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.