruined my life. I’ll cut your cock off like a geldling. I’ll set you on fire and make your son strangle himself as he tries to save you. I’ll fuck your wife in front of you. I’ll

My car is totaled, but it’s not a truck that crumpled the engine block like a can of soda, it’s a wall of ice. A giant wall of ice. It’s so tall that my neck hurts looking up at the top. It’s impossibly tall, it ought to collapse under it’s own weight, but it doesn’t. Not from it’s own weight, and not when a giant, pale hand clutches over the top of it.
A chill goes up my spine, and I turn and run. I just know that hand is gripping the wall to peek its head over, and I don’t want to see what that head looks like. My car’s wrecked, though, and suddenly running on this bumpy road feels like treading sand. It’s so huge, running won’t make a difference, and I’m not even running well, and I can hear Sansa sobbing in the car again, and talon-like fingers pinch into my shoulder and break the skin, stopping me from running, and I know before I turn around it’s not gonna be Cersei, but a stranger, and-

”MY FUCKING BACK!”

I awake, and my initial confusion at the lack of my humming pc tower, my whirring fan that I always keep at max speed, and these strange young women standing over me ebbs as I remember.

> “Please forgive me, your grace! I only meant to cover you with a sheet, you were shivering.”

Tilting my head towards the maid that stirred me proves even more difficult than the day before. The whole of my back is stiff, and I wince with discomfort as I try to lift myself with my core muscles.
“Can- can you please,”
I manage to raise a hand to the girl, who stares anxiously at it before she realizes what I am asking. Taking my hand, I try to use her grip as leverage to lift myself up, but the ache causes me to shriek in pain, which causes her to flinch and immediately let go, sending me falling back onto my bedding.

> “A-Ah! Your grace! Please forgive your stupid, clumsy servant, I thought I was hurting your hand-“

“It’s my back. It’s my fucking back, not my hand, don’t drop it when I’m trying to get up!”

It takes a minute of coaxing and blaming my outburst on my sore back for her to regain her courage to try again, and with the help of another maidservant, they manage to get me upright. I immediately order them to draw me a bath, which to my great relief, has already been done. I ask them to prepare a draught of the milk of the poppy Pycelle left me, and rejoice, there’s a kettle on my table and a cup in my hand just before I dip into the nigh-boiling water of my tub.

The discomfort of the hot water quickly fades as my shoulders dip in, and I almost feel my vertebrae unfastening from each other, though it might be the draught I’m sipping from, which is already giving me a pleasant buzzing numbness in both head and back. It occurs to me if I had awoken in my single bed, single bath apartment, there would not be a troupe of comely maidservants that would have had a warm bath and cup of opiate tea prepared, and I smile crookedly as I sink further into the soothing heat.

Dried, dressed, and in less latent agony, I exit my antechamber to find the Hound standing vigil outside my door. He gives me a curt nod, and I find I’m happy to see him.

“Good morrow, dog.”

> “Mornin’, grace. Glad to see all of your bones still on the inside.”

He keeps his gaze fixed forward, and I suddenly recall that the last I heard, he had been marching Sansa to the Water Gate before they had to tear her away from him with force. They believed he was trying to throw the girl into the Blackwater Rush, but I doubt it. Likely, he was horrified she’d lose her head for pushing me off the wall and was trying to flee with her, perhaps feeling somewhat responsible for my plunge and his failure to divert her from the act like he had done in the true history of this world.

Well, Sansa didn’t lose her head, and it seems like I’m the only one with the suspicion Sandor didn’t intend to kill her himself, else he’d be in a black cell, or worse. Still, he seems tense. Anxiety about Sansa? Spite towards me? Probably both.

“Yes, I feel much better, having rested, bathed, and drugged.”

He grunts and nods, which doesn’t feel insolent, since I somewhat remember that’s how he often responds to me. It almost seems placating, like he’s nervous.

Yesterday, I had resolved to keep playing the part of Prince Joffrey with all the terror and low cunning that part invoked, but I had the strange idea that perhaps Sandor, my sworn sword, ought be let in on the act. If not quite explicitly detailing the cosmic mummer’s farce I seem to be stuck in, then perhaps at least a more believable lie that won’t have Sandor thinking he’s sworn his sword to the second coming of Aegon V.

> “A moment, Dog.” [Tell him that the fall has knocked some sense into me, but I need to ease into it, lest the court eat me alive.]
> “A moment, Dawg.” [Tell him my real name is Marvin Carter and I’ve been reborn as Joffrey Baratheon and his whole life is a critically acclaimed fantasy epic that I’ve read.]
> “I’m hungry. I would break my fast before this poppy’s milk turns my stomach!” [Do not tell Sandor. Eat breakfast, then have Pycelle send a raven to the wall.]

>>6409759
>> “I’m hungry. I would break my fast before this poppy’s milk turns my stomach!” [Do not tell Sandor. Eat breakfast, then have Pycelle send a raven to the wall.]

>>6409759
> “I’m hungry. I would break my fast before this poppy’s milk turns my stomach!” [Do not tell Sandor. Eat breakfast, then have Pycelle send a raven to the wall.]
Wall first. Then we ease the hound into the idea of us not being a sociopath anymore by not... being a sociopath.

>>6409759
> “I’m hungry. I would break my fast before this poppy’s milk turns my stomach!” [Do not tell Sandor. Eat breakfast, then have Pycelle send a raven to the wall.]
Yeah, if we just start being slightly nicer slowly over time, it should work out

>>6409759
> “I’m hungry. I would break my fast before this poppy’s milk turns my stomach!” [Do not tell Sandor. Eat breakfast, then have Pycelle send a raven to the wall.]

>>6409759
>> “I’m hungry. I would break my fast before this poppy’s milk turns my stomach!” [Do not tell Sandor. Eat breakfast, then have Pycelle send a raven to the wall.]

“I’m hungry. I would break my fast before this poppy’s milk turns my stomach!”
The Hound nods and breaks away from his post to accompany me down the spiral stairs. When I walk on a flat surface, I hardly feel the ache in my back, but descending these stairs causes a pang of discomfort each time I lower my foot to the proceeding step. Joffrey, I recall, apparently breaks his fast in one of the small halls of Maegor’s Holdfast whenever he doesn’t wake up late from a night in his cups, so I try not to think too hard about the turns I make and find myself in a room with a large table, abundantly furnished with fruits, meats, pitchers of milk and cream, and of course, wine.

Cersei is seated at the head of the table. She seems surprised when she notices I’ve walked in, but Tommen and Myrcella are occupying her attention at the moment. Her cousin Lancel is seated closest to her, and there are some other guests of court seated further down the table that Joffrey had not bothered to remember before I came to occupy his head. Nevertheless them, and Lancel, stand from their seats and bow to acknowledge their king, offering condolences for yesterday’s incident and pleasure at seeing me so fit.

I offer a curt nod in reply and pull a chair from the center of the table out and sit down. I feel the gazes of others as I reach for a plate of fried bread, and it occurs to me that my usual seat is at the end of the table, opposite of my mother’s.

“What is it?” I ask, indignantly, “Am I expected to walk all the way down to my chair with my back in it’s state?”

Apologies and reassurances wash over me as I begin dining. The Hound takes his place against the wall next to the door I came in through. I turn and hold up a slice of bacon.

“Are you hungry, dog?”

He shakes his head.

> “Broke me fast before I took over your watch, grace.”

I shrug. This stuff is honestly great. I hadn’t had time to think about food since I was spirited into Joffrey, but if you had asked me a week ago, the cuisine would be at the top of my list of trepidations for living in Westeros. With no means of reliable refrigeration(or a theory of pathology for that matter), eating meat sounds like playing with food poisoning at the very best, and I might have resigned myself to only eating fruits and grains, leaving the unpreserved protein to the lords and ladies of the realm. Having it in front of me, however, is making me sing a different tune.

The bacon is, of course, only sliced pork, but it’s been fried in a pan and glazed in honey that traps the herbs and spices sprinkled on top. Still warm, the sweet and savory aroma wafts off of it, and it doesn’t taste old or spoiled at all. There’s a tray of fish that’s also tempting, seared golden brown fillets with lemon slices ornamenting the edges. I grab an extra-burnt piece and crunch it between my teeth.

The one thing that gives me a start is the temperature of the milk, which is lukewarm, and clearly not trending in that direction from being cold. It’s sweet, though, and it washes the meat down quite nicely.

> “I am happy to see you join us for breakfast, my liege. How did you sleep?”
Cersei asks me as I bite into a sausage that has some kind of nut mixed into it for texture. I swallow the bite whole and glance at her.

“Oh, yes, I slept well. I feel rather recovered now, except I woke with a stiff back, but nothing a hot bath could not fix.”
> “I cannot tell you how relieved that makes me, my son. Maester Pycelle did advise that we keep you off of horseback for the time being, though- just until your back is less stiff, hmm?”

“Yes, mother, he told me quite the same.” I take another bite. Her mentioning Pycelle- and how I slept- remind me of the Wall. I stand up out of my seat a bit too abruptly and wince in pain.

> “Oh, Joffrey-! Not too fast now, sweetling, your spine is bruised! Hound, my son needs to rest, fetch Maester Pycelle and have him-“

“I’m quite alright, mother.” I grab another sausage from the table and start for the door. “On me, dog.” True to his oath, Sandor reaches a huge arm to the door to his side, opening it for me that I can proceed through without slowing my pace, and then falls behind me as we exit, not so much as acknowledging Cersei in the interim. What a guy.

Proceeding down the corridor, I exit Maegor’s holdfast across the drawbridge and enter into the Great Keep, making my way for the Small hall. As I walk, I am greeted by servants and goldcloaks alike, who do not seem offended that I ignore their bowing and well-wishing, but when a Lannister House Guard sees me I stop.

> “Good morrow, your grace.”

“Yes, thank you. I would speak with the Grand Maester.”

> “Grand Maester Pycelle is breaking his fast in his quarters. Would you care for me to fetch him?”

“No, I will see him personally.”

> “As his grace desires.”

The house guard walks off, and I’m left standing in the corridor drawing a blank on where exactly Pycelle’s quarters are. It seems that I had never taken the time to acquaint myself with the full castle after taking reign, and though I would bet a hundred dragons I could find the armory, the crossbows and quarrels within the armory, and the posterns and yards where cats are likely to be present, the quarters of each head of my Small Council, save for the Tower of the Hand, elude me. I look to the Hound, a hint of shame on my face. Sandor seems to read my mind.

> “The Maester’d stay under the rookery by the small council chambers, wouldn’t he, your grace? That way he can send all the little ravens he likes, all hours of the day.”

“Of course- thank you, dog.”

I turn and set off confidently for about ten paces before I stop and give him another woeful look. Sandor grunts.

> “This way, grace.”

I had the right direction at least. Two long corridors later and we arrive at the base of the rookery, in which, I learn, Maester Pycelle keeps his residence. The Hound raps his knuckles against the door, and we hear muffled waffling before Pycelle opens it, standing in the frame.

> “O-Oh, your grace! What an honor it is, to, to have you visit. Is your spine troubling you? I have, have plenty of milk of the poppy, if you have exhausted the supply I gave you.”

“I have plenty yet. I require a raven be sent to the Wall at once, inquiring as to its current status and what support the Crown may provide.”

> “Ah, the Wall. We receive many ravens from the Wall, your grace, but they all report the same and bid us the same in turn: ‘Small trouble from the wildlings. Require more men.’ Always more men!”

“Perhaps a raven with my royal seal will incline the Night’s Watch to be more exhaustive in their reports. Along with an assurance that more men shall be sent.”

> “I will write whatever message my king commands, but surely his grace does not forget that a black brother has recently departed from King’s Landing with a fresh assortment of new recruits?”

That’s right. Yoren. Oh, shit, Yoren.

“I would have a comprehensive report from the Lord Commander, and he shall be assured more men are en route in addition to Yoren’s host.”

Pycelle blinks and stares. Whoops, I shouldn’t have said Yoren’s name.

> “A-ah, at once, your grace. It shall be the first thing I do after my fast has been broken.”

“Do it at once, and eat later. There’s plenty of food in the Holdfast if yours gets cold.”

I spin and start walking off, the Hound in tow. Hopefully Sandor didn’t think it was odd I remembered who Yoren was, if I ever truly knew him at all. Just now, though, I am more concerned about Yoren’s march to the Wall, and how I know he shall never make it on account of my mother siccing the gold cloaks on her. Arya’s there, too, and Robert’s lowborn bastard son, Gendry.

I stop walking, thinking very hard. Whatever the greater design of my being trapped in Joffrey’s body, I am here now, and I do not intend on staying the course of his true history up to the bitter end of a poisoned goblet at my royal wedding. Surviving is of the utmost import, obviously, but there are a number of tragedies that will occur along the way that I may be able to alter, if not entirely prevent. One comes to mind right now: Yoren’s death and Arya’s flight.

If I intercede on Cersei’s attempt to root out Robert’s bastard, I will ensure Gendry is safe on the wall and Arya is safe in Winterfell, and that the Night’s Watch is modestly bolstered to boot. In doing so, I prevent Arya’s multiple apprehensions by Gregor Clegane, Roose Bolton, the Brotherhood without Banners, and eventually, my sworn sword, the Hound.

On the other hand, grisly as it is for poor Arya, her misadventures do refine her into something of a competent assassin. I may also inadvertently condemn her to death by Theon Greyjoy, whenever he gets around to taking Winterfell or worse yet, Ramsay Bolton, whenever he gets around to taking Winterfell.

Fucking Ramsay. I should have him killed at some point.

> “Where are we headed now, grace?”

The Hound breaks my train of thought. He must think I’m wanting for directions again. I suppose I am.

> Attempt to stop the gold cloaks from harassing Yoren’s caravan.
> Let history run it’s course. Arya and Gendry will be fine for now.

>>6409841
> Attempt to stop the gold cloaks from harassing Yoren’s caravan.
Don't forget that assassin Arya will kill US if we survive that long

>>6409841
>> Attempt to stop the gold cloaks from harassing Yoren’s caravan.

>>6409841
>> Let history run it’s course. Arya and Gendry will be fine for now.

It occurs to me I’m on that list of names Arya rehearses each night before going to sleep. Perhaps nipping that potential threat in the bud while also protecting a young lady’s innocence is not the sort of interference I ought to be agonizing over. I turn to the Hound and give an affirmative nod.

“Janos Slynt. I would speak with him, but just now I can’t find the trail of slime he’s wont to leave behind wherever he slithers.”

That earns a laugh from the Hound, and I beam. He leads me out of the castle and across the baily to the barracks of the city watch. They’re mostly empty, though a young gold cloak sits in the common area polishing armor. He gapes when he sees the Hound and stands up with a start when he sees me, the oiled plate armor sliding out of his grasp and clattering to the floor.

> “O-Oh, King Joffrey! W-What is the purpose of this visit? That- honors us, of course!”

The Hound barks,
> “The King wants to talk to your Commander. Where is he?”

> “S-Ser Janos Slynt? I believe- He’s in the city. Watch business, y-yer grace.”

“Watch business, eh? I have orders for him. Is there parchment in here?”

The gold cloak nods and clambers for a desk, producing a stack of parchment from one of the drawers and presenting it to me. I stare at the ink and quill and decide that I’d rather not test how adept I am at handwriting right this very moment.

“Are you literate?”

> “S-Sire?”

“Can you read and write?”

> “Oh! Aye, yer grace. Though, probably not as well as you c-“

“I will dictate these new orders and you will deliver them to Janos Slynt immediately.”

> “Aye, of course, ser- Yer grace.”

The neophyte grabs the quill and bends over the desk, glancing back at me. I clear my throat.

“Ahem. By the order of- the queen reagent, all men of the City Watch are hitherto commanded to return to King’s Landing and remain within it’s walls until so otherwise instructed.”

The gold cloak scribbles as I dictate, but the Hound gives me a look.

> “Is- Is that all, yer grace?”

I think for a moment. A seal would really cinch the authority of this dictate, but I forgot to put on my jewelry this morning. I nod.

“That’s all. If Ser Slynt wonders why my royal insignia is absent, tell him that the urgency of the order is such that I had no time to melt wax, and that his Queen trusts his intuition.”

> “These- orders. They’re your queen mother’s?”

I glare at him.

“Are you sure you’re literate? What does the document you just penned say?”

He straightens like an arrow and crumbles the parchment as he tenses.

> “Forgive me, ser! Yer grace! Ah- I’ll get this to him right away!”

“While I’m young, if you please!”

The gold cloak scurries out of the barracks. Specifying that the order came from Cersei was truly a stroke of guile on my part. If Slynt believed the order came from me, he might go to my mother for clarification. In that instance, it might have been possible for me to stamp my feet and whine and threaten until the order was carried out, but then that would delay its execution by a day or more. Witless as he is, even Slynt ought to know better than to wait for Cersei to tell him something twice. The only variable is the lack of a seal, and if he’ll believe that sputtering mouse I sent to deliver the order. Gods willing, though, Janos won’t think twice as soon as my mother’s name is invoked, and he’ll send a rider to catch up with the group dispatched to intercept Yoren. By the time they return, I’ll have bought Yoren that much more time before my Queen mother can scheme the gold cloaks after them again.

> “Gold cloaks ordered to return to the city? My thought was they’re meant to stay IN the city in the first place.”
The Hound says.

“You would not be called a lackwit for presuming so, dog.”

We exit the barracks and step onto the bailey. It’s livelier out here now, servants and guards going about their business, some of their children playing on the other side of the gate to the outer yard, and carriages of fresh produce rolling towards the kitchen. Joffrey undoubtedly would not have appreciated the serenity of this scene before him, nor would he have the civic aptitude to worry about how it might make one forget that his uncles Stannis and Renly were currently raising hosts to march on Kings Landing, to say nothing of Robb Stark and the Iron Islanders’s own pretentions to power.

I’d just as soon give up the North and let Robb have his kingdom, but even if I hadn’t killed his father, I’d be poisoned even sooner if I pushed for northern independence to my court. Maybe one day I’ll beg his forgiveness and throw Cersei and my grandfather under the bus.

No, the day is beautiful, but winter is coming. I must prepare. I must use Joffrey’s incendiary temper to bolster my influence at court, and sound judgement to declaw my enemies abroad, like I just did with Arya. The day is young, and I shall seize it, but how?

> Summon the Small Council. It’s time I take an interest in my kingdom’s interior.
> Raise a personal guard. I need men loyal to me and me alone, for even my Kingsguard are polluted with my mother’s appointments.
> Hold court on the Iron Throne. I would hear of disputes in my dominion and rule on them with grace and wisdom to soften my reputation. Or with an iron fist, to bolster my court’s fear of me.

>>6410016
>Raise a personal guard. I need men loyal to me and me alone, for even my Kingsguard are polluted with my mother’s appointments.

Difficult, problematic to try, but more crucial than anything else. Better do it as soon as possible, then. It could be justified. with a good enough excuse: "King Joffrey wishes to have a group of great warriors/knights" or something like that. It needs to sound like a Joffrey idea, but that makes some sense.

What's important is that Cersei doesn't get the impression she needs to put her hands in this, but instead something she let Joffrey do. If we can pass that, it's done. It will create some minor tension with the Kingsguard, but it's a small price to pay, and that sentiment from them might pass soon anyway. The Kingsguard we can't order or change around with ease when Cersei commands them. These guards we will.

How we choose men for it will be the question. Perhaps young crownlanders knights and warriors, and some from the capital. Could sell to Cersei, as both a way of "Joffrey building a warrior king image" (like Robert) and a political tool to make ties with the Young Crownlanders nobility/of skill.

>>6410016
> Raise a personal guard. I need men loyal to me and me alone, for even my Kingsguard are polluted with my mother’s appointments.

Call them the Stag-guard. Really Baratheon it up

>>6410016
> Raise a personal guard. I need men loyal to me and me alone, for even my Kingsguard are polluted with my mother’s appointments.
>>6410075
+1 to the name, anything to extricate ourselves from the Lannister side of the family. Ignoring that it's the only side of the family, of course.

Question is, how do we make sure these guys are loyal? And more importantly, stay loyal? Don't want them getting Lancel-ed by mother dearest.

>>6410016
>Raise a personal guard. I need men loyal to me and me alone, for even my Kingsguard are polluted with my mother’s appointments.
It doesn't matter that we're a king if we don't have absolute command of our forces. A better core than the Kingsguard with the Hound at their head would be a great start.

Sidenote, we need these guys to murder Varys later because that sexless fuck is definitely going to assassinate a mildly competent Joffrey.

>>6410189
Honestly yeah. I mean, we could take out... everyone? Like, we don't need to go into crazy paranoia like Cersei trying to root out her enemies, because we already know who they are, right? Just get some people to take them all out in one night and enjoy uncontested rule.

>>6410195
Killing EVERYONE might be bad for business, but guys like Varys and Baelish that we know are both very killable and very dangerous should be priority A1. We shouldn't speedrun becoming the Mad King 2.0 by killing too many people...

>>6410196
Well the Martells definitely need to die.

>>6410016
>> Raise a personal guard. I need men loyal to me and me alone, for even my Kingsguard are polluted with my mother’s appointments.

>>6410137
>Question is, how do we make sure these guys are loyal?
We will have to start from 0 with them. Loyalty needs to be cultivated. It doesn't manifest out of thin air. In this case, the very first step for cultivate loyalty is already here : What manner of guards we want ? How will be they recruited ? Who cannot be accepted ? Is this done publicly or secretly ? Will there be trials of sort to surpass, a tournament maybe ? Do we care of their age ? Right now Joffrey is no great king and no warrior king, he has the loyalty of no one on its own.

>And more importantly, stay loyal?
Consistency, payment, being a king they would want to follow. Its a slow road.

>Don't want them getting Lancel-ed by mother dearest.
Thats a problem that can be resolved depending on what kind of guys we want. And what we do with them once recruited. Even with our best justification for avoid Cersei puts her hand on this, she might inevitably put her hand on this later on.

>>6410189
>>6410196
There are certain people to clean up in King's Landing, Varys and Baelish are both a problem. But our isekai guy doesn't seem to exactly remember all. He had some difficulty navigating the Red Keep and the city. While his knowledge of the books helps, is not a guarantee for killing or removing them. We will have to think of a way. Preferably by taking out both at the same time.

Knowing what the isekai'd actually did in its alive would be good to know right about now. The dream scene of the Corolla driving was not reassuring, he might have some problems in his head.

>>6410267
*in its life

> Raise a personal guard. I need men loyal to me and me alone, for even my Kingsguard are polluted with my mother’s appointments.

When my uncle Tyrion finally makes his way back into Kings Landing, the company of sellswords and Vale wildlings that follow him will be a major boon to his success. As it stands, I may presume that the Red Keep’s garrison will be sufficient to prevent any attempts on my life, but the further I stray from Joffrey’s character, as it is, the less predictable the snakes in court become. I need men that are loyal to me, Joffrey. Not to the crown, not to House Lannister, and if I can manage it, not to gold either, but how?

I must confess I am not much more adept at cultivating loyalty than the original Joffrey was. In my old life, I was an account manager for a canning plant, and while I had men under my station, their own loyalty was bought with wages, opportunities for promotion, and a comprehensive benefits package. Furthermore, they were merely expected to fulfil the role they were hired to perform, and my ‘command’ over them was simply verifying their work and stamping it with my own signature. It might be that my true life’s occupation may give me a leg up on clerical pursuits, though I strongly doubt that managing the finances of a single complex in a global food concern and penning top-down macroeconomic policies in a medieval economy are two very different things indeed.

I suppose that bridge is further off than the current question of where exactly do I recruit these men from? Just now, there is a multipolar war on, so most qualified bannermen, hedge knights, and sellswords are indisposed with fulfilling their oaths and chasing plunder. I would certainly have my pick of smallfolk to elevate and their loyalty would be more guaranteed than sniping knights already employed by my father and mother, but the quality of these pretender knights would be wanting. Every option is rife with it’s own disadvantages, and it seems I have to choose between loyalty to me or effectiveness.

So I will pick both.

I haven’t a choice, really. I must take what men I can get at the moment and then nourish their dedication to me or skill in swordplay, whichever one man needs more. Perhaps Cersei or Varys or even Baelish might sneak an informant in, and I should take care to know who is loyal to the Lioness, the Spider, or the- Littlefinger, but I might have use for even those interlopers for a time.

“Hound, I have an errand for you.”

> “Aye?”

“When you do not have my watch, you spend your time in winesinks, no?”

> “That I do, your grace. I’m quite fond of drinking, as I know you are, and I would not suck down his grace’s supply of fine wine when I’m quite satisfied with the lesser quality drink there.”

“You may always drink your fill within or without the walls of this keep, dog, but I only ask because I’m curious about the sort of company one would find there.”

> “Not the sort of company I’d boast about keeping, sire.”

“Whores and mercenaries.”

> “Aye.”

“Tell me about the latter.”

> “Big men with bigger words, but craven backstabbers, the lot of them. Since the war’s began, I’ve noticed, the places I haunt seem to be filled with them, each one more a braggart than the last. Seems to me, if they were truly as hard as they said, they’d be emptying the winesinks of themselves and chasing your lord father’s host to look for pay.”

“None of them impress you, truly?”

The Hound shakes his head firmly,
> “None at all, your grace.”

“A shame. I have a thought to raise a company, but all competent men seem to be entangled in the war.”

> “Those men would desert the moment the moment their lives were on the line, or if someone offered better pay. Though I doubt there’s anyone could offer better pay than you.”

“Where then, would I find competent men that’d be loyal to me? Yourself notwithstanding.”

The Hound scoffs in a non-insolent manner,
> “Might try diggin’ up some graves, your grace. Only ones ain’t servin’ your lord father are all either dead, or Stark’s or your uncle’s prisoners.”

A sudden idea stupefies me. Of course! How did I not think of that?

I start running before my back protests, and settle for a brisk walking pace. The Hound starts after me.

> “Where’re we headed? The graveyard? Sept’s back that way.”

“I need a crier. Who’s in charge of the criers?”

> “Bugger if I know. You’re like to find plenty of criers lurking in the square, though.”

We pass through the raised portcullis and enter the outer yard. Some house guards take note that their liege is leaving the more fortified bailey and fall in line with a nervous jog. There’s a servant and some gate guards examining a cart of meat that just pulled in through the King’s Gate. All of them, including the merchant pulling the cart, notice me from afar and stare as I walk up.

The servant bows,
> “King Joffrey! A rare pleasure to see his grace in the yard at this time! Rest assured, my liege, I am appraising the quality of this pork and venison as we speak.”

“I need to summon the criers. I’m told there are plenty in the square outside this gate.”

> “Ah, yes- forgive me, sire, I am not acquainted with that particular clerk of his majesty’s court. ‘Tis not a long walk though, I would be honored to be of this particular service.”

I nod,
“You are most helpful. I am quite busy at the moment, are you able to memorize what I say and relay it to the criers?”

The servant straightens up,
> “Of COURSE, my liege. Uriel, your humble larder, retains all of his king’s words next to his heart.”

“The criers are to announce throughout the city that their king calls upon all men of courage, honor, and skill to come to the Red Keep on the morrow to vie for a place in his new Stag Guard, a noble company of brave men that shall rend the King’s Justice upon the enemies of the realm.”

Uriel bows and takes his leave, sticking the annoyed gate guards with the task of appraising the quality of the warm, fly-swarmed meat. I try not to look at it myself, spinning around and walking back towards the inner portcullis. Calling upon the chafe of King’s Landing was always necessary and not the design of my brilliant epiphany. The sooner word gets out of my new Stag Guard today, the more likely I am to find gems among the rough tomorrow.

No, now that that particular errand is out of the way, I can, Gods be good, scrape some elites together, or at the very least some men with more competence in combat than simply poking the pointy end of a spear into their enemy. The trouble with the war was that all men with the right combination of martial wit and devotion are indeed already entangled in some host. Speaking with the Hound made me realize there was indeed a stock of trained killers that would assuredly be loyal to me if given the chance, right under my nose.

Or rather, right under my feet.

Minutes later, the dungeon keeper balks at me,
> “Yer grace! What in seven hells are you doing down here?”

“You ought be grateful, your responsibilities are about to diminish. I am here to issue pardons, jailer.”

When I asked the Hound where the dungeon entrance was, he, to my surprise, did not know. Guilessly, I had asked in front of the house guards that accompanied me into the yard, which prompted one of them to direct me to a stairwell in the main keep. Them having been present for my dictation for the criers, I am positive at least one of them had surmised my plan and shall inform my queen mother, but that’s alright. All of King’s Landing will know of my plan soon enough, and the Red Keep will certainly know tomorrow when the crowds gather outside the gates.

The jailer asks,
> “Pardons…? Who’s getting pardons, your grace?”

“Whomsoever I deem worthy, of course. I require a list of all men confined in this dungeon. You may exclude those that are loyal to the Starks or my traitor uncles.”

The dungeonkeeper starts rattling off the names of condemned men and their crimes, and I realize I ought have been a tad more specific in what I was looking for. Clarifying I am not interested in price-gouging merchants, tax evaders, or unsanctioned pimps, I am left with a much more compact list.

All I have to worry about now is who to lift out of the sorry lot, and who to leave behind. I’ll need as many as I can get.

> Jaden the Mole
Smuggler. Apprehended a fortnight prior for attempting to dig under the wall near the Lion’s Gate. Questioning revealed his intention was to avoid the modest royalties on spirits that are collected at the gates.

> Jom
Sellsword. Imprisoned two months prior after a rich merchant’s daughter named him her rapist. Awaiting castration after his sentence has been served.

> Galt the Merry
Sellsword. Confined a month ago for stealing food off of a baker’s son’s cart in plain view of gold cloaks. Reported to have grinned from when he fought back his apprehenders to his whole march to the dungeon of the Red Keep.

> Harlen Harebane
Poacher. Served six months out of a two year sentence. The Royal Foresters had been aware he was trapping rabbits in the Kingswood for some time, and upon becoming entangled in man-sized traps, discovered he was aware of them, as well.

> Aldwin
Drunkard. Would be serving his sentence in a City Watch citadel were it not that he killed two men with his fists the last time he raged in his cups.

> Robert
Thief. A boy of 14, he’d ventured out of Flea Bottom and into the mance of a merchant, making off with precious jewelry. Another small matter that would have ended in a hanging, except that he hid his booty and, despite eight months in a black cell, has not relented its location.

> Hob Blackhand
Collier. His young son was trampled during the execution of Eddard Stark, and had the misfortune to curse me in earshot of a gold cloak. To hear the jailer tell it, it took five goldcloaks to subdue him in the pandemonium of the crowd.

>>6410381
Is this the full list boss? If so...

> Galt the Merry
> Harlen Harebane
> Aldwin
> Robert

Pending review-
> Hob Blackhand
The extremely suspicious guy and the sellsword rapist are definite no-gos. The next four intrigue me. The last guy I'm iffy about... could we have a quick chat with him? Just to see if he would spit in our eye on sight. I would also like the Hound's read on each candidate since he'll be the leader of this new Stag Guard.

>>6410381
>Jaden the Mole
Sounds remarkably good at digging
>Galt the Merry
Decent enough sword
>Harlen Harebane
Sounds like it could be good for moving in the wilderness
>Aldwin
Give him any weapon and alcohol
>Robert
Give him a dagger
>Hob Blackhand
Hob sounds pretty strong when enraged. Give him a weapon

>>6410387
The question is if Jom even did actually rape the chick. Think about it, some rich girl wants to have a tumble with a "dangerous sellsword" like all those stupid fantasies and has a dalliance, but her dad is pissed and tells her to say she was raped to get rid of the guy. Or he's just a rapist.

>>6410381
Pardon them all.

>>6410381
>>6410387
+1.

>>6410387
I don’t know why I expected a written list, being that despite sitting in the royal residence inside the capital of the realm, 90% of men are not lettered. The jailer at least seems to have a good memory, but these names and crimes are hard to recollect. After bidding he restate the list at a slower pace, I make note of who seems to show promise in character, or at least, promise in general skill.

“Relocate Galt, Harlen, Aldwin, and Robert to a large cell with no other prisoners.”

> “Aye, grace. That’ll take some relocatin’ o’ other churls to other cells, though. Pray gimme a few moments.”

>>>6410387
A thought crosses my mind.
“In that case, I would speak with Jom before you begin rearranging prisoners.”

> “He’s in a black cell, yer grace. Shall I fetch him up here?”

“No, take us to him.”

In daylight, the upper dungeon is lit well enough with thin windows carved through the stone, high on the tall walls. As soon as you descend into the lower levels, torchlight is required. Sandor holds a torch above my head as we follow the dungeon keeper through the winding corridor, deeper and deeper still into the bowels of the Red Keep, our pace hampered by the keeper’s apparent bum leg. When we walk past the final barred cells and start coming upon wrought iron doors whose frames are carved into the stone, I think that surely, we must be close, but it’s several more minutes of walking before we stop in front of another iron door, identical to the last couple dozen we had walked past.

The jailer lifts a keyring from his belt and parses the keys, which look as identical as the doors, until he sticks one in the keyhole.
> “Here he is, yer grace. Raper Jom. I’ve manacles to bind him, if-“

“My dog will keep me safe enough. Go gather the names I’ve given you, and should anyone ask, you haven’t the faintest idea of where I might be.”

> “Aye, grace.”

The jailer turns around and starts back up the dungeon corridor. The glow of the fire bobs up and down in tandem with his limp, and soon all trace of its light is swallowed by an unseen bend. I nod at the Hound, and he pushes the door open and enters the black cell before I do.

A reeking, scrawny man with matted shoulder length hair sits against the wall of his unfurnished cell and flinches away from the light of the torch Sandor is holding. He holds his hand over his eyes to block the light, a stifled moan escaping his dried lips.

> “Wh- Who goes there?”

“Joffrey Baratheon. Get up.”

The Hound punctuates my command with a kick to Jom’s ribs. Jom cries out and rolls over, wincing again as the torchlight comes back within his line of sight. He quickly brings his hand back up in front of his eyes.

> “Joffr- Prince Joffrey?! My lord, I am innocent! I never seen that wench, much less put me hands on her!”

“Stand. Up.”

Sandor kicks him again, and I raise a hand to bid him to stop.

Jom wheezes, then leans back against the wall for leverage in pulling himself to his feet.

> “Mother have mercy! I swear it, I swear I never touched her! I ain’t seen the wench before her father brought her to the king’s hand!”

“You’ve been down here for quite a turn. I’m the king, now, and I’d like to reassess the rulings of my late father’s hand.”

> “O-Oh, forgive me, sire, I- I’ve been down here so long, I-”
Jom moves to kneel before Clegane’s hand grabs him by the shoulder and forces him to stay standing. He’s sputtering now, tears rolling out of his puffy eyes.

> “Please, ser, they’s gonna cut me! They’s gonna take me manhood!”

“I am not convinced they shouldn’t. I doubt you’ll convince me, so I’ll do you the favor to attempt to convince my dog instead.”

I nod to the Hound, who shoves Jom back against the wall, hitting his head against the cold, moist stone. Sandor leans his head close to Jom’s, holding the torch at such an angle that only the scarred half of his face is alight. The flames dance off the ruined flesh, the reflection giving a moist look to the pink and gray tissue. Jom averts his gaze.

Bellowing, Sandor asks,
> “Did you rape that girl?”

Jom wails,
> “No! On my life, by the seven, I didn’t!”

The Hound’s face drifts closer, and quieting his voice, I have to strain to hear his next question,
> “Fine. But you’ve raped before, haven’t you?”

Jom finally makes eye contact with Sandor. His mouth hangs agape for half a heartbeat before he shakes his head, denying, denying, denying.

Half an hour after I’ve decided Jom’s fate, I stand back in the upper dungeon, happy to have no more need of torchlight, but not so happy about it as I suspect the Hound is. My next preliminary meeting before I address the rest of the lot is with Hob Blackhand, a coalmonger who I’ve finally located after asking a different jailer to direct me to his cell. According to the dungeon keeper, it took five watchmen to arrest him, and small wonder. The man sitting on the bench in the single cell is massive, likely only a few inches short of Sandor. He does not turn his bald head when we approach, and I see moldy bread and a full tin cup of water on the floor in front of the cell door.

“Hob Blackhand,”
I say.

The man turns his head and gasps when he sees me. Standing up from his bench and facing me, I feel a clutch of fault in my loins as I recognize him. Yes, of course, how could I forget?

Just yesterday, when I was holding court, I had condemned this man to death. It was before I had taken Sansa Stark up to the wallwalk to make mock of her father’s head, and before I had awoken in the dung cart and became truly responsible for my own actions.

Then why does seeing him agonize me so? Because I can so vividly recall it. Just as plainly as I can recall driving to work in my true life, so too can I picture my previous day in this life. The smirking scoff I let him hear as he tearfully recounted his son being trampled by the crowd in front of the Great Sept of Baelor, the indignant face I made as this weeping man begged my forgiveness, and how good it felt waiting patiently for him to control his sobbing, only to make him repeat the curse that had condemned him for all the court to hear: “Others take Joffrey Baratheon.”

Well, the Others must have, because he’s certainly not here now. I am.

> “Your grace,”
Hobb says, tilting his head in place of a bow, somewhat insolently. There isn’t any insolence in his eyes though, nor is there much of anything.
> “Is it my time?”

I stare for a moment before I realize what he’s asking.

“Gods, no. I came down here that I may- That I may…”
This is a mite awkward. Do I tell him of my Stag Guard? Do I apologize?

I clear my throat, inspiration suddenly taking me.
“That I may have a word in private.”

Hobb stares back at me, his face as still as stone.

“I fear that when you came before me yesterday, I was in the midst of a court racked with treasonous hearings. Such was the expectation of the court, that if I dealt with you any less harshly than I did with other traitors, it would be interpreted by friend and foe alike a sign of weakness.”

I remember, with another pang of guilt, that the preceding case was a northern merchant that had flung dung at a royal standard, whose sentence was much more immediate and much more permanent. I press on regardless.

“I am sorry your son is dead. Though I did not kill him, I do not begrudge a father his grief.”

Hobb stares for another moment before inhaling through his nostrils,
> “You do me a kindness, your grace. ‘Tis true, my boy’s death weren’t your doing, weren’t even your goldcloaks. ‘Twas wrong of me to curse you that day. Wrong and shameful.”

I look to Sandor, who offers a shrug,
> “Men say things they don’t mean in their grief, I’ve found.”

I nod. Hobb is staring at me, no differently than when he arose from the bench. By now, the jailer’s sure to have the rest of the men in the large cell, so I move to wrap this talk up.

> Recruit Jom
> Release Jom
> Uphold Jom’s sentence
AND
> Recruit Hobb
> Release Hobb
> Uphold Hobb’s sentence

>>6411972
> Uphold Jom’s sentence

> Recruit Hobb

All he did was curse our name in a moment of grief, he ain't a witch far as we can tell

>>6411972
Welcome back qm.

> Uphold Jom’s sentence
No rapists in my guard, please.
> Release Hobb
I feel that strong as he may be, it would be wrong of us to recruit him days after personally sentencing him to death.

>>6411972
>Uphold Jom's sentence
The hound seems like the sort to sniff out bullshit. The shock is enough to condemn him.

>Offer Hobb position or release, whichever he prefer.

>>6411972
> Uphold Jom’s sentence
> Recruit Hobb

>>6411972
>Uphold Jom’s sentence
>Recruit Hobb

>>6411972
>Uphold Jom’s sentence
>Recruit Hobb

The large cells of the upper dungeon can accommodate up to twenty prisoners, though just now only the men that I have selected stare back at me through the bars. Sandor and the dungeon keeper linger on the back wall, having drifted back there naturally after I took my place a few feet in front of the bars, giving me my center stage. Out of the four men, only one of them seems to look at me with the fearful reverence a criminal would look at his king. Aldwin, must be, since everyone else was imprisoned during the reign of my father, King Robert.

“All of you,”
I begin,
“Are here because you are lowlives. You have either injured my subjects, stolen from them, or both.”

When I say “subjects,” the tall one with tawny hair’s eyes light up with realization. The others are not so easy to read, so I accommodate them.
“Given the length of your stay here, I take no offense from your failure to address me properly. Allow me to enlighten you to recent developments in the realm. I am Joffrey Baratheon, son of the late Robert Baratheon, and I am your king.”

There we are. Aldwin feigns realization, but I see it truly wash over the rest of them. All except for Robert, who despite being a child himself occupies his own corner of the large cell, well away from the other men.

Or perhaps, the men occupy their own space, away from him.

All except Robert stammer a patchwork of courtesies, each one betraying their own stations and upbringings. I hold a hand up to silence them.

“I am not here to lecture you on your own follies. You all know what you did, why it was wrong, and if not, may the Mother show you mercy in the next life. No, I am here to offer you a different path than the ones that you all, in your own particular ways, have stumbled into. The realm has deemed each of you misfits, but I, the sovereign of the seven kingdoms, am not so quick to cast you away. Within every moment of your lives, there is potential to act with virtue, with honor, with pride- and that is what I offer you now. Cast away your past lives, they are dead, no matter the road that led you here today, and no matter what tomorrow shall bring for you!”

Indignance, skepticism, and intrigue color their faces as I go on. I don’t look back, but I can feel Sandor’s gaze on me, and perhaps the jailer’s as well. Where did this eloquent boy king come from, I’m sure they’re wondering. I ignore my anxieties; I’m on a roll here.

“Your king is in dire need of good men. All of the good men I would otherwise call upon are entrenched in war- yes- war! My kingdom bleeds as we speak, and the agents of corruption, rebellion, and low cunning conspire to wrench me from my throne! The same evils that have deposed my lord father look upon me as a guileless boy king, and they’re correct in that assessment!"

"If today, any man should heed my call for civil service and resolve to act with the dignity and disposition that role should require, then I care not where that man was yesterday, or a year ago, or on their first name day! I have no time for pomp, or tradition, or orthodoxy, I only have time for the kind of man I have described.”

I take a beat, and then shout, the harmonics of the stone room we are in exaggerating my voice,
“I ask you all: Are you that man?”

The four men look at each other, even Robert, whose nonchalance I saw melt as I went on. Then, in unison, as if directed by a mummer, they all answer.

> ”AYE!”

Proud as I am of that speech, I can’t claim to have conjured it out of hand. I had spoke of similar virtues and notions to Hobb, albeit with much less vigor and in a more apologetic tone. The man showed every courtesy, to his credit, nodding, hemming, and smiling softly, but when I was finally done speaking and offered him a knighthood and a generous wage, he politely declined and said that he would sooner return to his wife and life of coaling. What could I do but turn him loose? A jailer escorted him out of the dungeon, the bailey, and the Red Keep with all of his articles, plus a bag of silver equivalent to twice the wages he’d have earned were he not imprisoned. He did not go to great lengths to seem grateful, but I did not take offense. All the gold extracted from the Lannister’s mines is not like to compensate a father that outlived his own son. Strange as it may seem, I left the exchange feeling as if I were the one pitied.

More than can be said for Jom. Leaving him in his black cell made me think a personal appearance was far too cruel, even for a raper. In all the history of the wretched black cells, I doubt a king’s visit is a commonality, and seeing his monarch perhaps imbued Rom with a hope that far exceeded whatever a prisoner in even the upper cells dared feel. Sandor had shut his cell door and turned the key, and as we departed, the muffled cries along with the obvious sounds of his fists pounding on the wrought iron gave way to harder, more substantial pounding that could not have been only his hands.

I put the thoughts of the dungeon behind me with a shudder and a grin. We climb the steps of the side corridor into the bailey, emerging on a landing that joined another descending staircase just beneath the Tower of the Hand. Me, Sandor, the four prisoners, and two jailers squint in the midday sun for a moment, before one jailer hails a group of Lannister House Guards loitering along the wall of the castle to replace their vigil over me, before both jailers descend back into the dungeon proper.

Before I can so much as decide my next destination, I am intercepted by one of my mother’s servants.

> “Your grace!”
She says, huffing as she bowed her head,
> “Your lady mother bids you see her at once! She was most horrified to hear that you have been spending your morning in the dungeon!”

“It is my dungeon, is it not? Besides, I had the Hound with me the whole time.”

She smiles through a wince, nodding,
> “Of- of course being in the Hound’s presence is as safe as any knight in Westeros, but she was quite insistent that you vacate the dungeon and go to her right away in the Small Council’s hall.”

I can feel my retinue of former prisoners tense up. Separating myself from them so soon might invite one of my mother’s creatures to order them back into the dungeon. On the other hand, I will at some point have to explain, and even justify, my new Stag Guard to the court, and it’s a good a time as any to get this headache out of the way.

> Go to the Small Hall, leave my stag men with Sandor with instructions to question each of them and surmise their worth.
> Go to the Small Hall with my entourage. It might be harder to criticize this venture with all of them present, lowlife criminals though they are.
> Others take Cersei! I must be present to assess each man, as the final decision lies with me!

>>6412601
> Go to the Small Hall with my entourage. It might be harder to criticize this venture with all of them present, lowlife criminals though they are.
Stunt on these hoes isekai'd Joffrey

>>6412601
> Go to the Small Hall with my entourage. It might be harder to criticize this venture with all of them present, lowlife criminals though they are.

What sort of uniform should our stag guard wear. I was thinking deer skin cloaks. Nothing gaudy, so the smallfolk have less reasons to hate us

>>6412601
The first interruption.

We need to spend some time with them, our speech in the dungeon was good but not enough. We must learn more about them and ensure no one can just be a nuisance to us. A clean up, food and clothing ought to do some good to our Stag Guard presentation. Sandor will be put in charge of our Stag Guard and also in charge of putting them in shape.

There is the problem that we don't know what is so urgent at the Small Council. Probably just Cersei. I dont know if we should go right there right now. Possible screaming match with Cersei ?

>>6412645
Small stag horns on their helms (too cool to not have), with a visible modified stag symbol placed on their armor(for identify them has our Stag Guard). Those deer skin cloaks could also be cool. And whatever armors/weapons they use best for each of them.

>>6412601
>Go to the Small Hall with my entourage. It might be harder to criticize this venture with all of them present, lowlife criminals though they are.
Its a unexpected move. Even if I would want to prepare them first, clean and give them food. Whatever for now lets give them a word of reassurance that they are already our Stag Guard. They are our men, and no one else.

Now for workshopping on the reason of the Stag Guard :
- Additional Protection to the King
- A trusted trained force of men directly under us
- Desire to honor and emulate his late father/the true baratheon dynasty

>>6412601
>> Go to the Small Hall with my entourage. It might be harder to criticize this venture with all of them present, lowlife criminals though they are.

>>6412601
> Go to the Small Hall with my entourage. It might be harder to criticize this venture with all of them present, lowlife criminals though they are.
I'd want to find anything other than prison rags for them to wear, though. Maybe send off a squad of servants to find some fresh breeches and some hunting cloaks that will fit?

I sneer at the servant, who seems to balk but keeps her nervous smile plastered on her face. She must fear my mother more than she fears me.

“I shall go to my mother as soon as possible, then.”

Relieved, she nods, and starts towards the Tower of the Hand, looming over both the nearby Grand Maester’s rookery with the Small Hall forming both towers’ base. I do not move an inch.

“As soon as possible, I believe I said.”

The servant stops and turns back toward me, forcing another patronizing grin.
> “Your lady mother made it quite plain that she would see you at once, your grace.”

One of the Lannister house guards puts his hand on my shoulder.
> “Best do as your queen mother bids, sire.”

The Hound grabs the guard by the bicep and removes his hand from my shoulder, growling,
> “Best remember who your king is, fool.”
The guard stares at the Hound, and the other house guards turn to face him, but Sandor’s gaze does not break away from the guard that touched me. After a moment, the guard backs away. Nice.

“I will go to my queen mother,” I said, breaking the tension, “But first, I would have these men bathed and clothed in something presentable. They will be accompanying me.”

The servant looks at the men accompanying me for the first time, and her expression does not betray any excitement at the prospect of presenting them to my mother.

> “There’s four of them, your grace, it may take time to wash and find garbs-“

“There are more than four baths in this keep, and more servants yet. If keeping my lady mother waiting truly concerns you, I suggest you put your mind to making these men presentable as soon as possible.”

Unsurprisingly to all, I get my way. Rather than walking the short distance to the small hall, we instead go further into the main keep, my mother’s servant guiding us to vacant apartments that would generally be used to host visiting lords and ladies. Breaking off from us as soon as we arrive to a large bedchamber, she returns minutes later with some more servants pressed out of their regular duties to draw baths. That there are only two privy chambers in this particular apartment gives me an opportunity to speak with each man one on one, and so while Aldwin and Robert are being scrubbed by servants, I begin sequestering one man at a time into an adjacent chamber.

The first talk is with Harlan Harebane. For as long as the Kingswood belonged to the crown, poachers and brigands supped on the game therein that was rightfully the property of their king. Harlan Harebane was no different, and when I began the conversation by asking about the circumstances of his arrest, he showed little remorse.
> “A king rides to the Kingswood to hunt grazing beasts,”
He said,
> “Bain’t no king crosses the Blackwater Rush to hunt rabbit. I don’t reckon I’ve robbed his grace o’ any thrillin’ adventure, setting me traps and nockin’ me bow to dine on rabbit stew ev’ry evenin’.”

> “Plenty of rabbit elsewhere,”
The Hound pointed out,
> “Why go to the trouble of poachin’ on the Kingswood, if you’re truly satisfied with eating rabbit every day?”

Harlan’s grin at that gave even Sandor pause.

> “Supposin’ I poached rabbit in the Reach, or the Stormlands, aye, I’d like to eventually find a lord or landed knight that’d take umbrage over a stolen rabbit, but most of ‘em consider poached hares to be windfall elsewise. The Kingswood, meanwhile, has the Foresters, don’t it? Men that make their livin’ patrollin’ day and night, sweepin’ the woods for folk like me. Bain’t no sport in stealin’ small game anywhere in Westeros, ‘sides the Kingswood.”

“You enjoyed the difficulty of poaching in the Kingswood?”

> “When I was a lad, yer grace, yer lord father raised his banners against King Aerys. We lived in a township half a day’s ride south of Bronzegate, at the foot of the hillock. Hard times for all, those were, but me father hung up his scythe and took up his crossbow, and we made our livin’ ridin’ through the Kingswood and bringin’ home a bundle o’ rabbits, a deer, or even a boar to sup on. Taught me everythin’ I know about forestin’, me father did, and me skill developed quick enough that he’d send me out to hunt on me own, that he could stay back to protect me mother and sister while the King’s men marched towards Storm’s end. Bein’ out by meself was frightening the first time, not in the least since a band of foresters almost caught me, but the thrill of evadin’ them was even sweeter than landing an arrow in the neck of a buck. From that day on, me own incursions into the Kingswood got bolder, trespassing far beyond where even me father dared to tread. One day, I went so far that I saw the Wendwater itself, and sunk a quarrel into the neck of a massive boar. I was so proud of me catch I wanted to show the whole beast to me father and mother, so instead of skinning and butchering it on the spot, I threw it over the back of me horse and rode for our township. By the time I got back though, Lord Tyrell’s men had already passed through our village on their march to Storm’s End, and had put all the smallfolk to the sword- me father, mother, and sister were all slain in front of me home. I put together a pitiful spit and roasted the boar, which I had all to meself, but the taste of a beast I had meant to share with me kin did not sit right with me. From then on, I lived in the Kingswood, hunting to me heart’s content and livin’ off the land. When yer lord father took the throne, I was grateful he deposed the murderous king that killed me family, and knew I couldn’t keep huntin’ stag and boar, but I knew no other life than poaching, so I resolved to only hunt rabbit, yer grace. I knew King Robert would not begrudge me a warren over a fortnight, and though his foresters pursued me, I took delight in making the same traps for rabbits at a scale befitting a man. Swear on the Mother, I never killed one of your lord father’s foresters, the traps I set were simple counterweight snags that lifted ‘em several feet in the air. Somethin’ about knowin’ they’d be snatched off their feet and left dangling tickled me, yer grace, I don’t deny it. They caught me riggin’ such a trap, and though I could’ve fought back, it didn’t seem sporting, so I gave meself up, thinking that surely a lifetime of eatin’ rabbits weren’t such a large affair. I s’pose two years for nigh twenty of eatin’ the king’s hares b’aint such a terrible thing, though I am grateful for his grace’s leniency all the same.”

After Harlan’s tale is finished, I look to the Hound, who looks to me and gives a bewildered shrug. A tragic tale, if true. I look back at Harlan.

“So you are proficient in bows as well as trapping?”

> “Oh, aye, me arrows are as true as any of your men-at-arms’, Stranger take me if they b’aint.”

Harlan could be used to drill archery to my Stag Guard, if I decide to keep him. The only reason I might not is if his story turns out to be false, but it went on long enough that I am not too skeptical. It went on so long, in fact, that Aldwin and Robert are finished bathing, freeing the tubs for Harlan and Galt.

> Speak with Galt next.
> Speak with Aldwin next.
> Speak with Robert next.

>>6413193
>> Speak with Aldwin next.

>>6413193
>Speak with Aldwin next

>We actually just grabbed a bunch of random smallfolk and are going to turn them into a badass hitsquad
This is a Joffrey-esque plan lmao

>>6413193

>Speak with Robert Next
>Write in: Tell him about the story of Lann The Clever

>>6413193
> Speak with Aldwin next.

The servant girls usher Harlan and Galt into the privies next, and through the Mother’s mercy, they’ve already seemed to have procured some clothes for Aldwin and Robert, both of whom are dried and garbed and much easier to stand close to now. I decide Aldwin should be the next one to speak to and truthfully, I might have picked him first if he wasn’t already getting bathed. Out of all of my selected men, Aldwin is the only murderer, having drunkenly slew two men in a winesink with just his hands. Face to face with him, it’s easy to believe he could, even though he isn’t nearly as tall as Sandor or the coalmonger I’d released.

Where Aldwin lacks in height, he makes up for in breadth, however. Lumbering into the chamber with me and Sandor, I’m almost certain I recognize the doublet the servants fetched for him as having belonged to my late father, though the weight is where the similarities between him and King Robert end. Close-cut straw-colored hair that’s beginning to show the first signs of a full retreat across his head, Aldwin’s eyes are dark and piggish, and his nose ridiculously bulbous, though he doesn’t have a moon face, which might have made his head look proportionate to the rest of his body rather than the pinhead that sat atop his broad shoulders.

> “I didn’t mean to do ‘em in, your grace!”
He blubbers after I vaguely enquire into how he wound up in the dungeon,

> “Just a daft quarrel, nothin’ more! We was arguin’ ‘bout, well, we was arguin’ ‘bout whether flax or hemp t’were was best for thatchin’ at first, but then somehow that got into which one burns faster, then one of us said that Flea Bottom got to the worst of it durin’ the sack, and then this one bastard what owned a lot in Flea Bottom smashed his cup into a man’s head what said Flea Bottom ought to have been burned to the ground, and that’s where I’d reckon the real trouble started. Me mate Fleece got it real good from a bench thrown meant for the owner, so I grabbed the lout and gave ‘im a whack. Nothin’ too serious, he ain’t meant to hit Fleece, you see, I weren’t trying to kill him, and I don’t think I did. He had two pals though- those’d be the louts what helped him lift and throw the bench, and they wasn’t pleased when they saw what I did to their mate, so they came at me next. I grabbed the both of them, and I ain’t have but the two hands, see, so I couldn’t hit either of ‘em with my fist on account of the other hand was holdin’ the other man, so I had to just conk their heads together, right? So I did, and that seemed enough, so I dropped them, but by then some animal poked me with a spear, which mighty hurt, if you don’t mind me sayin’, so you must forgive me that I was proper angry and not really payin’ attention. I turned on the man and grabbed his spear, and I meant to give him a poke with it, right? Fair’s fair, I reckon, but I was so angry I ended up snappin’ the thing in two, which made me more angry ‘cause now no matter what I wouldn’t be able to give the man a poke with his own spear, so I reckon about two or three hits with me fists’d be close to fair as can be, ‘cept I hit the man more than that. I was angry, mind, and then one of his mates drew a shortsword, and I hit him twice, and then I saw how much I was bleedin’, and I’ll be honest, your grace, it made me more frightful than angry, and I meant to run out of the place, but there was so many people and they was all fightin’ and swearin and tryna steal, that I just started swinging my fists in front of me to clear a way out. Well, soon as I was out, I saw a whole mess of gold cloaks with all their swords and spears pointed at me, and then one of them walked up and hit me in the head with a mallet. So I punched him, cause fair’s fair, after all, but then the next thing I knew I was in the dungeon with a terrible headache, and they was tellin’ me I killed two men in that winesink, and I was lucky they ain’t slit me throat.”

Me and Sandor exchange looks throughout his unfortunate soliloquy. Sandor has the presence of mind to at least ask,
> “What is it you do when you ain’t fightin’ in the pub?”

Aldwin stares at him for a second with his mouth gape, like a maester might when he’s trying to resolve a numbers problem.

> “Ah! Well, right now, I’m paid to keep the peace at Stumpwycke’s Tavern.”

He smiles oafishly before he thinks to add,
> “That’s a different pub than the one I got pinched at, grace.”

I nod with a polite smile. This one will definitely have to keep his mouth shut when I present all of them to my mother. No doubt the rest of my Stag Guard will not benefit from any martial wisdom Aldwin might imbibe them with, but if he imbibes himself with whatever ale I sequester for the Stag Guard it may be the rest of them would be the most sober fighting force that’s ever raised arms in Westeros, to a man.

Harlan and Galt are getting dried off when we get back into the main suite, and I wonder how much longer I can delay. I can always speak with them later, of course, but I’d like to ensure there won’t be any embarrassing surprises in front of the Small Council.

> Speak with Galt
> Speak with Robert
> “Get dressed, follow me, and keep your mouths shut.”

>>6413580
> Speak with Galt
Robert should be smart enough to keep mum

>>6413580
>> Speak with Galt
I love this Stag Guard the more they talk

My mother’s servant claps her hands when Galt and Harlan are dressed.
> “There we are! Bathed and in presentable garb for an audience with her grace the Queen Reagent. We should head to the Small Council at your leave, sire!”

“Excellent. We shall do exactly that,” I say as the Hound and I bring Galt into the adjacent chamber and close the door in the servant’s crestfallen face.

Galt the Merry glances between me and Sandor with an easy smile. Of all the men I lifted from the dungeon, he’s seemed to be the least tense throughout the whole affair, and his temperament is no different in this one-on-one setting.

“You are a sellsword, yes?”

> “Indeed I am, your grace.”

“And you were arrested for stealing food off of a cart.”

> “That’s exactly correct, your grace.”

Sandor scoffs, and Galt to his credit, does not waver, but instead looks right at him.

> “Is that amusing, Hound?”
He asks, still smiling.

The Hound replies,
> “Just a little. If you told me a street urchin was stealing food, I’d tell you that’s what urchins do. If you told me a sellsword was stealing food, I’d say he must be a piss-poor sellsword to not have a penny to his name for some bread.”

I recall what the Hound had told me about the sellswords that came into King’s Landing instead of chasing a host in the field.

“There is a war on, last I checked, Galt. Why lurk in King’s Landing if you are truly broke? You might ride to my lord grandfather’s host and get a couple of stags just for enlisting.”

> “Indeed, your grace, I have heard of Lord Tywinn’s generosity in compensating his swordsmen.”

“Then why not join him? Do you sympathize with the North? Or perhaps you’d sooner work in peacetime than on the field on battle.”

> “Nay, sire, Galt the Merry is neither traitor nor craven. He is merely a patient man. Broke as well, I’ll grant you, but I had no plans to keep my purse empty for very long. Soon as I heard Ned Stark got his leg broke by the Kingslayer- begging your pardon- by your uncle Jaime, I smelled war afoot between the North and the Westerlands, so I made my way to King’s Landing fast as my two feet could carry me. My initial plan was to wait out the first few rounds of fighting and then make my way to the neck and join your lord grandfather’s host then- after he’d lost some of his men at arms and the value of fresh men had risen to an acceptable value for myself. Then Ned Stark went and got himself beheaded for a traitor, and I had to change my plan!”

“Why did you have to change them?”

> “The war had ESCELATED, your grace! I knew the North would not forgive the culling of Ned Stark, and I knew you and your lord grandfather would not suffer open rebellion, and thus the window of time- and my profit margins- had widened considerably. Why wait one week to make a few more stags when I could wait a month and make a bagful? The only complication was I had not budgeted for a month’s worth of food and quarter.”

“So you took to stealing to get by.”

> “Not QUITE, your grace. It is true, I did steal ONE loaf of bread, but I did not plan to make a habit of pinching bread from the baker’s boys for a whole month. If I did, I wouldn’t be so dim as to do it on the main thoroughfare where the city watch would be like to see me.”

I don’t realize what he means until half a moment before he says it with a proud grin,
> “The sentence for stealing, generally, is a week or two in a cell in a watch mance, where one can rely on a consistent helping of bread, albeit moldy, and bedding, albeit hard and unfurnished. How tempting it was for me to take a bite of that warm loaf I’d lifted, knowing it’d be the best bread I’d have for the foreseeable future, but I simply held onto it unmolested that the gold cloaks would return it to the boy’s cart. Perhaps they might have as well, had they not knocked it out of my hand. That incensed me- it stained my honor, and injured the baker that made that bread in hopes of profiting from it’s sale, which angered me somewhat, I admit. I am not so familiar with the penalty for assaulting a gold cloak, but you can imagine my surprise when they marched me not to a mance in the city, but to the Red Keep, and you may also imagine my relief that you have plucked me from this inauspicious fate and have bid me serve you in, what was it, this Stag Guard of yours. I am your man, ser.”

Galt bows proudly. I look to Sandor, who seems less impressed than I am.

> “Might be he’s as clever as he’d have you believe, but it’s just as likely he was winesick from the night before and didn’t notice the goldcloaks when he stole that bread from an easy mark.”

> “Clegane, you wound me! A gentleman would never take advantage of a child in the way you accuse me of doing!”

> “You’re a sword for hire, not a gentleman.”

> “And you are a Kingsguard, but not a knight, correct? Am I to believe you judge a man’s character by his station in life?”

Sandor bristles at that, but does not say anything except,
> “It’s your decision, grace. I say he’s the slimiest one out of the whole lot.”

We go back into the main chamber and find Harlan and Aldwin conversing, Robert brooding on a chair, and the chambermaid pacing while the house guards look on.

> “All right, all right, to the Small Council hall, Seven have mercy!”
> “Robert, a word.”

>>6413739
> “All right, all right, to the Small Council hall, Seven have mercy!”

I am tempted to have a word with Robert, but probably time to go to the Small Council. This was fun.

>>6413739
> “All right, all right, to the Small Council hall, Seven have mercy!”
And have Clegane tell Robert to keep schtum until we can get a proper read on the guy.

>>6413739
>> “All right, all right, to the Small Council hall, Seven have mercy!”

“Yes, yes, we’re going now, you may take your leave!”

The maidservant’s face whitens as I raise my voice and she scurries out through the antechamber ahead of myself, Clegane, the Stag Guard hopefuls, and the Lannister guards, the other servants staying behind to drain the baths and clear out the charcoal. My stride as we head towards the Small Hall is more like a march, and I’m much more confident in presenting my plans to my mother and my council. Taking the time to clean and dress these lowlifes had the dual effect of making them look however presentable men like this can be as well as delaying my arrival after being summoned, that my council along with my mother may use the time waiting to remind themselves who their true king is.

I’m reminded of a book one of my coworkers had given to me after being promoted to a managerial position in my past life, some drivel titled TYPE-A MANAGEMENT, a self-help screed that purported a collegiate fraternity style of leadership as an effective means of completing goals. I only had skimmed it, but there had been an entire chapter dedicated to “power plays:” The fine art of inconveniencing your underlings and negotiating partners to subtly assert your dominance. Obviously counterproductive in a modern workplace environment, but in this world I now find myself wishing I’d given it a read. As obnoxious as petulant slights can be, it may be the only language the members of my court understand.

I turn down the corridor towards the Tower of the Hand, thankful the Lannister House Guards are leading the way, since as it happens, Joffrey did not exactly have an exact idea of where his councilors had their meetings. There’s a finality to the guard’s pace as we approach a large oak door though, and I take the hint and step ahead, throwing the door open and barging in.

> “Your grace! We have been eagerly awaiting your presence,”
Littlefinger wastes no time in greeting me as soon as I step in, standing up from the round table at the end of the room, the house guards, Sandor, and the Stag Guard walking in after me.

“I was told my mother wanted to see me. I was not aware this would be a meeting with my Small Council.”

> “You must forgive us your grace, we were in the midst of discussing affairs of state when your mother summoned you,”
Varys is the next to speak, standing and bowing along with Grand Maester Pycelle and Janos Slynt, both of whom flank my mother, who does not stand or bow.

> “Joffrey,”
My mother begins, failing to address me properly, likely more to diminish the Small Council more than be insolent to me,
> “What’s this I hear of you galivanting in the dungeon? Are these men prisoners?”

“No,” I begin, coming to a stop in front of the roundtable, my entourage stopping a few feet behind me, “They are the first of my new Stag Guard.”

Cersei squints, her mouth twinging. Confusion, perhaps? She’s seen little enough of me since I awoke in the shit cart, and though I’ve been lacking in my resolve to continue playing the part of Joffrey in front of Sandor, I must remember that to her, I am still her son, and to my councilors, I am the insipid and petty brat king.

> “Stag Guard. What is a Stag Guard, sweetling?”
Here we go.
“A new company of men I’m forming. A king ought have a host of loyal men at his side, no?”

Cersei huffs,
> “But you do have loyal men at your side. All of Westeros is loyal to you, save for the traitor rabble.”

“Ah, but where are they? Lord Tywinn’s host is entangled with Robb Stark’s armies, and Uncle Jaime’s been captured by them, his host is in shambles!”

Varys interjects,
“My lord, Robb Stark is merely a few years your senior and, forgive me, as experienced as his grace is in waging war. Your lord grandfather is like to best him soon, and your uncle’s detention shall soon be undone as well.”

> “And you’ve already got men loyal to you!”
Janos Slynt blusters, his fellow councilors glancing at him as he forgets himself,
> “Your City Watch is made of men made of stronger stuff than common criminals, and we are at your disposal! Why, I’ve already sent a rider with orders for all Gold Cloaks to return to King’s Landing!”

> “I beg your pardon? Orders?”
Cersei turns to face Janos, who balks.

> “Y-Your orders, my lady, I’ve called upon the dispatch you bid me send after the crow to return to the city at once.”
> “I have given you no such orders!”

Janos starts to stammer, confusion and fear in his voice. Cersei looks as if she could take a quill from the roundtable and stick it in his beady eye. I would clarify that they were my orders, but the prospect of Slynt being reprimanded is too tempting. I’ll have to move to spare the messenger I sent him later, though.

> “In any case, your grace, I understand a young man’s desire to stand at the head of an army,”
Pycelle breaks the tension, addressing me,
> “But I fear this may send the wrong message to your loyal Kingsguard. Those men swore an oath to be your shield, and forming a cohort of- forgive me- of common rabble might make them feel redundant. Have you asked the Hound how he feels about this venture of yours?”

> “I don’t care one bit,”
The Hound says.

“The Kingsguard is but seven. I need a thousand.”

A wash of panic spreads over the Small Council’s faces, and for a moment, I fear I’ve gone too far.

“M-My Dog will be its Commander,” I say, and then hurriedly add, “All of my Kingsguard will be captains within the Stag Guard.”

> “Regardless, sire,”
Janos begins, side-eyeing my mother, obviously trying to win back some favor,
> “This notion of a tournament or whatever it is tomorrow, your city watchmen need more notice before the safety of the Red Keep can be assured.”

> “TOURNAMENT?”
Cersei balks and looks to the other councilors, and unsurprisingly all but her and Pycelle seem to be aware of what I had bade the town criers to bellow on every streetcorner in King’s Landing.

> “Yes, it seems our King has gotten word out that a gauntlet of sorts shall be held tomorrow at the Red Keep, for all in King’s Landing who wish to be considered,”
Littlefinger says to Cersei.

“It’s not exactly a gauntlet,” I complain.

> “I believe the verbiage was that they may “vie for a place” in this Stag Guard. Do you intend on a tourney then, grace?”
Petyr offers with a plausibly deniable smug grin.

I draw a blank. Honestly, I was so thrilled with my idea to recruit from the dungeons first that my message to the criers became somewhat of an afterthought. I imagined myself and Sandor sitting in the Outer Yard or the Great Hall and appraising each man one at a time, but that might not be sustainable if thousands answer the call. Fortunately for me, my mother saves me.

> “A tournament at such short notice would be a disaster, the only hopefuls would be smallfolk and sellswords and all types of men unbefitting for royal service,”
She says, obviously still shaken at the prospect of all fighting aged men of Kings Landing arriving at her doorstep on the morrow.

> “The Kingsguard is only composed of those most noble champions of the realm, your grace,”
Varys interjects, washing his hands over as he speaks,
> “To my mind, a prospective Stag Guard ought to be cut from a similar cloth. I would be honored to make some inquiries into such men that are not currently indisposed with the war.”

“That would be most helpful. When you find any, they shall be folded into the company at an appropriate rank for their station.”

Cersei pleads,
> “At least delay, my son. Let Lord Varys and Ser Slynt recruit for your Stag Guard, don’t besmirch your father’s House by filling it with brigands and urchins.”

I straighten my posture.

“How many men are currently imprisoned in the Red Keep?”

Varys answers,
“Relatively few, thank the Gods.”

That deflates me, I had meant to convey a strict standard that I purportedly put the dungeon’s residence through but I carry on, stepping to the side and presenting the men I had saved.

“I have had the measure of these men before you. Each of them are proficient in their trade and are, to a man, remorseful for their crimes against the crown. Is it not wasteful to let them rot in a cell, when their King needs men like them? Should I not show them the Mother’s mercy and give them a chance to redeem themselves?”

Nobody has an answer to that, and my Stag Guards straighten their own postures in turn, my support lending them some courage.

Littlefinger leans forward, grinning,
> “These men’s character might be sound, grace, but are you able to offer the same scrutiny you judged them with towards the horde you invite to the Red Keep tomorrow?”

“I don’t see why not. I don’t intend on admitting all of my thousand men tomorrow. If there are those in King’s Landing that are worthy, I would take as many as I can. And my dog shall help me appraise them to boot.”

The councilors look at each other and find that none has anything else to contest me with. Cersei’s jaw is clenched, and she leans back in her chair.

> “I would have the Kingsguard about you all day tomorrow. All that come may have other designs than to enlist, my son.”

“Of course, mother. You may wish to stay in Maegor’s Holdfast on the morrow, though.”

She closes her eyes and sighs through her nostrils, and then smiles pleasantly.

> “I believe I shall.”

I sit in my solar, dining on the pork that undoubtedly had come through the King’s Gate this morning, all thoughts of flies and maggots thoroughly dashed as soon as I had smelled the honey glazing that dripped from each slice in thick beads. Each bite is washed down with lukewarm wine, which gets extraordinarily easier to drink the more I sip from my cup. A beautiful maidservant holds a tankard of the wine and offers to refill it, which I heartily accept, taking another chunk of the sweetened, savory pork down my gullet before indulging in the Dornish red, letting out a satisfied sigh. Has Joffrey been fucking his maids by now? The sultry and knowing smile in this girl as she pours some more wine can only mean he must be. Through the window, all of King’s Landing stretches out before me, the outer walls of the city barely blocking the temperate fields and hills without. I feel fantastic. My performance in front of my small council was wanting for the sort of cunning I’ll need in future, but I managed to pull through with a satisfactory end. In truth, I had about as much guile in my past life as Joffrey did before I joined with him, and so my floundering and lack of wit probably served to conceal his change in character to my council, but being the king, I got my way regardless.

If I stand up out of my chair and peek over the edge of Maegor’s Holdfast and the Great Keep, I can just make out Aldwin, Harlan, Robert and Galt training in the Middle Bailey with Ser Mandon Moore, one of my Kingsguard that I bade begin drilling each of my new Stags in swordplay. Doubtless Gant needs less instruction than the other three, but the more I can refine each man before tomorrow, the more I can justify the agreed upon wages we came to during the end of the Small Council meeting.

Petyr had broached the subject of paying a thousand more men on top of the City Watch, which I had deferred right back to being his responsibility, and then we began talking compensation. We arrived at five stags for anyone him, Janos, or Varys could recruit per week, Three stags per week for the four men I already have, and five pennies per week for anyone recruited tomorrow, pending a raise if any prove themselves truly exceptional. My mother had checked out of the conversation by then, and the whole room could feel her impotent wrath rising as the Small Council switched from backing her protests to win her favor to indulging my hopes to win mine. Even Janos, who owes his station to her, had pledged the city watch shall keep an orderly queue outside the King’s Gate while they waited for us to appraise who had already been admitted past it. It’s good to be king.

Standing up, I wipe my mouth with a cloth my maid had prepared and down the rest of my cup of wine. Though my back still pains me, my head is buzzing, my belly’s full, and I’ve accomplished all I set out to do today, and it’s merely the afternoon. Tempting as it is to tumble with one or several of my maidservants, I think better of getting into the habit of filling my hours with hedonistic pleasure, and instead resolve to make the most of my first full day in this world.

> Speak with Robert.
> Check in on Sansa.
> Speak with Sandor.
> Fuck it, lay with the maids. [Skip to tomorrow.]

>>6413890
>Check with Sandor

Secure our dog's loyalty.

>>6413890
>Speak with Robert.
Speak with this young kid now he is the only one left we haven't talk with of the first Stag Guards, better to have a chat and reassure him. Sandor we can chat with him in the morning before seeing our first recruits tommorow. Maybe we should train with the guy. Maybe. The problem with that, is that the joffreytism needs to be kept for more than a day. At least some months where we slowly dont act like that anymore.

Sansa probably give her another day away. Then private talk.

This has gone quite well so far for our isekai'd guy. Mix of joffreytism with good ideas for push the Stag Guard through. Much needed for get this thing done. The Kingsguards being captains is what it is, compromizes needs to be done. Hound Commander its solid instead.

Janos, Varys and Petyr. Three problems in King's Landing. Need to cut them for win the game of thrones.

>>6413890
> Speak with Sandor.
No disrespect to Robert but the Hound is the lynchpin of our whole operation. If we don't fuck up, I'm pretty sure he's the most loyal of the whole bunch

>>6413890
>> Speak with Sandor.

I can feel the flush on my cheeks as I stand, and I remember how wonderful it truly is to be drunk as a young man. Even my aching back doesn’t take the spring out of my step as I bound through my bedchamber, to the main chamber, to the antechamber, and I lean on the oak door while grabbing the door ring that I don’t fall all the way through. The door peaks open and I lean out far enough that I can see Sandor next to the doorway, standing guard. He glances down at me, and his neutral response to my grin might have taken the wind out of my sails if I wasn’t so delightfully buzzed.

“Hound! When have you eaten last?”

> “I’m not hungry, grace. Had plenty for breakfast.”

“Oh, but it’s almost noon. Are you thirsty at least?”

> “I’m fine. Truly.”

“Lots of food left, and drink. Must be boring to stand vigil while I gorge myself, please, indulge.”

He grunts and pushes himself off of the wall, following me into my apartment. A maid is in my bedchamber when we enter, and I order her to make a spot for my dog in the solar. All three of us enter, and I take my place back at the table, the Hound stepping behind me and standing.

“Sit, dog.”

He grunts again, or grumbles, perhaps. He takes a seat though, but even with my inebriated jollity I’m starting to get anxious, feeling quite like a little brother that’s being begrudgingly patronized by an elder. Fortunately, there’s a tankard of wine and my cup still here, so I pour myself another drink and offer the Hound the tankard. He takes it and drenches his throat with a couple of powerful gulps, setting it back down at the table.

I drum my fingers on the table, suddenly at a loss for words. As it happens, Joffrey’s own adulation of the Hound is quite in line with my own affection for the character that I had from my true life, and the wine might be blurring mine and Joffrey’s memories into a single patchwork. That, or I am simply drunk. I must confess that I didn’t drink in my past life until I was 17, and Joffrey has hardly entered puberty. Fortunately, the maid from earlier returns with a bronze plate and silverware and sets it in front of the Hound.

He doesn’t move, though. He looks uncomfortable, or perhaps just bored. Why would he be bored? I just rescued him from staring at a stone wall. Must be because I haven’t said anything yet.

“Was- Was Maester Pycelle correct? You don’t feel redundant from my forming the Stag Guard, do you?”

> “Not at all, grace. Not like you’ve stocked it with true fighters, anyway. Only a fool’d feel threatened by a company of smallfolk. Plenty of fools in the Red Keep, I suppose, though.”

“I’d like it to be a competent fighting force at some point, though. Of course, I doubt any one of them would surpass you, even if I had my pick of all of my bannermen.”

The Hound snorts,
> “Might be you’re right, grace.”

He takes another swig of the tankard and sets it down on the table with a concerningly hollow thunk. I glance at the maid standing on the edge of the solar and gesture at the tankard. She gets the hint and excuses herself to fetch more.

“Does it bore you to be a Kingsguard instead of a kn- Instead of being in the field?”

Sandor looks at me and opens his mouth, then grabs the tankard and downs what’s left of the wine and wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

> “I’m quite comfortable here, grace. Fighting in a war’s a good way to get killed.”

“You like fighting, though, don’t you?”

The Hound looks at me again.

> “Aye. I like it. Makes a man feel alive.”

The maid returns with another tankard and sets it down in front of the Hound. He grabs it and pours it in my cup until it’s full and then takes another few gulps straight from it.

“Please, have some pork or venison, if you’re hungry.”

> “I’m not hungry, grace.”

He’s drinking an awful lot. I get the feeling it’s not only because of his alcoholic tendencies, either. Is my company truly so unbearable? Well, yes. I’m Joffrey.

I take a sip of my cup.

“I’m not going to kill cats anymore,” I blurt out.

The Hound doesn’t even look at me.

> “If his grace pleases. Don’t like them myself.”

I stifle a wince. This is bad. Obviously, Joffrey’s affection towards Sandor Clegane is one-sided, I’ve always known that, even after waking up in the dung cart, but to see it so plainly puts me ill at ease. This walking giant of a man is a great boon in ensuring my prolonged survival, and while he’s steadfast in his duty I feel a great peril in knowing that he doesn’t like me at all, and not only for my own admiration of his character!

What can I do, though? I must maintain my posture as Joffrey, the petty tyrant! I can neglect to abuse Sansa from here on out, but he’ll always have been present when I leered over her and made her look at her father’s severed head! If he hates knights as much as he does, he must truly despise kings! Beneath that scarred face of his is an affection for a girl that I have tormented beyond any reproach!

That scarred face of his.

I take another swig of wine and place my elbow on the table. Resting my head in my palm, I look at him.

Truly, I look at him.

Up to this point, Joffrey hasn’t truly looked at him. Sure, I recall him poring over every facet of his mutilated face, showing a gleeful disgust over how his scar tissue looked perpetually wet, the way his skin seemed to fold over on itself, and the hint of bone visible in his jaw, but beyond that, in the day to day, Joffrey only ever paid him a glance when he absolutely had to.

And so did I.

In my past life, I prided myself on how put together I was when encountering disfigured people. If a cashier was missing a few fingers, I’d maintain eye contact. If a man at the bar had a stutter, I’d wait patiently for him to finish his sentence. If a mother was escorting her mentally disabled son through the grocery store, I would acknowledge him and speak to the mother as if nothing was amiss. Where others might balk, or snigger, or avoid, I thought myself enlightened on the plight of society’s unfortunate souls, but all the while I was ignoring rather than perceiving. And that’s exactly how I, and Joffrey, handled the Hound.

Now, though, I’m looking. I don’t ignore his scar tissue. Sitting beside me, that’s all I can see- his ruined, burned face, deep crevices and craters, the lack of lips or even an ear on this side of his head. He’s staring out through the window, but he can feel my eyes on him, and he glances at me briefly before fixing his gaze forward. I continue to look. His breathing picks up, and he takes another gulp of wine. I still look. He glances at me again, and grunts- or snarls, perhaps- and finally, when I continue to look, he snaps and turns on me.

> “Something the matter, grace?!”

I flinch, his anger suddenly reminding me how bigger than me he is. I’m drunk, and my judgement is off. Perhaps that wasn’t a good idea, and my intentions were not as plain as I had thought, but I keep looking regardless, focusing on the eye beneath the hairless brow.

“I- Sorry! I just- Does it hurt?”

> “What?”

“Does it hurt- your burns? Do they hurt, still?”

He blinks, though his scowl stays on his face. A heartbeat passes, and he turns back to face the window in his seat.

> “No, I feel fine. They don’t hurt.”

I nod, even though he isn’t looking at me. I take another sip of wine, finishing my cup.

He stares out the solar window.

> “They don’t feel like anything.”

> “It was cruel, what your brother did. I’d like to help you kill him.”
> “I’m not going to hurt Sansa anymore. Falling into that cart knocked some sense into me, it seems.”
> “The world is an awful place. During my reign, I’ll do my best to make it more just.”

>>6414045
>"My fall made me realize something about looking at things from a new angle. Besides that, I cannot change the past, but each of us can choose how to approach the future."

>>6414045
>“I’m not going to hurt Sansa anymore. Falling into that cart knocked some sense into me, it seems.”

>>6414045
>> “I’m not going to hurt Sansa anymore. Falling into that cart knocked some sense into me, it seems.”

>>6414045
>> “I’m not going to hurt Sansa anymore. Falling into that cart knocked some sense into me, it seems.”

>>6414045
> “I’m not going to hurt Sansa anymore. Falling into that cart knocked some sense into me, it seems.”

>>6414045
> “I’m not going to hurt Sansa anymore. Falling into that cart knocked some sense into me, it seems.”

I don't mind the sentiment behind >>6414057, but it feels kind of shallow, especially given the person we're talking to right now.

I can hear tourney swords clinking against each other in the middle bailey below. Fainter and further, I hear chattering in the outer yard, the rolling of cart wheels and horses whinnying. Further still is the ambient pandemonium of King’s Landing.

I take a deep breath.

“I’m not going to hurt Sansa anymore.”

Sandor stiffens, but he keeps looking out of the window.

“Falling into that cart knocked some sense into me, it seems. I don’t blame her for pushing me. Anyone would push me.”

Silence. A maid comes out and I shoot her a look, and she retreats back into the bedchamber.

“You weren’t trying to throw her into the Rush either, were you? You were trying to get her out of here, to protect her from what you imagined my mother would do to her. What I’d do to her, once you realized I was alive.”

Dulled swords clang against each other in the bailey. A joke in the yard lands and laughter rises above the rooftops. The city hums.

“I don’t know what was wrong with me, dog. I don’t know why I did all those terrible things. Killing her wolf when it was Arya’s that attacked me- and it only bit me because I was acting a cunt, making like I was going to fight her little friend with a real sword. I might have done it, too, might have killed that boy. But I made you do it, I made you kill him. I shouldn’t have done that. I should’ve told my father the truth, and spared the boy, and Sansa’s dog, and I shouldn’t have killed Ned Stark either-“

The Hound’s chair grinds against the stone floor as he scoots it back and stands up, the sound startling me. Glaring down at me, he growls,
> “No. You shouldn’t have fucking killed Ned Stark,”
And then he stomps out of the Solar.

Moments later, a maidservant rushes through the door and looks down at me, concern on her face.

> “Oh, your grace! What happened?! What did he say?!”

“Nothing-! He didn’t say anything.”

> “Does my liege need anything? Should I take my leave?”

“No. Yes. I’m fine, truly.”

She bows and takes her exit. I sniffle, and a breeze cools two thin lines that trail down beneath my eyes. I wipe them away with my sleeve.

Much later, I exit my apartment and find Ser Boros Blount standing guard outside my door.

“Where is Clegane?”

> “Your dog told me he was relieved of duties for the day and left the Keep. Did he tell me false?”

“No, no- did he say anything else?”

> “No, sire.”

I shrug, and we start down the corridor towards the spiral steps. I spent most of the afternoon in my bedchamber, wasting away from the sickness of my daydrinking before my head and back began throbbing in tandem. A tincture of milk of the poppy eased the aches in my body as well as in my spirit, and I decided to at last brave the Keep. The steps trouble me less than this morning, and before I know it I’ve crossed the drawbridge over the dry moat into the main castle. Exiting into the middle bailey, the edge of the sun barely peeks over the western walls, and I know it will be less than an hour before it sinks into the Sunset Sea.

The bailey is empty save for a few servants, the stableboy from yesterday, and a handful of city watchmen. Three butts are piled against the wall, a roundel of chalk drawn into the roughspun textiles laid atop them, with several arrows sticking out and many more empty holes all over. So my Stag Guard drilled with bows today as well, good.

I turn to Ser Blount to ask, “Where is my Stag Guard?”

Blount huffs,
> “Ser Moore’s responsible for them, sire. He was drilling them earlier, but they must be done now. I don’t know where they are now.”

I see the City Watch Garrison down the serpentine steps, and wonder.

> “No, grace, they ain’t kept here. Moore did bring ‘em round, but Ser Slynt put his foot down, said we ain’t got the room,”
The Gold Cloak captain says to me. I grumble with more than a little aggravation. The milk of the poppy did help with traversing stairs, but it’s still quite a bit of steps between the bailey and the barracks. The captain senses my aggravation and quickly adds,
> “I think they’re somewhere in the outer yard. That’s where they headed after Ser Slynt turned them away.”

“Thank you, captain. Come along, Blount.”

As my back protests with each step, I must remember that it could be worse- the gold cloak barracks could be further down the serpentine steps than just halfway. Climbing back into the middle bailey, I head towards the portcullis to get into the outer yard, but I stop when I hear a rancor from the stables.

The stables are built under the thinner walls that separate the outer yard from the bailey, or rather, the wall is built over the stables. While larger, multiple doors face out towards the yard, there is a side entrance large enough for two horses to ride through that faces the bailey. Approaching this side entrance, the noise within becomes clearer; jovial merriment, laughter, conversation, and excited shouting. I enter the stables.

It’s dim inside, and the setting sunlight hardly shines through the cracks in the roof and walls, the voices coming from the other end of the stables. As me and Ser Blount walk down the gangway, the voices hush and a head peeks out over the stable door.

It’s Harlan!

> “It’s King Joffrey!”

Cheers erupt from inside the stable and Harlan swings it open, beckoning me in. When I reach the end of the gangway and look inside the stable, I see Aldwin, Galt, and Robert sitting down on the ground around a linen cloth, a candle burning in the middle of a spread of cheese and salt pork, two wineskins beside, and one in Aldwin’s hand. The stable has been completely cleared of straw bedding, probably to accommodate the candle, and the pile sits on the other end of the gangway opposite the stable door.

“What are you all doing in here?”

> “Ser Moore said this was the best quarter we’d get at such short notice, grace,”
Harlan says as Aldwin, Robert, and Galt all stand up to bow.

> “I mentioned the rooms we was bathed in, an’ he told me to keep me mouth shut, said they was for proper lords and ladies and such,”
Aldwin adds, taking a sip from his wineskin.

“This isn’t appropriate at all. I’ll speak to Ser Slynt and get you proper arrangements,” I begin, before Galt cuts me off.

> “Nonsense, sire, these accommodations are quite satisfactory. Ser Moore was even kind enough to provide us with libations.”

Galt crouches down and picks up a piece of cheese, pairing it with the salt pork in his hand and biting into it.

> “Bein’ honest, sire, compared to the dungeon, this stable feels like a castle. Food’s a mite better as well,”
Harlan says, clapping me on the shoulder before Ser Blount shoves him off.

“That will do, Blount. Stand guard outside of the stables.”

> “Ser, leaving you alone with these men is most unwise. Grant me at least stand on th-“

“Outside, Blount. If they rape and kill me, simply lock the door and burn the stable down with them all inside.”

Blount’s neck turns purple as my men snigger, and he spins on his heel and stomps toward the outer yard entrance in the middle of the gangway. Pycelle’s warning about my Kingsguard taking offense to my Stag Guard obviously rings true with that pig-faced cretin. I must remember that not all of my white cloaks will be so ambivalent towards them as the Hound.

Gods be good, I hope the Hound hasn’t fled.

I enter the stable, though think better of sitting on the ground. Though the straw’s cleared out, these clothes feel too fine to dirty with dust and particles of other substances like to be found on a stable floor.

“Tomorrow, at least, we will have you in finer accommodations. Not like to be as grand as the apartment I had you all cleaned in, but a cot or a bunk should serve you better than straw.”

> “Please don’t worry yourself on our account, sire. Harlan here’s slept under the stars more often than a roof, and Robert’s so accustomed to Flea Bottom that he hardly notices the relative lack of fleas in here! Aldwin shall be passed out before this candlestick is half burnt, and I- I am just so grateful to be eating cheese and meat.”
Galt guffaws, taking another morsel from the linen.

“Right. Very well, then… Would you like more food, or drink, at least?”

Aldwin’s eyes light up and he takes a break from drinking to open his mouth, but Galt speaks over him,
> “We’ve dined better tonight than we have this whole week, to a man. Surely his grace has better things to do than fuss over his humble swordsmen?”

> “I suppose he has. My queen mother will miss me at supper.” [Leave the stables, go to the Small Hall]
> “He might, but ensuring the success of this venture is paramount. [Fraternize. Speak with Robert.]
> “I suppose he has. Tomorrow is a big day, and in addition to better accommodations, you’ll have more brothers to boot.” [Return to Maegor’s Holdfast, go to sleep.]

>>6414357
>I suppose he has, my queen mother will miss me at supper.
>"It's good that you are merry, there will be work enough later."

We have seen to and tended our men in proper fashion. Unless we have a better idea of how we want our relationship, it should be better had as a leader they know well, but not intimately.

That blurs lines of authority

>>6414357
>> “He might, but ensuring the success of this venture is paramount. [Fraternize. Speak with Robert.]

I would like to know more.

>>6414357
> “I suppose he has. My queen mother will miss me at supper.” [Leave the stables, go to the Small Hall]
Anon has the right of it. Man, I hope we didn't fuck up with the Hound. Oh well, we have a lot of Joffrey's sins to make up for before we even start on our own.

>>6414357
>> “I suppose he has. My queen mother will miss me at supper.” [Leave the stables, go to the Small Hall]

“I suppose he has. My queen mother will miss me at supper.” I look over them one last time and give an affirming nod. Starting back down the gangway, I rap my knuckles on the wood gate and Ser Blount ends his vigil outside of it, following me back through the stables to the middle bailey. The sun has set by now, and even though sky is still a dim blue, a servant walks around the bailey lighting torches on the walls.

We head towards the small hall- the one in Maegor’s Holdfast, not the one used by the small council- and after a short walk through the castle, we cross the portcullis and come upon Cersei hosting dinner. With Tommen and Myrcella already likely put to bed, Lancel’s at her side now, with the guests I had seen earlier seated closest along with a handful more retainers, supplicants, and so on. A hush falls over the dinner as they begin to take note of my presence, and seats begin scraping against stone as all take a stand to acknowledge me.

> “May I present my son, King Joffrey Baratheon,”
Cersei says, a warm smile on her face,
> “What an honor and a delight that you’ve decided to sup with us this evening, my dear. I had thought you’d be resting in your chambers.”

I walk towards the other end of the long table and take my place in the traditional end seat. When I sit, everyone else sits back down.
“I’ve been resting all afternoon, mother. My back feels stronger by the minute.”

> “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that, your grace. My Polianna and I have been keeping you in our prayers ever since the incident!”
Some bearded bald lordling seated next to me says as I reach for the platter of meat. Some kind of waterfowl, a duck, or perhaps a swan. Whatever it is, it’s covered in olives stuffed with peppercorns, and I’m interested to see how the acidity cuts the savory.

> “Indeed, only a son of Storm Lord Robert might fall from the walls of the Red Keep and live to tell the tale!”
Another man opposite the first one bellows, raising his cup and adding,
> “A toast to our King Joffrey’s health, and to the good omen it brings that he walks away unscathed from such a fall!”

Everyone raises their cups and parrots the toast, and I smile politely, cutting a strip of meat from the slice on my plate. I’m just about to take a bite when my mother says,
> “It wasn’t just a fall, my lord. My liege son was pushed.”

That cuts through the joviality of the toast like a cleaver through a suckling pig. The cups aren’t raised so high now, and the guests begin murmuring their quiet umbrages at the attempt on my life that they don’t sip from their cups, certain that the first to imbibe in the toast will draw my mother’s ire. I stifle a sigh and put my fork down, picking up my own cup, which has already been filled by an attendant.

> “Then let us drink, my friends, to peace in the realm, and that the rest of my reign be less than half as eventful as its first few days.”

The mirth in the room climbs back to where it had been before my mother had cut it down, and they raise their cups to full height again before heartily sipping. I sip from my cup and the ghost of my penance for drinking earlier throbs lightly against my temples. I pick my fork back up, the piece of meat and a full olive still skewered on its prongs.

> “I heard, your grace, that you spared the girl that had pushed you off the wall,”
The bald lord says to me, interrupting my attempt to dine for the second time.
> “You are most magnanimous, I think, to not even throw her in the dungeon. Quite inspiring, I doubt I’d have the graciousness to forgive such a dreadful act on my person so easily.”

> “Oh, she’s not forgiven by any means, Lord Barror,”
Cersei cuts in,
> “My son is simply contemplating an appropriate punishment for her, isn’t that right, your grace?”

I make every effort to set the fork down calmly, staring across the length of the table at my mother.

> “I already have punished her, my lady. In fact, it was Ser Blount here that I bade reprimand her for her treason.”

Blount had taken his place against the wall next to the door when I had entered, and he lets out a snort,
> “THAT? You bade Ser Trant to hit her worse that morning, when she refused to get decent for court!”

Me and Cersei shoot him a simultaneous gaze, and the venom therein both is sufficient to wipe the smirk off his face and shut him up. We turn our heads back towards each other, and I still see a loathing in her eyes when she looks at me.

> “You told me yesterday that you would extract your own justice. Is it truly just to merely receive a beating as punishment for attempted regicide?”

The table goes quiet again, some guests feigning a fascination with the plates of food in front of them, some glancing between Cersei and me as we trade words. My head throbs.

“It is, if the king says it is, my lady.”

Cersei nods and smiles sweetly, saying,
> “I just worry, your grace, that failure to properly address this incident might embolden others that would make an attempt on your life,”

“She is to be my wife. Was I to cut off her hands? Would you have me wed a cripple?”

> “I think this arrangement your late father made ought to be reconsidered, in light of this current scandal. How would it look, to marry the daughter of a traitor?”

“It would look, my lady, like the Stark and Baratheon bloodline has been merged, and that the rebels in the north are fighting their own kin. It would look like we value the life of Uncle Jaime, their prisoner, more than a few bruises on his nephew’s back, and I’m certain if anyone should appreciate my showing Sansa mercy, it would be him, and those that love him.”

I punctuate myself by finally chomping down on the food at the end of my fork. It must be swan, the meat is tender and overwhelmingly rich, but the tangy, oily olive and earthy heat of the pepper cuts right through it, and I feel I could eat the whole bird as long as I was armed with this garnish. Exquisite.

Cersei smiles sweetly, and dips her head to cut a piece of fish in two.

> “Of course, my dear. Forgive a mother for her overwrought worry.”

The tension deflates, and the more charismatic guests begin new conversations that soon bring the ambient volume back to what might pass as a pleasant evening. Glad as I am for that, the exchange with Cersei has resurrected my afternoon caskhead, and it seems that my only recourse is more wine. I don’t even want to marry Sansa, but what if that’s the only way to save her now?! That’ll be a happy marriage, she might throw herself off the wall instead.

The bald lordling tries to strike up a conversation on non-edible crop taxes. I defer him to Petyr Baelish, my master of coin, wherever in seven hells he is right now.

I just need my Stag Guard. Just enough of them where I can start sinking blades into people’s backs without worry. Then I can just send Sansa home if I want, and who will stop me?

Another toast, this time to my late King Father, who had been brought up in conversation on the other end of the table. I raise my cup, and sip, and the wine worsens my headache rather than eases it.

Hells, I could end the war with Robb at least- let him be King in the North. I consider whether that’s a good idea. I have no emotional attachment to being King of all Seven Kingdoms, but it just so happens that there are two other of my kingdoms in open rebellion now, and as grateful as Robb may for acknowledging him as an independent sovereign, that gratitude is not like to extend to an alliance against Stannis and Renly.

An attendant refills my cup without my asking. Fine. I take another sip, and pull some fried fish onto my plate. Battered and everything, I hadn’t thought they had such cuisine in this era.

If I can sneak Sansa out of here before Stannis kills Renly, that would open up the Tyrell alliance via marriage to Margaery and end Highgarden’s rebellion, at least. I must take care not to interfere in the Reach. That wraps itself up quite conveniently for me on it’s own, if I recall correctly. Oh, wait- I’ll need to win the Battle of Blackwater first. Blackwater. Uncle Tyrion’s on his way, just now. Should I befriend him like I’ve tried with the Hound? If that venture’s twice as successful as it was with the Hound, Tyrion might actually try to poison me.

Platters of meat and bread and cheese are scooped up by servants and replaced with ones full of pastries. It’s dessert. I’ve stuffed myself on swan and fish already and I’m not confident my winesick will stay contained to just my head, so I stand up and excuse myself. Well wishes for my health and a restful sleep follow me out the door as I walk towards the spiral stairs, Ser Blount in tow. Now my head’s the one protesting as I mount each step, wondering if the holdfast had grown in size since I last descended it. I make it to the top at last and drift to the door to my apartment antechamber.

The older maidservant that had scrubbed me yesterday awaits me in my bedchamber. Her smile is a troubling mix of maternal warmth and promiscuity. As she helps to undress me, I ask if she can prepare a cup of milk of the poppy, or perhaps drakesroot, and she is pleased to tell me that she already has a draught brewing on the fire. Sitting on my bedding, I wait patiently for her to pour me a cup, and drink a couple small sips from it before placing it on my bedside table to wait for it to cool. Before I think to check if it’s cooled off yet, sleep takes me.

*Ca-chink!* *Ca-chink!* *Ca-chink!* *Ca-chink!* *Ca-chink!*

What the hell’s that noise?

*Ca-chink!* *Ca-chink!* *Ca-chink!* *Ca-chink!* *Ca-chink!*
Oh, it’s just the line. Duh. It’s been a while since I’ve been here, I hope I don’t get written up for not calling out. They’d bitch at me unless I had a doctor’s note anyway, but I bet the obituaries would be enough, the goddamn suits.

*Ca-chink!* *Ca-chink!* *Ca-chink!* *Ca- CHUNKKKKK*

Fuck’s sake, what was that? I don’t work in this part of the plant at all, but even I know the line’s not supposed to sound like that! The cans stopped moving down the conveyer, the whole thing’s probably shot. Times like these make me glad I went to night school and got my CPA, I’d hate to be the guy supposed to fix this mess.

Come to think of it, nobody’s here. Maybe a can got jammed in the labeler or something. Not like I’m about to start sticking my hand in any lathes and become a Telegram gore celebrity, but it’s worth a look. I walk down the line, passing the sealed, unlabeled aluminum cans. The conveyer slopes up, and before long the cans are at head level, high enough to start blocking the sunlight coming through the window as I pass, strobing gold.

I round the machinery and start towards the labeler, which has a castle-forged sword sticking out of the gears. Well, there’s your problem! I grab the pommel of the sword and give it a yank. The gears grind in protest. This thing’s really stuck in here, huh?

> “What do you think you’re doing? That’s MY sword!”

There’s a kid in here. Can’t be much older than a 6th grader. I scoff.

“It’s my sword now, pal. Should’ve taken better care of it.”

I get another couple of impotent yanks in before a sealed can of beans hits the back of my head, and my hangover headache comes roaring back. I spin around, glaring down at the brat. Even though I’m much taller than him, he doesn’t flinch, sneering up at me with big green eyes and pouty lips, blonde curly hair down past his shoulders.

> “Give me my sword,”
He threatens.

“It’s stuck. You messed it up. You broke this whole machine, probably, and I’m gonna be the asshole that takes responsibility.”

> “You’re like to break it worse than I did, you oaf! Do you even KNOW how it works?!”

“I’ve got a better shot at fixing it than some snot-nosed spoiled brat. Get outta here, you little shit. You’re through.”

> “You will give me my sword back.”

“It’s STUCK. I don’t know how to get it out, and even if I did, I wouldn’t give it back to you!”

Anger flares in his eyes and he tries to shove me. He’s too small to do anything, I’m a grown man. He stomps on my shoe, which does hurt, so I shove him, and he flies back, crashing into the line and knocking some unlabeled cans off the conveyor.

“Oh, christ, I didn’t shove you that hard, you big baby.”

> “You- You BASTARD! You’ll lose your hands for that! I’ll-“

His whining is cut off when the big bay doors at the end of the plant suddenly fly open. Instead of the loading dock on the other side, it’s just black. Black and cold. Night outside. Night outside for a thousand years hence. The black doesn’t stay outside, it ebbs in like ink in water, swallowing the wall around the bay door.

> Pull the sword out of the labeler.
> Help Joffrey to his feet and run.
> Run for it, abandon Joffrey.

>>6414537
>Draw the sword from the labeled.
>"Get running punk"

Swords burst into flames all the time right, here hoping this one does.

>>6414593
+1

>>6414532
>start sinking blades into people’s backs without worry.
Need to pick the right time. It will still look sanguinary so thats another issue. Petry and Varys might realize things are going weirdly if we cant keep the act until our night of murders.

>Then I can just send Sansa home if I want, and who will stop me?
How many do we want to kill and how quickly, there are some that can stop us in doing whatever decision we go for.

>end the war with Robb
I am not sure thats quite enough to satisfy the guy, having killed his dad and all the other shit Joffrey did. We did a lot of bad things, plus Stannis is sending around ravens about our siblings and us being incest bastards, Petry and Varys create problems in the shadows, and Rob has more than just northmen behind him. Rob not only had his bannermen declare him King in the North : when he did go south, he proclaimed the Riverlands also part of his North Kingdom due to his bloodline ties and he was accepted by the Riverlords and the Tully. On top of this the Iron Throne authority would weaken further if a kingdom is lost, its already not in a good place at the moment. But i reason isekai'd guy doesn't want the Stark to suffer more and wants to avoid the stain of the Red Wedding.

>sneak Sansa out
Could work. For save her and put her away from Cersei, for stop the war it will take more than that. But it would open up the Tyrells if isekai'd guy wants Margaery, and the south mostly secured. The other kings need to die or surrender first, we need them dead or defeated. After that there is still the issue we arent a Baratheon.

We are likely goin to ignore that and go for Margaery. She is a beautiful woman. We can have Tommen marry Shireen for secure the actual Baratheon line (since its a Lannister and a Baratheon in reality), and send Myrcella to Dorne for another marriage. More or less the entire south would be secured like this, which leaves securing Riverlands, Vale and Iron Islands (if they rebel again). If we want to detach the North we could after defeating Rob and forcing him to give us the Riverlands, but the Stark have little reason to stop hating us even if we give them liberty.

>>6414537
>Help Joffrey to his feet and run.
Two souls inside a dream

>>6414537
>Help Joffrey to his feet and run.
Little shit, let's GTFO

I give up on the sword, I’ve got that knowing feeling that the more I try to do something during an emergency, the harder it’ll get. Instead, I grab the boy by the arm and lift him to his feet, yanking him as I bolt back up the line. Extraordinarily, the ground does not feel like quicksand, and the black does not speed up exponentially. Without any reason, I know if I make it to my office, we’ll be safe, and we’ve just made it to the door that connects the office complex to the canning plant.

I throw the door open and pull Joffrey through. This isn’t the office complex. We’re in some kind of great hall, but the stonework isn’t red, it’s a pale green, and all the tables and chairs and food are knocked about, on their sides or upside down, and there’s blood all over the floor. Northern blood. I keep running, pulling the boy along.

> “We need the car! Seven hells, where’s your bloody car?!”

“I don’t know! I crashed it! C’mon!”

We run through the large double doors, the chill of the black on our backs. This castle seems to go on forever. Hall after hall, chamber after chamber, the candles on the walls blown out as we run past them by the air pressure bubble of the pursuing nothing. The blonde kid’s faltering now, but my grip on him forces his pace to keep up. Just one more door, I can feel it. Just one more door, right ahead. We crash through it and fall.

We’re falling!

Soft snow breaks our fall. It’s cold as shit. Freezing. There’s snow billowing in a gale around me, but the moon is out, and it’s bright enough that I can see around me. I look to the boy- he’s out cold, laying in the snow. I should move him, he’ll freeze to death, except I’m being watched. Trees surround me, good luck picking out a voyeur in the woods at night! My head’s on a swivel, I’m looking around, desperately searching for it. I missed the tree for the forest- it’s right in front of me, the heart tree is looking right at me, scowling disapprovingly, and I realize I’m in the Godswood at King’s Landing.

I stare at it for a moment, expecting it to speak. It scowls disapprovingly.

“What!?” I cry, throwing my arms apart in exasperation.

The heart tree scowls disapprovingly.

“I didn’t ask for this! Don’t look at me like I’m trespassing! I’m not! This is a kidnapping!”

The heart tree scowls disapprovingly. Then it glances up to the northern sky. I turn my head to look.

A hand reaches from behind the giant wall of ice and plucks the moon from the sky, tearing it down towards the world. Just before it’s pulled behind the wall, a pale head with a horrible face leaps up and swallows it whole.

I gasp, eyes shooting open. I know better than to think I’m in my apartment.

Well, I am in my apartment after all- my royal apartment.

> “Good morrow, your grace!”
A sweet voice heralds, its owner kneeling her demure frame beside my bedding and smiling at me.

“Ah- my back- stiff-“
I complain.

> “Yes, sire, we’ve a fresh draught of drakesroot brewing for you. Grand Maester Pycelle says it shall stay your morning aches longer than milk of the poppy. I can also put a pinch of that in the brew as well, if his grace pleases!”
My chambermaid Phoebe says with a cheerful smile.

“Yes, yes- please. I’ll need-“

> “Help out of bed, aye, grace!”
A deeper voice with a satisfying rasp to it answers, and with no small effort I turn my head to find the largest of my maidservants, Priscilla, on the other side of my bedding. Phoebe and Priscilla slide their hands beneath my back and lace their fingers together, then take either of my biceps with their free hands, gently lifting me into an upright seated position on my bedding with minimal discomfort. It is a significant improvement over their efforts yesterday, which involved four of them clumsily trying to rotate and manipulate my body.

“Oh, gods- marvelous effort, my ladies. Now, the tincture, please.”

> “Aye, m’lord!”
Phoebe walks to the hearth and retrieves a kettle hanging from its spit. After administering the additional opiate I had requested, she gingerly pours the brew into a small cup and delivers it to me. I blow on it for a moment and then sip heartily.

“This will serve until I’ve had my bath, thank you.”

> “Oh, no time for that, grace,”
Priscilla chides playfully, laying fresh clothes on my bed beside me and starting to pull my pants up my legs,
> “You’re to receive your hopeful champions for your Stag Guard!”

Seven hells, that’s right! That’s today! I almost ask ‘what time will it begin?’ before remembering that I did not quite specify a time.

“Is it daylight? What is the hour?”

> “T’was eight bells, last I heard,”
Phoebe says as she slides my doublet over my arms and head.

“Is there anyone at the King’s Gate?”

> “Oh yes,”
Priscilla says, pulling a boot onto one of my feet.
> “From what I’ve heard, there was already a crowd there at daybreak, and it’s like to have since gotten bigger.”

“Daybreak?! They haven’t started, have they?”

Priscilla gets the second boot on with a huff, and then grabs under my armpits to lift me to my feet.

> “Don’t jape now, your grace! How’re they to start judgin’ who can join the king’s Stag Guard without the king?”

I down the rest of my morning tincture and hand the cup back to Phoebe. The way the two practically shove me out my own antechamber makes me suspect somebody’s been badgering them about when I’d wake up.

Ser Meryn Trant stands vigil outside of my apartments, and I try not to let the disappointment show on my face when I see he isn’t Sandor.

> “I’m glad to see his grace has arisen. Poor Ser Slynt is having trouble enough containing the crowd, so I suggest you decide where you will hold the proving grounds, if it please you.”

> Hold the Stag Trials in the Outer Yard. Select based on melees of 10 versus 10. A faster process to be sure, but with less scrutiny on individuals.

> Hold the Stag Trials in the Throne Room. Select based on duels of 1 versus 1. Slower than a series of melees, mind, but with more opportunity for exceptional men to shine.

>>6415301
> Hold the Stag Trials in the Outer Yard. Select based on melees of 10 versus 10. A faster process to be sure, but with less scrutiny on individuals.
Let the gods reveal any truly worthy men from the masses

>>6415301
>> Hold the Stag Trials in the Throne Room. Select based on duels of 1 versus 1. Slower than a series of melees, mind, but with more opportunity for exceptional men to shine.

>>6415301
>> Hold the Stag Trials in the Outer Yard. Select based on melees of 10 versus 10. A faster process to be sure, but with less scrutiny on individuals.

>>6415301
> Hold the Stag Trials in the Outer Yard. Select based on melees of 10 versus 10. A faster process to be sure, but with less scrutiny on individuals.

As soon as we stepped out of the main keep, I could already hear the bedlam outside of the King’s Gate, and as we cross under the portcullis into the outer yard, the cacophony only grows in intensity. Unlike yesterday, where the yard was bustling with servants, their children, and tradesmen rolling their carts through to sell goods and provisions, only house guards and city watchmen occupy the yard today along with five of my Kingsguard interspersed throughout the cloaks of red and gold, Ser Trant included.

I can’t help but beam when I see Sandor at the interior edge of the King’s Gate, speaking with a watchman through the portcullis bars. The square beyond the gate is completely obfuscated by a swelled mass of people, teeming with sellswords, smallfolk, and whomsoever else heeded the call I had put out yesterday. Only a thin sliver of the red pavement is visible behind the line of gold cloaks that keep the crowd from spilling up against the walls of the Red Keep.

“Seven hells! How many are there?”

> “I can’t say for certain, your grace, but you can be sure this mob has each street leading up to the square just as crowded to about halfway down Aegon’s High Hill.”

That many, eh? That’s to be expected, I suppose. It’s not as if I expected a non-affair when I sent for the criers yesterday, but I couldn’t have imagined what this many people would look like. There must be nearly as many people here as the execution of Ned Stark.

Right away I realize that my hopes to preside over the trials from atop my Iron Throne were too fanciful. Large as it is, this crowd would easily fill it with men to spare, and even if we did not hold duels in it the filth and mess they’d be like to leave behind would take days of continuous effort for the servants to clean up. Today, the name of the game is efficiency, and so I start towards Janos Slynt, who I spy speaking with his captains near the stables.

> “Your grace, at last!”
Slynt and his captains dip their heads as I approach,
> “Your watch is dutifully maintaining order within and without the walls of the Keep. We are now awaitin’ further instruction as to what shall be done with the mob.”

“The trials will be a series of melees held in the Outer Yard. Reinforce the King’s Gate and let only a hundred of them within the Yard at any given time. After each melee, I and my captains shall make selections. Anyone that isn’t selected, and able to walk, shall leave back through the King’s Gate, and the corresponding amount of men that haven’t fought yet shall be admitted through.”
I think for a moment.
“Actually, send them through a postern. No use gridlocking the gate.”

Slynt nods after a beat, and I’m worried I’ll have to repeat myself before he turns back to his captains and barks orders that more or less mimic what I just said in front of them. He turns back to me.

> “Anything else that I can be of service to his grace?”

After another moment of consideration, I say,
“Have someone mount a gallery for me and my Kingsguard. No heraldry or anything, just a simple stand. Oh yes- and have the Master of Arms fetch some tourney swords from the armory.”

> “Aye, grace, except that to my knowledge, there is no Master of Arms currently in his grace’s employ.”

I throw my hands up as I start towards the King’s Gate, shooting a peeved look back at Janos,
“The swords are what’s important, Slynt! Figure it out!”

The bellowing of the crowd reaches a fever pitch this close to the Kings Gate, and two men standing three feet apart have to shout to be comprehended. Sandor sees me before I get that close, though, and if there’s any lingering resentment or embarrassment from our last conversation it isn’t plain on his face.

> “Morning, Grace!”
He shouts as I reach him.
> “You’ve half of King’s Landing shown up for your trials! Best get it started before a riot breaks out!”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, dog!”
I shout back, unable to stifle my grin,
“They’re to fight in melees! I’m having a gallery set up, and the Kingsguard and I shall judge the winners!”

A few from the crowd manage to spot me through the line of Gold Cloaks and the portcullis gate, and cheers of “JOFFREY!” erupt and soon wash over the whole crowd. Ser Trant places himself between me and the portcullis, as if he feared a quarrel might make the million-to-one shot and sink into my neck. One of the gold cloak captains Slynt had spoken to marches up to us.

> “If it please his grace, withdraw further back into the yard! I need to open the portcullis!”

I nod and head towards one of the walls of the main keep, the Hound and Trant in tow.

“Where are the Stags that I have already?”
I ask once the regular volume of my words is sufficient.

> “Breaking their fast in one of the kitchens, I expect. Ser Moore fetched them from the stables this morning.”
Trant answers.

“Would you retrieve them, Ser Trant?”

> “Of course, your grace.”

Trant walks towards a postern entrance to the main keep, leaving me and the Hound by ourselves- save for the Lannister House Guards that studiously relocate themselves to loiter around me. Me and Clegane stare out at the yard, looking at nothing in particular. A nervous discomfort clutches my stomach.

“How are you this morning, dog?”

> “Same as every morning. Winesick.”

The discomfort subsides, and I smile.

It’s almost an hour before my gallery is mounted, flush against the wall of the main keep. Auspiciously, there are seven seats, one on a raised platform in the middle for me and three on either side, enough for me and each of my Kingsguard- save for uncle Jaime who is currently cultivating a beard in some dungeon in Riverrun. Even more auspiciously, the time it took to erect the platforms was about as long as it took for the gold cloaks to push the crowd back to allow enough space in the square to control the admittance to my specifications. As I climb up the wooden steps to the platform, I notice another adjacent gallery is three quarters through its own construction, and I walk the length of the platform to ask the carpenters what they’re doing.

> “Queen Cersei requested a voyeur for herself and her guests, your grace!”

I’ll bet she did. I’d also wager that one or more of my Kingsguard will be honored to sit in this auxiliary gallery so that my mother can sit next to me before the day is through.

Mercifully, when I later spy Cersei and her entourage descending the steps from the Great Hall, she merely smiles and waves at me as she passes under the platform, some of last night’s dinner guests in tow, along with her cousins Lancel and Tyrek.

When the herald is finally sounded and the portcullis opens, the first hundred men pour into the yard and congregate in front of the gallery, but not too close- a row of Lannister guards stands between the platforms and the crowd. I sit atop the raised platform on my gallery and take the measure of them- and try to hide my disappointment. With a crowd that large, presumably the largest and most eager would have shoved their way through their lessers and been at the very front of the crowd when the gold cloaks started admitting people, but if this was truly the cream of the stock outside, these trials might conclude before midday. I don’t actually need a thousand men, I remind myself, but if I merely scrape a dozen together then this entire venture will have been for naught.

Sandor and Ser Trant sit on either side of me, the other white cloaks filling the seats except for Ser Moore, who seems to be absent. Would that I could delay the start until he takes his place on the gallery, but I fear that this scrabbled-together event has already been delayed to its absolute limit. I stand from my chair, and a silence washes over the men before me. The herald on the gatehouse takes notice and bellows into his trumpet again, and the rancor of the crowd without the walls seems to subside in volume somewhat.

Just as I’m about to speak, a clerk I hadn’t notice shouts,

> “And now to give a few words, King Joffrey Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!”

His voice must have carried beyond the wall, because what had been merely a dampened commotion now hushes. The sudden quiet is so drastic I hear a faint ringing in the absence of the ambient chaos.

“Brave men, loyal subjects, friends,”
I begin, regretting that I did not prepare a speech,
“First let me thank you for heeding your king’s call and inconveniencing yourselves on his account. Today is an historic day, today we are gathered to found the Stag Guard, a new company of virtuous men that shall be the sword to accompany my Kingsguard shield! Should you be chosen, you shall have that rare honor of being a founding member of an elite brotherhood that shall, Gods be good, outlive me and the next hundred men to reign in King’s Landing!”
The crowd before me erupts into cheers, and the crowd beyond the gate soon follows, though I am not sure I shouted loud enough for them to hear.
“Today’s trial shall be decided via a series of melees. Each of you shall organize yourselves into groups of ten men and contend with another band for glory! Those that distinguish themselves shall be asked to remain here in the Red Keep for further discernment. Ser Slynt! Select the first twenty men to compete, if you please.”

I sit back down in my chair and take a deep breath, then indicate at a nearby servant for a skin of wine. Addressing a crowd is thirsty work. Janos starts pulling men out of the crowd in the yard, but after the third he stops suddenly and approaches a house guard of Lannister. The two exchange a few words and then shake hands, and then the guard walks into the crowd and starts selecting men of his own. Ah, of course. I might have thought to pit watchmen against house guard myself- now that the two men have a wager on who’s band shall win, both bands in the melee are like to be more balanced in strength and talent. In fact…

“Guardsman! Take off your cloak and put it in the western end of the arena!” I point at a house guard selected ad hoc from the line before the gallery. It takes him a moment to comprehend, but he bounds for the western end of the square drawn into the dirt and sticks his spear into the dirt, hanging his cloak from the tip.

“Watchman! Do the same on the eastern end!” And so the gold cloak hangs his cloak on the eastern end of the yard. Janos and the house guard choosing men both take note, and direct their choices to the corresponding banners.

Red versus Gold. That ought to make betting on each bout a mite easier for whomsoever inclined. It’s certainly helpful in distinguishing either band of men for me, anyway. Before we know it, Lannister Red and Watchmen Gold both have ten men under their banners, armed with tourney swords, tourney maces, wooden bucklers and soft oak shields. Janos gives a signal to the herald on the gatehouse, and he blows a deep note out of his horn.

And there they go.

Whether Janos and the House Guard had discerning eyes for fighters, or whether I underestimated the hardiness of the crowd before me I cannot say. All I am certain of is the abject violence with which both bands of men collide into each other. Sunlight catches momentarily in several of the dulled steel arms during the initial contact, dazzling me with a shimmer of blinding sparkles before an eruption of steel upon steel, steel upon wood, and steel upon flesh thunder out in rapid succession. At least three men are knocked off their feet and land on their backs from either band in the first second of fighting, the rest of them locked in a blob of combat that quickly becomes difficult to distinguish between Red men and Gold men.
It seems that spectators are not the only ones at a disadvantage- one man glances to his right and plainly sees the man next to him, turning his attention back to deflecting a series of blows from a mace with his shield. The man he had glanced at simply swings his sword and strikes him on the head, and he crumples to the ground, blood pooling on the chalky red dust beneath his head. Another man pleads with his assailant, shouting from behind his shield, until finally he gets through to the man with the sword, who turns to face another man- and then *crack!* More the fool that he trusted the man with with shield. As more of these guileful maneuvers play out, I begin to see the folly in rushing this melee, and had I more time to think about it I might have arranged for colored sashes or armbands for either team. I should have woken up earlier. I certainly could have done with less of that terrible dream.

Finally, inevitably, there are two men left standing, swinging blunted sword against blunted sword. From the technique of parrying, blocking, and feinting, it’s obvious these men are not average peasantry and are in fact likely among the craven sellsword class Sandor had described to me yesterday. They are equally matched in size and in skill, but one man had suffered a blow to his leg earlier in the round and the other seems to be quite aware of it. Forcing him back, the wounded sellsword trips over one of the other 18 men splayed out in the arena and is overwhelmed with devastating downward slashes to his chest. I stand up quickly and manage to stay the last blow before it connected with the poor man’s collarbone.

> “The first bout is concluded!”
Janos Slynt bellows, stepping over writhing and moaning men as he saunters up to the last man standing. He squints at the man’s face- there’s blood on it now, and his hair is disheveled from exertion.

> “Err- Which banner did you fight from?”

The sellsword points at the gold banner hanging from the watchman’s spear.

Janos grabs his hand and throws it up in triumphant jubilation, and the crowd of waiting men erupts in a cheer, prompting the crowd behind the wall to do the same. I clap politely as Janos walks the man before the gallery and then skips over to the house guard to collect his winnings.

“What is your name, ser?” I ask, looming over him.

> “Sem, your lordship. At your service.”
The sellsword says with a proud smile, bowing.

I stifle a sigh. As dirty and unsporting as this first bout was, even I, who cut my teeth on spreadsheets rather than swords, can tell it’s necessary for appearances and morale that the first winner gets rewarded.

“Then rise, Sem, the first man who shall be inducted into the Stag Guard on this day.”

Sem rises and smiles up at me, his crooked teeth much more prominent than his squinty eyes, and he turns to the crowd with his hands up, basking in their cheering. I dare not look at my mother in the auxiliary gallery. I have a feeling her disgust is borne of vindication and I don’t care to give her the satisfaction.

When all the men are peeled off of the dust of the yard, 16 of them are more or less uninjured. Two can stand on their own, but have some ugly bone break that requires the attentions of Maester Pycelle, and the final two did not move even when Janos Slynt and a gold cloak captain kicked them in the ribs.

> “Most of them knew how to swing a sword, I’d say, but those dead buggers sure didn’t.”
Sandor leans over and mutters.
> “Not your fault, your grace. Slynt just picked them cause they looked strong, but any real seasoned man’d know the difference between craftsmen muscle and fighting brawn.”

There is an understandable leech in the energy of the remaining 80 men as house guards lift the limp bodies off the ground and begin carrying them off towards the sept. They’re halfway to the middle bailey before I realize with a grim twinge that I have just witnessed two men die, arguably due to my carelessness.

I don’t feel a thing.

Rather, I do feel perturbed, but only at how calm I am. No, not perturbed, confused. I don’t feel the urge to vomit, my pulse doesn’t quicken, and there isn’t a chill running over my skin- quite the opposite, the autumn sun’s starting to bear down. Before I can reflect on this strange development further, Janos Slynt approaches the gallery.

> “Shall we begin a new round, your grace?"

Shall we…?

> “At once! Select the new bands and have men let in from the square to join the queue.” [Exploit the trials to their fullest extent and recruit the maximum number of men.]
> “Not so fast- These bouts might benefit from some clarity of allegiance. Fetch some red and gold sashes or armbands or what have you, and distribute them to the new participants.” [A further delay to an already delayed melee, but may diminish casualties. Recruit 25% less men by the end of the day.]
> “Not so fast- Let’s ensure those two poor souls are the only ones to perish hence. Go to the armory and retrieve helmets and mail. And fetch some red and gold sashes while you’re at it.” [A much larger delay, but the most humane and sensible course. Recruit 40% less men by the end of the day.]

>>6416415
>> “Not so fast- These bouts might benefit from some clarity of allegiance. Fetch some red and gold sashes or armbands or what have you, and distribute them to the new participants.” [A further delay to an already delayed melee, but may diminish casualties. Recruit 25% less men by the end of the day.]
A sign of a good soldier is one who knows how to not die.

>>6416415
>> “Not so fast- Let’s ensure those two poor souls are the only ones to perish hence. Go to the armory and retrieve helmets and mail. And fetch some red and gold sashes while you’re at it.” [A much larger delay, but the most humane and sensible course. Recruit 40% less men by the end of the day.]

>>6416415
An organizational problem, we should have talk with our first Stag Guards about the trials or Sandor. But it is what it is. That 40% is a lot... A 25% is acceptable, even if is still 25% of a waiting crowd. Kinda tempted to just keep going with it too.

>“Not so fast- These bouts might benefit from some clarity of allegiance. Fetch some red and gold sashes or armbands or what have you, and distribute them to the new participants.” [A further delay to an already delayed melee, but may diminish casualties. Recruit 25% less men by the end of the day.]
Lets go 25%, the winning team each time works together and dont beat eachother. Gold team and Red team uh. We should stick working on the Stag Guard for at least some days, lets avoid other problems.

Also we need to find a Master of Arms it seems.

Qm if possible : I want to have something said to Sandor right now since is best to keep it mind for do it, than not say it and then we have to deal with it. I think it makes sense for us to say it after noticing the first issue of the Stag Guard of the day.
>Write-in
>During the pause tell Sandor to keep in mind three things him and us are going to talk about later on : Stag Guard training, Stag Guard wargear and Stag Guard code.

>>6416415
> “Not so fast- These bouts might benefit from some clarity of allegiance. Fetch some red and gold sashes or armbands or what have you, and distribute them to the new participants.” [A further delay to an already delayed melee, but may diminish casualties. Recruit 25% less men by the end of the day.]
It's not like we need them to be Kingsguard quality. They just need to be killers loyal to King Joffrey above all

“Not so fast- These bouts might benefit from some clarity of allegiance. Fetch some red and gold sashes or armbands or what have you, and distribute them to the new participants.”

> “Red and gold sashes…?”
Ser Janos blinks at me and says,
> “Where, er- where’d the sashes be kept, your grace?”

“Am I presiding over little girls knitting or men fighting? Do I look like a septa? You’ve a pair of working legs and a tongue, put them to use and find some!”

Slynt straightens himself up right quick and bounds off towards the castle. I lean back in my seat and huff, anxiously aware that each second that passes spells less worthy men for my company. A guilty voice in the back of my head reminds me that if I’m already delaying the melee, I ought procure some armor for the men fighting so as not to deprive any more wives of their husbands coming back home today, but I stifle that niggling pest by remembering that each of these men walked up Aegon’s High Hill to be here, and surely they’re all aware of the risks of fighting even with blunted tournament weaponry. Then again, if I can’t trust them to remember what banner they’re fighting for, it might not be fair to presume they have a realistic grasp on the risks of tournament fighting.

Taking advantage of the delay, Cersei descends the wooden step of her auxiliary gallery to walk to the front of mine, taking care to keep the line of house guards in between her and the leering crowd. It seems most of them know better than to whistle or cat call, but some of them nudge each other and nod in her direction and mutter amongst themselves with a grin. I prefer to believe she’s aware of their ogling.

> “Good morning, your grace,”
She says, beaming up at me, one of her ladies holding a parasol over her head,
> “Rather bloody first bout, was it not? May I take this halt to mean that you are having second thoughts?”

“On the contrary, mother- I merely sent Ser Slynt to fetch gold and red fabric to provide some clarity to the contest.”

> “Melees traditionally discern which corner a man fights for by the color of his shield. Your late father wasn’t one for jousting, but he liked his melees, oh yes. Were he here now though, I doubt he’d be pleased to see how rushed this one is. He might have counseled you to hold a proper tournament, send ravens to every holdfast still loyal to you and wait a month or so for more worthy combatants to make their way to King’s Landing.”

I bristle at the mention of Robert and look down at her.
“He might, but he’s dead now, and I think that’s a horrible shame.”

I hold eye contact for perhaps a bit too long, but Cersei doesn’t waver. On the contrary, she nods solemnly and sighs with a morose frown.

“In any case, the caliber of knight that would appear in a month’s time in the midst of a war is not worth overlooking the immediate gains I’ll have hosting a melee today. I am open to more distinguished men joining my Stag Guard, but having men at the ready for them to command shall only serve to further entice them when the time comes.”

> “It is as you say, your grace,”
Cersei nods again with a smile that could be described as proud, asking,
> “If it please you, I would like to watch some of the rounds at your side. Have you broken your fast yet? I’ve dispatched a servant to fetch some libations from the kitchen, and we’ve just opened a cask of Dornish Red.”

“Perhaps after a few more rounds, mother. I would judge the first few bouts at least to give my Kingsguard the proper notion of what kind of man I seek.”

> “Of course, my liege. Please take care not to forget about your poor mother while you are building your army.”
She bows politely and with a smile full of sunshine and glee, returns back toward her gallery. Well, that was almost pleasant.
Even more disturbing than the lack of remorse I felt at the two unfortunate dead men, I felt an alarming sense of warmth towards my mother at the end of that brief talk, and I think about why that might be. Even though I have my memories, I reason, they all might still be occupying Joffrey’s brain, the conditioned neurological connections of which might account for the absence of stress at seeing the death of two commoners along with a filial warmth towards Cersei. On the other hand, I wasn’t exactly the font of social awareness in my old life and might just be falling for her act in the same way I’d like to do so if a similarly cruel woman turned on her charms for Martin Carver.

This whole experience might make for a valuable anecdote for psychologists concerned with the quandary of natural conditioning versus biological determinism, if I had any hope of returning to my old life. More than like they would sooner have me institutionalized- if I wasn’t already rotting in a casket.

Seeing Janos Slynt wandering back into the yard with a bundle of hastily cut red and gold ribbons streaming from his arms like a maid in her wedding gown breaks me from my trance. At last, now the melee can continue. While he hands the red clump of fabric to his Lannister Guard analogue, I suddenly remember I wanted to speak with the Hound later. I lean to the side.

“Dog, I had meant to speak to you during the wait, but it seems we are out of time.”

> “Aye, grace?”

“Being that you’re to be the Commander of the Stag Guard, I’d like you to think on how they’ll be trained, what their wargear ought to be, and what their vows shall entail.”

Sandor scoffs,
> “I’ve never squired, nor have I had a squire. If you intend to keep recruiting from the smallfolk, I’d suggest you arm them with spears. Even a peasant knows which end of the spear to stick into a man. As for the vows, you’re better off having each man piss headlong into the wind, ‘cause that’s all a vow’s worth from this lot, begging your pardon. Even if you do get proper knights like your mother bade you, words are wind, and vows are just words.”

I blink and glance at the wineskin in Sandor’s hand. Must be nigh empty. My own sparse sips of wine have apparently been sufficient to make me forget that Sandor Clegane holds vows of honor, pageantry, and indeed the very notion of chivalry in ill esteem. I might win some favor with him by forgoing the process of vows altogether, but I cannot discount the weight of such a lofty notion would have on the mind of whatever smallfolk make the cut. So far though, all I have is that sellsword, Sem. He’s probably violated a sacred oath before breaking his fast today.

As for spears, the Hound has the right of it, I think. Simple to learn, arguably more effective than swords when working in tandem with other spearmen and best of all, they invoke the image of a stag’s antlers better than any other weapon I can think of. Except perhaps a trident, but until I start recruiting Stag Guards from the Neck, spears shall serve just fine.

Janos and the guard have made their selections and are fastening the red and gold armbands to their champions. I did not see it, but from both men’s interest I can tell that there’s another wager on this next bout, perhaps a double or nothing if the affirmative pats on the shoulder from the Lannister guard indicate anything. As I wait for the next bout to finally start, the harmonious clinking of men in mail marching turns my attention to the right, and arriving from the middle bailey portcullis, I see Ser Mandon Moore, four men in tow.

It’s them!

> “Good morrow, grace. Please forgive my tardiness, but I thought you might want to regard your current Stag Guard in proper attire.”

Galt, Aldwin, Harlan and Robert look up at me through the visors of their helms, each of them clad in chainmail, boiled leather, and armed with a smallsword holstered at their hips. Beside Moore’s immaculate Kingsguard armor they look unimpressive, but there’s an undeniable dignity about them from the uniform arrangement of their wargear. They all bow, though Robert and Harlan seem to have trouble with the weight on their heads and backs and move awkwardly. I can’t help but grin.

> “If I was you, I’d just accept the men who are standing and be done with it. It’s been near an hour and we’ve only had two bouts.”
The Hound grumbles.

In the end, seven of the Reds, including those still standing and the three Gold men that Oakheart had acknowledged were granted positions in the Stag Guard. Mother be praised, no man was killed, but two men from each side that weren’t selected had to be doused with a pail of water before they finally rose and wandered off the arena with the tilted saunter of drunkards.

Men were ushered in from the square to replace the twenty spent in the last bout, twenty more men from the yard were selected by Janos and the house guard, and a weapon, shield, and armband was given to each before the next bout started. Seven minutes passed in a flash as they knocked each other about, the Golds were once again victorious, and the same golden dragon made its rounds between Janos and the house guard captain. Five men recruited, four from the Golds and one from the Reds.

As the morning went on, my Stag Guard slowly took shape like a blade being worked by the Smith. Heat, pound, rinse, repeat. The more I heeded the council of my Kingsguard, the more they started to warm to the idea of having men of their own to command and so became more discerning and thoughtful in who they advocated for. Some of the men selected even began to look like men of honest character, though as of now they were outnumbered by the current pool of gritty, canny men of low honor that seemed to triumph in every bout. Mercifully, nobody else had taken a blow they would not stand up from until the fifth bout from the introduction of the armbands, and it was only the one, a man that looked to be in the middle of his fifties that had been struck in the head with a tourney mace.

My stomach growls and I remember that my mother has food in her gallery, but I’m loathe to join her, partly for dreading her company and partly because I’m certain that if I leave Sandor in charge of selection he’ll make good on his notion to only recruit the last men standing in each bout. After one more round, my hunger gets the better of me, and I delegate the selection responsibility to my dog, quietly begging him to at least hear my other Kingsguard out.

Cersei’s eyes light up when she sees me climb the steps of her gallery. Beside her, a servant holds a platter of baked apples and sharp cheese, and everyone in her retinue has a cup of wine that’s being filled from a brass flagon another servant has at the ready. The food is most nourishing, and my mother’s company is eerily refreshing. Rather than sniping about the quality of men fighting, which was visibly declining as the rounds went on, she regales me with stories about my uncle Jaime’s habit of fraternizing with the men under his command during the Iron Islander’s uprising.

> “Lord Mormont had just been knighted by your father for distinguishing himself at the battle of Pyke,”
She tells me, taking a bite of a soft slice of apple,
> “And then, Robert being Robert, deigned to allow the reavers to keep their seat on the Iron Islands. That had incensed your grandsire Lord Tywin as well as Lord Mormont, though the latter was loathe to voice his disapproval after just being honored by his king. Well, your uncle Jaime had been in command of a Lannister host, but some Mormont lordling had perished in a naval action on the way to Pyke and his bannermen were left without a command, so your uncle took it upon himself to rally them. By the time the fighting was done, you would have thought your Uncle Jaime was a Northman himself the way those bearded skirmishers regarded him, to hear Robert tell it. When the King had announced his intention to allow Balon Greyjoy to keep his seat, Lannister men had jeered, while the northmen were silent, out of respect for Lord Mormont’s knighthood. Your uncle Jaime crossed from the group of Lannister men into the gaggle of Mormont men he had commanded and bade them look upon their Lord’s face and ask themselves whether he seemed satisfied with the arrangement. Right there, in front of their Warden of the North and the King, they all took up in protest and called for their King to put the Greyjoys to the sword. The western men were so touched by their grievance that they crossed the threshold between North and West columns and the two began embracing each other and bidding their King honor the blood spilled during the Greyjoy’s invasion of the North!”

We share a laugh, and I don’t mind admitting that the image of Stark and Lannister men embracing each other brings a tear to my eye.

> “Of course,”
Cersei says, sipping her wine as her expression sours,
> “Ned Stark had your father’s ear, and counseled mercy. So upon their barren rocks the Greyjoys remained lords with only a hostage taken to Winterfell as penance for their treason. Disgraceful.”

There isn’t much conversation after that, and we watch the next round play out. After the victorious are selected, I beg my mother’s leave and return to my seat in the middle of my gallery.

The afternoon sun overtakes the morning, and the overbearing heat seems to sap the vigor of the men waiting their turn to compete, given the sluggishness of the proceeding bouts and how a couple of them drop to the ground in the waiting area from exposure. Three bells ring out before I finally stand and announce the end of my Stag Guard Trials, much to the relief of my sweltering court and also to the bitter disappointment of those men that had made it through the gate and into the yard, but had not been selected by Janos or the guard captain to fight.

When all is said and done, the Stag Guard Trials had seen fifteen melees, of which nine men perished and fourteen were grievously wounded. Of the three hundred men that fought, three and seventy of them were selected for induction. Seventy-three. Plenty enough to start ruling with the peace of mind that at least I cannot be killed from within my court. Excepting poison, a shade borne of Stannis’s seed, or of course, standing next to a sheer drop while glowering over a crying girl.

All of the selected stand at attention in front of the gallery now, the crowds cleared out from both the yard and the square. A handful of retainers linger on the auxiliary gallery, but as soon as I bade the trials end my mother and most of her noble retinue took their leave. Now, My Kingsguard stand on either side of me, and my four already armored Guard standing vigil below me, facing the initiates.

“Congratulations to all of you,” I begin, my back aching and forehead dripping with sweat, finding myself not to keen on adlibbing another speech. Instead, I pass the burden onto Sandor.

“This is Sandor Clegane. He is not a knight, but he is your commander. His words are my words. His commands are my commands. You may liken any insubordination to him as directly defying me.”

I nudge Sandor, “Welcome them to the Stag Guard, dog.”

Sandor inhales,
> “Welcome to the Stag Guard. Any of you get out of line at all, and I’ll take the blunt swords you used to get here and beat you with it until your heads collapse.”

I sigh, though my minute aggravation is eclipsed by the sheer dread I see wash over the crowd. I suppose a little fear would not be out of order in this band of lowborn thugs and peasants I am soon to entrust my life to. Petyr Baelish claps his hands and approaches the gallery.

> “Very rousing, Clegane. It’s almost a shame you are so deft with your sword, you might have had a splendid career as a mummer’s playwright with your extraordinary command of the common tongue.”

The Hound does not rise to the bait, but I am not as strong willed, it seems. Petyr frowns when he sees my expression and bows,
> “Oh, I meant no offense, your grace. I merely think it’s unfortunate such an illustrious day not have the eloquence that should befit it. You really must consult with me before you host a second Stag Trial, I have a knack for this sort of thing, you know. I used to help King Robert organize his tournaments, and I don’t mind boasting that shortly after I became involved, we started turning a profit.”

“I shall certainly consider it, Baelish. May I help you with something?”

> “Oh your grace, you jest. No, it is I who would help you. You see, placing four of your Stag Guardsmen into the stables for a n evening is one thing, but now you’ve nearly eighty heads, yes? That is a lot of mouths to feed. I come to humbly offer two of my mances in the city to house these brave men in. They are not too far from the trough of our hill, if it please your grace.”

I look over my new recruits, then down at the four of my originals, already walking around with armaments, all of their postures straightened and at attention. That is a lot of mouths to feed. What do I-

“Now is the time to hone these men into killers, grace. As it stands, from what I have seen, they are woefully undertrained, and so it should not make a difference whether they are at your side or ten minutes down the road.”

I consider Littlefinger’s words for a moment. There is some truth to it, but I don’t need a man trained in killing so long as he is capable

> “Very well. You may have these men kept in your mance, Lord Baelish.
> “The Keep shall suit them fine. [Spread them out in guest apartments and the dungeon.
> “The Keep shall suit them fine. [Spread them between the stables, the sept, and into the Gold Cloak barracks.

>>6416931
>> “The Keep shall suit them fine. [Spread them between the stables, the sept, and into the Gold Cloak barracks.

>>6416931
Ah of course. Where they sleep and eat.

- So direct Baelish influence
- Irritating future guests
- And partially crowding certain parts of the keep

I am considering if we could outright buy the manses from Littlefinger, making them ours. As a fourth option. But it might be a tad too aggressive and reveal we are too different from the usual Joffrey.

In the future it would be sensible to have a Stag Guard Barrack expansion in the Red Keep (thus resolving the issue of having them close and giving them their own section), but thats in the future and it would be an affair that might take multiple months or 1 year to be done building. We need the Stag Guard sleeping and eating somewhere in the moment.

>>6416931
>“The Keep shall suit them fine. [Spread them between the stables, the sept, and into the Gold Cloak barracks.

Lets put them here. Some problems might be created but not too many. Except the sept lmao.

I guess we can put someone on thinking where to build our Stag Guard barracks for the future. We are probably going to have to expand the Red Keep in some capacity for do it properly. Which means kicking down some stone or buildings of Kings Landing, for get that space. After the Black Water Bay battle it might be good lol.

>>6416931
>“The Keep shall suit them fine. [Spread them between the stables, the sept, and into the Gold Cloak barracks.
Like hell I'm giving Littlefinger direct influence

Maybe we can do something with all the stone sitting in the Dragonpit

“You are too kind, Lord Baelish, but the Keep shall suit them fine.”

> “No doubt the Keep will suit them, but I wonder if they should suit the Keep. There are not many guest apartments available, and even if all of your supplicants left this very day I fear they would only just fit in all those chambers. The Gold Cloak barracks do have some vacancies on the other hand, but not for much longer, I think. Of course, his grace remembers recalling the detachment Ser Slynt sent north.”

“I do recall, though they are a day’s ride yet from returning, are they not?”

Petyr coos,
> “Oh, less than a days surely, though that’s only my estimation. You might corroborate that with Lord Varys.”

“I am not so droll as to place them in the guest apartments, either way. Until the watchmen return from the Kingsroad I see no reason why their bunks can’t be warmed by the Stag Guard. The rest may take refuge in the sept. Does the Mother not welcome those with nowhere else to stay with open arms?”

> “The sept, grace? We are six days from the next service, I’ll grant, but some of your guests are so pious as to visit the sept every morning.”

“Then let them worship in The Great Sept of Baelor. They may use my litter and shall be escorted by my mother’s house guard.”

The smirk on his face curls up just a mite higher, and he nods.

> “Very resourceful. I shall make the arrangements myself, if it please you.”

“Yes, why not? Thank you for your counsel, Lord Baelish.”

Littlefinger drifts out of the yard, leaving me alone once again with my Stag Guard, and of course my six Kingsguard. I want nothing more than to recuse myself to my chamber, use the privy, and then soak in a cool bath until suppertime, but before I can escape the midday sun I think of one last thing, turning to address the crowd of men.

“All of you shall begin training tomorrow! The men beside me and Sandor Clegane are my Kingsguard, and you are also to heed their words as if they are mine own. The men before you are Galt, Aldwin, Harlan, and Robert. They have already been inducted into the Stag Guard, and will be training alongside you. When neither my Kingsguard, Sandor, or I am present, you will defer to them on all matters, and they shall share in all of your triumphs and failures, so do right by them! This should go without saying, but you are no longer guests of this Keep, but its protectors, so any molestation of the servants within shall be met with the sort of justice the Hound has promised.”

I take one last look over the crowd of men that have made the cut today. Plenty of them look like hard men to be sure, but there’s also plenty of plain, soft faces that could just as easily belong to the bakers, wharfsmen, carpenters and smiths that work in shops along all the roads of King’s Landing. I must be careful not to judge a book by its cover, but I can’t help but be reassured that perhaps this band of men shall be honed into something fierce and noble, and not devolve into the gaggle of rapist cutthroats that many would have me believe is inevitable after placing swords in their hands.

Only the Crone knows for now, however. I excuse myself, leaving the unhappy work of informing the Goldcloak quartermaster that he’ll be accommodating the fair majority of my Stags in his barracks tonight to Ser Mandon Moore. Just before I am swallowed by the cool shade of the main castle, I look up to the towers and windows and wonder whether Sansa Stark had been watching the melees from her apartments. I am unsure if she’s retained her right to move about the castle after I’d interceded on her behalf, but even if she has I doubt very much she’d take advantage of it so soon. Poor thing must be horrified. Would that I could visit her and offer my reassurances, but I’d only make things worse. Many irons I am dealing with that require more time in the fire, not in the least of which training my Stag Guard.

Priscilla lowers me into my unheated bath, which I’d had to argue up and down with her that I was not like to drop dead after submerging in cool water for a moment. She had only agreed when I finally granted that she may light the coals under the tub immediately after I get in, and as the chilly well water eases my sunbaked skin, she begins tending to the pit underneath me. The cold water does tense my back, I’m loathe to admit, but I need only to keep still and wait for the draught of milk of the poppy I sipped on before undressing to relax my poor aching spine.

“Aaaaaaahhhhh…”

> “Was your melee entertaining, your grace?”

“Entertaining and productive, my lady, though most exerting. I may take my rest after this soak.”

> “Would you like me to wake you for suppertime?”

“Perhaps… I’ll think on it. How long until the bath is warm?”

> “I’m putting extra coals in the pit to heat it faster, so half an hour.”

“Don’t boil me, mind.”

> “Ah, a’course not, grace! Though you might need another cold soak on the morrow to break the fever you’re courting now!”

I roll my eyes and lean my head back. Seventy four men… plus the four from yesterday. I could put a sword in each of their hands and do away with Cersei, Varys, Littlefinger, and whoever else I wanted to tonight, if it pleased me. I shouldn’t though, not yet, surely. The latter two provide some use that wouldn’t be so easily replaced, and though Cersei is about as helpful to my reign as the bruises in my bones, killing her would alienate some of my more load-bearing allies- Tywin Lannister, for one. Gods, I’m not like to be rid of mother until after the war is done- if I can even move to end it.

The war… I truly hope it is not folly to avoid escalating it as much as possible. The southern rebellion will sort itself out and the banners of the Reach will fall under my reign- provided I manage to survive the Battle of Blackwater. I’ll just have to remember to empower my Uncle Tyrion in some subtle manner once he arrives, and it might be that he secure victory before Tywin can ride in and take all the credit. I’ll at least remember not to sic Ser Moore on him, and he’ll escape the battle with his nose intact.

The northern rebellion is trickier. Robb Stark, unlike my uncles Stannis and Renly, does not deign to sit on my Iron Throne, and so I could just as easily end the fighting by sending a raven with the right words: “Long Live the King in the North.” Doing so is like to incense my court far worse than if I had half of them put to the sword by my Stag Guard, not in the least of which Tywin Lannister, who might even prefer me execute his daughter than give the North away to a fellow boy king. I might truly have to have Tywin removed from the game if I do plan on appeasing the Starks. I very much doubt he’d even consent to sending Sansa back home.

Perhaps I am thinking too far ahead. I’ve only had the one triumph of forming my Stag Guard since waking up in the shit cart, and I must take care to not be drunk off of that small victory. Like the Smith working his forge, hone your creation with patience and effort.

I suppose I ought to consider all the details of this Guard. Asking Sandor to think on it beyond what manner of killing implements to put in their hands may have been folly. No better time to think on it right now, if I leave this tub before it gets warm I shan’t hear the end of it from Priscilla.

MARSHAL THE STAG GUARD

Current Force: 77 Men
Commander: Sandor Clegane
Officers: Ser Mandon Moore, Ser Boros Blount, Ser Arys Oakheart, Ser Maryn Trant, Ser Preston Greenfield
Captains: Vacant for now. Not critical at this time.

Troop Arrangement
> Assign Swords, Spears, and Bows by percentile. Ex. (33%/33%/33%)
> Assign trainers for Swords, Spears, and Bows. (Each type will need its own instructor.)

Captains
Select One, Multiple, or None
> Elevate Galt to Captain of Skirmishers
> Elevate Aldwin to Captain of Pikes
> Elevate Harlan to Captain of Rangers
> Elevate Robert to Captain of Spies
> Too soon for these men, elevate none

> Write in other details.

>>6417053
Swords 10%, Spears 60%, Bows 30%

I don't think swords are that needed honestly. Keep a few for like, room clearing where spears are impractical but you can still just have 5 foot spears and use them anyway. The true reason is to give one of our kings guard more influence.

I refuse Blout, he is loyal to cercie. Same with Trant.
Maybe Oakheart. He's someone who objected to the order of beating sansa, though still did it. Even if hitting gentler than the others, it's something.
Oakheart for Spears, or if he doesn't know how to use them properly, Swords.

Get a member of the watch to train them in spears, toss him an extra stag for a days work.

Bows, Harlan can train them.

>Don't elevate any of them
I want them to have some achievement and comraderie under them before I go and give them a promotion.

>>6417053
Troop Arrangement
> Assign Swords, Spears, and Bows by percentile.
20% Swords, 50% Spears, 30% Bows

>Assign trainers for Swords, Spears, and Bows. (Each type will need its own instructor.)
- Swords: Ser Arys Oakheart, Ser Mandon Moore
- Spears: Stag Guard Commander Sandor "Hound" Clegane
- Bows: Ser Preston Greenfield, with Harlan acting as "temporary advisor."

Put Blout and Trant to other tasks, and maybe a few controlled circumstances of training. Things don't need to be too obvious, but we need their influence cut out, preferably, since they are heavily under Cersei.

Captains
>Too soon for these men, elevate none
For now.

>Write in other details.
Standard Stag Guardsmen
- Clad in Chainmail, Boiled Leather, and given a Surcoat with royal colors, and the Royal Baratheon Stag of King Joffrey I.
- Their Steel Helmet will have small stag horns placed in the top front (iron/steel)
- Simple Iron/Steel Brooch (size like a kid's hand) of a Crowned Stag holding a Sword to place visibly on the guardsman's surcoat.

>Swords specific
- Armed with a heater shield, a longsword, and a dirk
>Spears sp.
- Armed with a heavy spear, a long heater shield, a smallsword, and a dirk
>Bows sp.
- Armed with a suitable bow, a smallsword, and a dirk

Leadership specific
- Once they are chosen, Stag Guard Captains will have a small gold and black plume on their helm, alongside their helmet horns. Their Brooch will be of bronze. Allow Captains some modifications of their own equipment, too.
- Officers will each have a Brooch of silver. The Kingsguard should have some visible stag symbolism on their armor. If they don't want horns.
- Stag Guard Commander will have a Brooch of Gold. We can let Clegane decide on his own for modifications, but he is encouraged to look the part of a Commander.

Our favourites
- Have Sandor take Galt, Aldwin, Harlan, and Robert away from standard training a few times to see if they can be receptive to leadership lessons and additional harsher training sessions. A few tests here and there.

>>6417053
>>6417188
+1

>>6417188
Also

- Put on paper having a Stag Guard Barracks in the Red Keep (Red Keep will require an expansion for it. To do once the Black Water Bay battle is passed)

> “Oh, good morrow, sire! Let me just put this kettle in the hearth and we’ll get you out of bed.”

I take a deep breath, and with the assistance of my hands, push myself upright in my bed, wincing from the dull pain as my back protests, and then exhaling with a triumphant grin. Priscilla, Phoebe, and two other maidservants applaud with gleeful cheers as I shift my hips over the edge of my mattress and stand up without any assistance.

> “Oh my, his grace is getting stronger by the day!”
A maidservant cries jubilantly.

> “Don’t exert yourself too much, my liege! Remember what Maester Pycelle said,”
Phoebe chides.

“He also said I’ll need to move it to prevent it from growing stiff.” I remind her, twisting my shoulders on either side very slowly, the effort more difficult than painful.
“It is as you say, I am getting stronger by the day.”

> “I S’pose his grace won’t be needing his milk of the poppy this morning, then,”
Prisicilla threatens with a smug grin.

“If my lips do not touch a draught this instant I’ll tie you all together and throw you out of the Tower of the Hand.”

A beat passes as they all stare at me, and then we all erupt in rancorous laughter, Priscilla putting the kettle in the hearth to warm it up while the rest of them help me out of my smallclothes. My retinue of maidservants and I have developed a sarcastically threatening rapport these past two weeks that started when they had overheated a bath one morning and I screamed curses at them until they lifted me out of it. I was still drowsy from having just woken, and the milk of the poppy had further inhibited my wits such that the curses ended up being more humorous than threatening, and my attending ladies could not help but giggle. Embarrassed, I overcorrected and threatened to pour boiling water down each of their cunts, which had given pause to their laughter for a moment before the absurdity of such a mood shift had set in, and we all died of laughter. From that day on every morning started with a playful threat to smother me with a pillow in my sleep for asking one of them for a simple favor, or promising to lock them in the Maidenvault and burn it down when I had to wait a moment for breakfast in bed. If nobody else is at ease around me yet, I at least have these ladies.

One thing that I’ve grown accustomed to has been my morning cup of milk of the poppy. At first, I started each day with a pleasant buzzing warmth in my head that was a close cousin of when one is in his cups, though with much more inhibition and hand-eye coordination. Lately, there’s hardly any feeling at all, and though I am tempted to ask my maids to add an extra pinch or so, I’m wary of becoming dependent on it. This dosage shall serve as long as it eases my aches.

Dressed, I take leave of my apartments and greet the Hound, who is standing guard outside my chambers as always. He responds with the same gruff ‘Morning, Grace,” and we head to the spiral steps. For all the progress I’ve made with my maidservants these past few weeks, my relationship with Sandor seems to be stagnant. He took up his regular watch over me the morning after the Stag Trials, and neither one of us has mentioned the incident in my solar hence. The best I can pry from him has either been an affirmative nod, a smirk, or when the Gods are good, a curt, earnest laugh whenever I make a jape at the expense of Janos Slynt or Boros Blount or some other fat incompetent.

The one instance where the Hound took me by surprise was a morning in the Middle Bailey. We were observing Sers Mandon Moore and Arys Oakheart drill riposte maneuvers with the Stag Guard, and when a younger man disarmed Sem I let an impressed cheer slip out.

> “Heh. That’s nothing, you could do that much,”
The Hound said, and then after a beat, turned to look at me,
> “Here, I’ll show you.”

I was so excited that Sandor wanted to instruct me out of the blue that I hardly considered my spine injury. After demonstrating how to twist the pommel after blade bit into blade, I could feel that the path of least resistance against Sandor’s sword was sufficient to break his hold. I just about did it, too, before a piercing agony took my back as if a dirk had been sunk into it. I cried out and dropped the sword, falling to my knees and sobbing right there, in front of the Gods, my Stag Guard, and the Hound.
How typical that such a warm moment be ruined in such a humiliating fashion.
Nobody mentioned it, of course. I am the king, after all, but Sandor hadn’t offered any sort of favor since. He might have been worried he’d be blamed for it. Maester Pycelle certainly did not go to great lengths to hide his blame for the Hound, lecturing him about allowing me to strain myself as he examined my back. I’d warned Pycelle that if my mother were to hear about the incident I’d have his beard shaved, knowing that she’d certainly be informed before the day’s end given how many people witnessed it.

We reach the mouth of the main keep and descend the steps to the middle bailey. Ser Arys Oakheart awaits us at the landing, All seventy-seven of my Stag Guard standing in full gear in rows and columns behind him.

> “Well met, your grace!”
He says when we reach the bottom of the steps.

“Well met, Ser Oakheart. What is all this?”

> “I had the notion that you’d like to give your Stag Guard a preliminary inspection before they march in honor of your name day on the morrow.”

My name day! That’s right, I’d completely forgotten! A looming date these past two weeks, whenever I wasn’t immersing myself in the training and organization of the Stag Guard, I’d been hounded by my mother and her royal clerks as to how I wanted to celebrate my 13th name day. Remembering how it happened in the true history of this world, I told them I wanted a tournament without a second thought, though now I’m coming to regret being so hastily canonical. Originally, besides Arys Oakheart, most of the knights competing in the tournament were, as Sandor put it, “gnats,” and it was a bloodless and short affair. Now, I fear that my 77 Stags that have been drilling and training and marching every day for two weeks shall add some unwanted grit to the tourney, and Ser Dontos’s knighthood might not be the only casualty of the day. I could of course limit the tourney to only be the joust, though then my fears would turn to a riot from the lowborn Stags that are champing at the bit to see how their newly honed skills will improve their melee performance.

“A fine notion, Ser Oakheart. I would examine the ranks closer.”

There are 7 columns of 11 men each, though each band of skirmisher, pikemen, and rangers are not evenly distributed. They are clad, to a man, in boiled leather, chainmail, and a yellow surcoat with a red saltire on the back both to distinguish them from the gold cloaks and to appease my mother with a reference to House Lannister. On their breasts is a polished steel badge with the emblem of the Stag Guard, the design of which I had agonized for over three days before finally settling on a crowned stag holding a sword in its mouth. The captains of each force shall have their badges gilded in bronze, and perhaps even a black and gold plume on their helms whenever I see fit to elevate a man to captaincy. Each man is without a helmet for the time being- I though it appropriate that my Stag Guard have the antlers of a buck on their helmets, but the smith’s eyes nearly bulged right out of his skull when I asked him for seventy-seven.

Thirty-nine pikemen make up the bulk of my guard, their spears looming over the formation with 10 foot oak handles, a smallsword at each man’s hip and a heater shield hanging from his left arm. The next largest band are my bowmen- I thought it sensible to have more bows than swords, since while both weapons take time to master, rangers find that combat is a bit more forgiving when they make a blunder as opposed to a swordsman locked in close combat. The recurve bows they hold are nearly to a height of any man, the quivers on their backs currently empty. Like the pikemen, they also have smallswords on their hips. The only ones without smallswords are my skirmishers, of which there are only fifteen. While most of my Stag Guard are smallfolk, there were the handful of sellswords that had wielded the blunted tourney swords in the melee with a mite more aptitude than the average fighter. It seemed a folly to try and drill line formation discipline or archery into them rather than let them carry on with what was familiar to them, so into their hands a longsword was placed, along with the same shield the pikemen get. Whenever the pikes or swords are using two hands, the shields can be slung over their backs, freeing their left hands and providing additional protection to their backs to boot. Critically, every man, whether they’ve a sword, bow, or spear has been armed with a dirk, just in case they find use for a small blade on the battlefield, or I find use for a few in the Red Keep. The bells toll louder for my small council with each passing day.

As I walk the column, I make the familiar pleasantries with Aldwin, Robert, Galt and Harlan, along with some of the men I’ve come to know these past two weeks, ever playing the agreeable, mirthful superior. I’ve found that shouting praise from the edge of the bailey while they train and sharing the odd jape during their downtime has served to bolster morale, so long as I take care not to let them become too familiar with me. It’s one thing for my maids to threaten to slit my throat in my sleep when I ask them for a fresh pair of boots, but letting them call me “Joffrey” without the proper honorifics might lend itself to a breakdown in discipline. Fortunately, the Dungeon Four have taken it upon themselves to scold anyone that’s made that mistake so far and have spared me that uncomfortable burden, Aldwin getting particularly incensed a few days ago when his drinking mate raised a toast to “the boy king.” One day, when I’m as tall as they are, and I’ve hair on my chest, and we’ve spilt the blood of my enemies together, I’ll suffer their japes and allow them to call me whatever they please, for I’ll know in their hearts they call me “king.” First I’ll have to remember to live that long, though.

“I dare say, Ser Oakheart, that Kings Landing shall wonder where the lowly men that fought in the melee have gone after they see these men marching down the God’s Way in their resplendent garbs on the morrow.”

Oakheart beams, nodding,
> “That they shall, your grace!”

A voice from within the formation shouts,
> “Aye, but when we fight in the tourney, they’ll remember!”
Some men cheer their agreement. I suppress an anxious cringe. Their hearts are certainly set on participating in my name day tournament.

“Stay focused on your drills, friends, and we shall have your instructors judge at the day’s end if you are worthy to fight in a king’s tournament.”

Now everybody’s cheering, and I doubt that they took my words to be as softly discouraging as I had intended. My back aches and my stomach grumbles. I beg Ser Oakheart’s leave and begin ascending the steps back up to the main keep, heading toward the dining hall to break my fast.

On the way, Varys of all people intercepts me. These past few weeks I’ve seen Varys the least of all of my small council, and between the training of my guard and my mother’s petitions for my name day celebration, I nearly forgot he’d existed. A mustachioed knight is at his side, clad in plate armor, but cradling his helmet in his arm.

> “Oh, your grace, there you are, I beg you forgive me the interruption, you were on your way to break your fast, were you not?”
Varys says, clasping his hands together.

“I was. Who is this?”

The knight answers for Varys, bowing,
> “I am Vulkan of Kingsgrave, your grace. It is an honor to stand before you in the magnificent Red Keep.”

The eunuch nods, smiling,
> “He is also something of an early name day present from me, him and his fellows, that is. How many of your riders are with us in King’s Landing, pray?”

> “Twenty-two, Lord Varys, myself included.”
Vulkan answers.

Varys turns his gaze back to me,
> “Quite. Vulkan was a landed knight serving Lord Dagos Manwoody in Kingsgrave until very recently. He’s brought his modest lance of cavalry all the way through the Prince’s Pass and along the marches to King’s Landing at my bequest.”

I glance at Sandor to get his measure of what’s happening, but his face is stoney as the walls of the castle.

“For what purpose did you bid he come?” I ask, frowning.

Varys’s hands unclench and he spreads them out like a septon begging forgiveness from the Mother,
> “Why, for you, your grace! Going about my business in the Keep, I could not help but notice your Stag Guard training, and though they’re shaping up to be quite the formidable force, any company without cavalry is sure to find itself wanting sooner or later. Keeping abreast of the unfortunate developments in Kingsgrave, I saw an opportunity to bolster your Guard with some much needed knights. I do apologize for not waiting until tomorrow, but when I heard your Stag Guard was going to be marching down the God’s Way, I thought better than to spring it upon you minutes before the parade.”

“Cavalry?”
Shit, but I do need cavalry.

“Er, begging your pardon, Ser Vulkan, but what quarrel led Lord Manwoody to dismiss your service?”

Vulkan tilts his head to the side, as if to spit, but thinks better of it when he remembers we are inside. He says,
> “Bah- what else would it be men fight for but a woman? One evening, in the great hall of Kingsgrave, I was in my cups when a beautiful woman asked if she may fetch for wine for me. I prayed she did- and bade her linger afterword. One thing leads to another, and we lay together. How was I to know she was betrothed to Lord Manwoody’s brat Dickon? I thought she was a servant! The Lord of Kingsgrave takes my lands and dismisses my service, and he tells ME I am lucky to not be hung a philanderer!”

Varys places a placating hand on Vulkan, nodding solemnly and adding,
> “Ser Vulkan was riding north to join your grandsire’s host when I sent an acquaintance to intercept him at the mouth of the Prince’s Pass.”

Vulkan nods, grinning,
> “When my men and I heard that King Joffrey needs our swords, all thoughts of my pittance lands and salary are gone from our heads!”

My stomach growls. My back aches. Varys’s ploy here is nakedly obvious, though exceptionally more tempting than Littlefinger’s attempt to wedge his way into my Guard. I need Knights like people in the seven hells need ice water.

> “Much is said about the skill of the knights of Dorne. I am honored to have you and your men in my Stag Guard.” [Fold Vulkan into the Stag Guard]
> “Much is said about the skill of the knights of Dorne. I only wish a bodyguard unit had use for such skilled cavalry.” [Decline Varys’s gift.]