I exit through my antechamber and find Sandor Clegane, the Hound and my Sworn Shield, standing vigil outside of my door. He is accompanied by the rest of the Kingsguard, sans Ser Meryn Trant and my uncle Jaime, who is still incarcerated at Riverrun. Everyone except for Sandor erupts into a greeting, Ser Preston Greenfield thumping my back with his hand while Ser Boros and Ser Arys begin chanting a traditional name day song. When the revelries subside, Ser Mandon steps forward.

> “Your lady mother bids you join her in the Great Hall to break your fast. She asks that I remind you that given the totality of the day’s festivities, there is little time to waste.”

I nod, starting to walk towards the spiral steps at the end of the corridor, saying,
“Well, I shan’t keep her waiting, then!”

The Great Hall of the Red Keep is much bigger than I had imagined it, reading of it in my old life. The first time I set foot in it as King Joffrey, I felt a niggling pit in my gut as I stared up at it’s ceiling, feeling an uncanny dread at the extreme scale of its construction. The unease was quickly inoculated when I held court for the first time, the ennui of administration proving to be even larger than the impossibly high ceiling and breadth of the Throne Room of King’s Landing. Now though, as I enter it, the tables set up and down the hall along with the crowd of visiting lords and ladies, supplicants, and even servants eating from the well-stocked tables seems to diminish the disquieting scale of the Great Hall. The first man to see me stands up from his seat and cheers, quickly followed by those around him, and then their neighbors, until the cheering compounds into a raucous cry that bounces off the stone walls of the hall. I make my way towards the throne, to the single table laid perpendicular to all the rest- my Lady Mother sitting in the middle. Well-wishes and congratulations delay my arrival, but I do eventually arrive at the end table, my Kinsguard in tow- as they are.

> “Good *morrow,* Joffrey!”
Cersei exclaims, standing when I arrive,
> “Thirteen years- I can scarcely believe it! Look at you! King of Westeros- man grown!”

A man grown to be sure, but not of age that you do not share in my absolute power, mother.

“Mother! You unduly honor me! Until I am ten and six, I am not a man grown in the laws of Gods and Man!”

She leans over the table to take my arms, which I readily offer, hugging me over the food on the surface in an awkward, but still sweet, embrace.

> “Come, sit!”
She commands, not insolently,
> “We’ve all your favorites, and many more. Bacon, beef, a whole school of fish.”

I walk around the table, my Kingsguard dispersing as soon as I am in my Lady Mother’s presence- all except Ser Moore and Sandor, who shadow me and stand five feet behind me when I take my seat at my mother’s side. I look across the Great Hall, and though it is well beneath maximum capacity, it’s still stunning to regard the sheer number of men and women who are present, despite the war that’s on. I suspect the servants are only present to aid the impression of a large attendance. I cannot imagine my mother suffering dining in the same room as the help without a sufficiently superficial cause such as that. Not that I care myself. All the better they may enjoy the fine dining.

> “Your maidservant Priscilla tells me,”
My mother begins in a low tone, not even allowing me a first bite of fried bread,
> “That you had given her a fright in your bath, yesterday.”

I groan, biting down on the bread and granting myself the time to chew and swallow before replying,
“It was nothing, mother. I had drunk poppymilk and let my mind wander. She was being hysterical.”

> “To hear her tell it, you did not respond to her until she slapped you in the face.”

I give Cersei a dark look, putting my bread down and saying,
“I sincerely hope you have not reprimanded her for that.”

Cersei’s jaw gapes, as if the thought of her being so petty is completely fantastical, insisting,
> “I did NOTHING of the sort! I know how fond you are of her, and after yesterday’s dramatics with Sansa, I would hope you think me not so witless as to presume to think- talking of Sansa, I have not seen her all morning. Why is she not present at the first feast of her King’s name day?”

I give a dismissive wave and turn to start shoveling meat and cheese and fruits onto my plate.

“I gave her leave to spend my name day in her apartments.”

I hear Cersei scoff beside me, but I focus on cutting my meat and gorging myself on it.

> “Is that wise, sweetling? People should start whispering to each other if they mark your Lady Sansa’s absence,”
Cersei says after I refuse to explain further for several moments.

“Let them whisper,”
I say with a mouthful of pork,
“I would rather they speculate on the happiness of my betrothal than regard Lady Sansa’s sour face beside me and have no room for doubt.”

> “Worry not, my son, we shall find you a more worthy wife,”
Cersei says, tending to her own food. I do not respond.

> “Your back, my son- I hear it is paining you to climb out of the bath, and into bed,”
She says again, and it’s all I can do to suppress a cry of rage.

“I am fine, mother. I strained it yesterday when I found out of the torment Lady Sansa had to endure.”

Cersei scoffs,
> “And yet, you’ve a parade scheduled for right after this feast. You have not been ahorse since your fall, my sweet, do you think it’s wise to flirt with further injury astride your mount?”

“I want the people of Kings Landing to regard my Stag Guard. It is a parade in their honor as much as my own.”

> “All I am saying, my son, is perhaps you ought to allow them to march IN your honor, without participating yourself.”

I groan inwardly. As much as my gut instinct is to defy my mother in all things at all times, she may have the right of it here. Loathe as I am to admit, I have been dreading this parade since yesterday, imagining how the bouncing stride of even a trot would play havoc on my spine. I gulp down a swig of wine and sigh.

> “Perhaps you’re right, mother, I’ll defer the parade to my stags.”
> “My back may be wounded, but the people of Kings Landing needn’t know! I would march with my stags, mother.”

>>6424532
> “My back may be wounded, but the people of Kings Landing needn’t know! I would march with my stags, mother.”

I'm sure we can get Pycelle or someone to make some sort of jury-rigged back brace or something for us. Or perhaps there's achariot or open-topped carriage hidden away in the bowels of the Red Keep we could use instead of riding horseback.

>>6424532
>> “Perhaps you’re right, mother, I’ll defer the parade to my stags.”

>>6424532
I'm also thinking horse-drawn chariot or rickshaw with suitable fancy embellishment.

>>6424532
>> “My back may be wounded, but the people of Kings Landing needn’t know! I would march with my stags, mother.”
time to destroy our back.

We should write down our dreams—and Martin's memories.

>PREVIOUS THREAD
https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/2026/6408629/

Woops, forgot the archive. Update Tomorrow

“My back may be wounded, but the people of Kings Landing needn’t know! I would march with my stags, mother.”

Cersei screws her face, but maintains a pained smile that draws her lips thin.
> “As you please, Joffrey. I only pray this folly does not extend your suffering.”

So far, it already has.

I pull a plate of fish toward me and try to ignore her. Whenever Cersei wants something from me, or does not want me to do something, I am subject to a nigh endless fusillade of pitiless harping, until I either protest in such a particular way that places my personal honor or the honor of House Lannister at stake, or more often, concede. If memory serves, she had a greater deal of difficulty in haranguing Joffrey before he fell off of the wallwalk, simply because he found it easier to fly into a petulant rage than I do. I ought consider playing that card some time- I am supposed to keep playing the part of the wretched boy king, after all. The few times I have been forced to hold court have proven that Cersei Lannister is not one to take a calm and determined rejection sitting down, and the only reason I can imagine she has yielded the point so soon is that today is my name day. Still, a long trot down a cobbled path on a warhorse that I quite remember as still being a mite larger than is suitable for my still-growing body does not sound ideal. I beckon Ser Mandon when Cersei is distracted by her tablemate and whisper instructions to him.

Mercifully, mine and my mother’s attentions are occupied for the time being by the other guests at the table, and halfway through the feast my own time becomes monopolized by all of the guests at the other tables, who stand from their seats to approach me and pay homage and present gifts. Ever the courteous king, I make an effort to show gratitude towards all of my benefactors, and for some of them I don’t even have to pretend it.
It is not difficult to feign appreciation for all the gaudy boons I receive, such as ill-forged gold goblets and jewelry with singular tiny gemstones, exotic materials that were indeed expensive to import but nonetheless vexing in how I would use them, such as a flask of olive oil from Meereen, and Yonkish textiles that have been out of style since summer last, along with more humble pittances from lordlings, such as a barrel of their fief’s specialty ale in one instance. All of the smaller gifts come early enough that I can maintain my farce of unyielding gratitude convincingly until it transmutes into the genuine article when the good gifts start appearing. In particular, Lancel presents me an ornate crossbow on behalf of his father. Furnished in cherrywood, its working parts are fashioned out of polished steel, the prods gilded, except for an ornament at the end of the riser made of solid gold- a lion’s head, ferocious roar an open hole for the quarrel to shoot through. It comes with a cranequin for faster and easier loading.

As gifts come from guests seated closer to my table, their value is proportionate to the esteem of the gift-giver, and though by the time my fast is broken I’m armed with a new castle-forged sword and a far sight richer than when I arose from my bed, I treasure the crossbow above all else. I almost don’t blame Joffrey for trying it out on hares and hungry smallfolk. When the festivities end, I make my way down the alley of the Great Hall, my mother, my Kingsguard, and other tablemates accompanying me, and those that we pass falling in behind us until I emerge onto the Middle Bailey at the head of a train. The Master of horse awaits me at the bottom of the steps, my white Destrier tacked and saddled. Halfway down the steps, Ser Mandon returns to my side.

> “Right, your grace, we’re hard for options. Far as Pycelle knows, the only chariot that would serve is in the Great Sept of Baelor, reserved for the High Septon. There is a Meeresh sedan chair, but, er, it doesn’t sound very dignified, to hear the old man tell it.”

“What of my family’s litter?”

> “One of the litter’s poles broke the other day, apparently some of your kin have been using it to go worship in the Great Sept.”

A flash of aggravation overtakes me. That’s right, my mother’s guests have been using that litter nigh on seven days a week to avoid the stags I’ve kept in the Red Keep’s sept.

“Well, how bad could the sedan possibly be?”

As it happened, quite bad. I was waiting by my destrier while my master of horse procured my Kingsguards’, my lady mother’s, and select familys’ mounts from the stables when a pair of servants carried the sedan out of a postern door along the walls of the castle. Not very dignified was an understatement- the Meeresh chair must have been sitting in the bowels of the Keep since before Aerys’s time. Its garishly bright teal paint was chipped and faded, the yellow paint of the strange symbols it was covered in faring no better. Above all else, it was outrageously miniscule- Just looking at it as it approaches is enough to know my knees would be flush against the fore wall of it.

> “My word- what on earth is THAT for?”
I hear my mother say under her breath in a ghastly tone.

I look at my destrier, then at the sedan.

> Fine, it is more important to be seen among my men. [Take the Sedan]
> Some indignities are worse to suffer than a sore back. [Mount the Horse]

>>6425834
>Mount the horse

We're gonna fuck our back. But this is. . . kinda worse.

>>6425834
>> Some indignities are worse to suffer than a sore back. [Mount the Horse]
LOL

>>6425834
welp
>Some indignities are worse to suffer than a sore back. [Mount the Horse]
Double poppy dose

>A flash of aggravation overtakes me. That’s right, my mother’s guests have been using that litter nigh on seven days a week to avoid the stags I’ve kept in the Red Keep’s sept.
A temporary problem that shows it self in how many little things it touches. Still.

Until the Battle of Black Water Bay is done, we cannot afford to start building an expansion of the Red Keep for create the Stag Guard Barracks. Best be safe before starting construction, and make sure King's Landing survives, Uncle Stannis loses and preferably dies. Too risky for us otherwise. Just need to wait a bit more time, then we give the order to begin building the Barracks right away.

We will have to deal with the remaining wildfire too once that battle is over. But its a bit far ahead for now. We have to deal with our back being a problem (we really need to see about pestering Pycelle about some creams, and maybe see if we just rest more we get better; the milk of the poppy, the hot water, and that other drug have helped but we need more. Without rage episodes. Massages too maybe ?), seeing how many additions in the Stag Guard might enter from the Tournament winners at our decision, and if we want to use the Tournament also for recruit 1 new Kings Guard and also a Master of Arms since we lack both of them. Littlefinger likely prepared a really good gift (could he even outdo Varys giving us fresh cavalry for our Stag Guard?) and maybe even Janos might be here wanting to do something. Cersei was thrown off a bit by the sedan so thats good, but she might want to do something. Shouldn't be about Sansa, since we put her in check about that.

There is also the dreams but those only happen when we sleep. I have no counter-measures for those (maybe we could pester septons ? or see about finding practicioners of magic in the Crownlands ?), except write them down alongside Martin memories, and check our bedroom for any weird objects like Targayens bad juju objects.

Also we could sell this sedan. It don't think anyone will ever use it again.

>>6425834
>> Some indignities are worse to suffer than a sore back. [Mount the Horse]

>>6425901
Wasn't there the unused vault with dragon bones deep in the Red Keep? Completely unused and vacant except for the bones.

Stick some beds in and keep them there.

>>6426073
It's an underground level called the Cellar of Skulls, where the great dragon skulls and bones are stored. I am not sure how suitable it is for 77 guards, who have increased in numbers again with the gifted cavalry (and will likely grow again with the Tournament).

But if we don't care about the dragon skulls and bones, we could use the space there. After some work is done to prepare the place and make it suitable for our Stag Guard (we could make it similar to the Gold Cloaks Barracks that exist right now in the Castle).

I wait for one of the servants carrying the sedan to make eye contact with me, then shake my head and make a throat slash with a flattened hand. He nods and immediately steps back without informing his carrying partner, which causes them both to tumble onto the dirt, the sedan crashing on top of them and drawing the attention of all those close by.

I turn and step on the wooden block, holding the saddle of my horse and placing my other foot into the stirrup. Here we go. Tensing my abdomen, I strain as I start to lift the other leg over the back of my destrier when a pair of huge hands grab my waist and lift it clear over the top of the mount. Reflexively, I swing my leg over the other side and am placed astride the horse. I turn to see Sandor standing beside me, his torso easily clearing the top of my gigantic war horse. He gives me a quiet nod, which I am unable to return without a giddy grin.

Looking around, I can see the retinue that will accompany me in the parade in varying states of progress mounting their horses, so I impatiently give mine a squeeze with my ankles to start him walking towards the bailey gate. Already open, I pass under it and stride into the outer yard, which is even more crowded than the middle bailey. Among the gold cloaks, Lannister bannermen, and servants all scrambling about the yard like bees on a comb, my Stag Guard stands still in rank and file at the middle of it all.
There uniforms are fresh and clean, armor polished, and real weapons hang from their hips and backs for the first time since the company’s founding. At the head of each column is a Sergeant, sporting a bronze Stag Guard badge in place of the regular iron, and they each wear a steel helmet with antlers on top. Each one of them shall have one in time, but the blacksmith was quite insistent that he would not have 77 of the ornamented helms in time for my name day parade. Getting him to agree to the antler design at all was a trial in and of itself. Only when I brought up the ridiculous designs that some champions of the last Tourney of the Hand had sported did he finally relent on the impracticality and danger of stag horns fixed to helms. That’s what the leather straps are for, you old fool!

Atop my large horse, I am quick to be noticed by the stags, and they cheer their well-wishes for my name day as my destrier strides up to the front of the ranks, the Hound and Ser Mandon afoot beside me. With all of my (present)Kingsguard having greeted me at my chamber, it occurs to me they must have been waiting like this for a while.

“Did Ser Mandon order you all to formation and leave you stranded out here like a bunch of marooned pirates?”
I bellow to them, receiving a chorus of farcical indignance from the ranks.

One voice rises above the rest.
> “Nay, my lord, our gallant Ser Mandon would never- it was Ser Arys!”
Raucous laughter follows the jape.

“Bah, don’t hold it against poor Ser Arys! With my back as it is, I required all the strength of my Kingsguard just to help me mount my steed!”

The laughter doubles in volume at their king making light of his injury. It is my name day. A little lax in decorum ought to be fine- so long as they’re disciplined enough for the march.

“Well, we’ll be marching down the King’s Way and God’s Way this morn, the first King’s Landing shall see of you all. I trust that you shan’t embarrass your liege on this monumental occasion?”

“Nay’s” and “Never’s” rise up from the crowd. I smile and nod.

“Good! You all must needs save embarrassing your liege for the feast this evening!”

That had the intended effect, which was the loudest rouse so far, fists striking up into the air and hard pats on the backs of their adjacent fellows. Perhaps it was a mite too far, because after a moment Ser Mandon steps forward, and the cheering dies down, each man stepping back into his proper formation.

> “We shall be at the head of the procession today, in front of the Kingsguard, followed by his grace and royal family, with the gold cloaks at the back. Remember what I have told you all about propriety- you are to ignore any heckling or applauding from the people of the city. Eyes forward.”
Ser Mandon says, the stags voicing their compliance with less enthusiasm.

It’s another half hour before we finally exit the King’s Gate into the square outside the Red Keep. By now, all of my Kingsguard are mounted, the Hound and ser Greenfield on either side of my mother and I, Ser Oakheart in between us and the back end of the Stag Guard’s columns, and Boros Blount between my lesser esteemed family and the front of the gold cloaks. Ser Mandon rides at the front of the entire procession, having been the one to drill the stags on marching. Right away, we are greeted by a surging crowd that stands shoulder to shoulder, just as crowded as it had been on the day of the Stag Trials, save for the lane cut down the middle of the road and maintained by gold cloaks, shields and spears keeping the crowd at bay. Flower petals fusillade our retinue from either side in clumps, and once we move under buildings with two stories they rain down on us from above as well. Myrcella seems to enjoy the assault, grasping at the purple and white debris as it flutters down beside her, but Cersei gives her a scornful look and puts an end to that.

For my part, the petals are not so bothersome- I’m more taken with how fine my back feels. When I had first mounted my destrier, a lifetime of riding experience from a life that was not my own gave me the confidence to ride off into the outer yard unprompted. I’m sure if Joffrey had the misfortune to wake up in my true body, he would feel the same about a bicycle. My anxieties about riding with my back seemed ill-put as well, even on the incline of Aegon’s High Hill, my horse’s minute pace does not aggravate my spine in the slightest. I wear my relief on my face in a kingly smile, waving gallantly at my subjects as they sing my praises from the sidelines.

As the parade proceeds however, I begin to feel a stiffness in my thighs and buttocks, dangerously close to the small of my back. No cause for concern. This IS my first ride in this new life, and I’ve been here for two weeks without very much athletic activity. I shift uncomfortably, trying to work out the stiffness, which draws the attention of my mother.

> “Does your back trouble you, my son? Shall we turn around?”
She does her best to ask discreetly, but the rancor of the crowd demands a certain volume even to speak to one beside you.

“No, mother, it’s my legs. It’s been too long since I’ve ridden, I fear, and I must needs get reacclima-“

A weight flies out of nowhere and against the side of my head, a wet *squelch* ringing into my left ear as bits of red fly in all directions, knocking me off of my horse.

FUCK! FUCK! YOU’RE DEAD! WHY DID YOU WANT A PARADE FOR YOUR DUMB JUMPED UP SELLSWORD BRIGADE?!

My mother screams out in terror. The ground flies upward, then stops suddenly when Ser Oakheart reaches out to grab me by my collar. The soles of my boots scrape against the street as they wobble down under me, and the white cloak waits for them to come to a rest before he sets me down.

> “Your grace, are you hurt?!”
He barks at me as I touch my face in a confused daze.

“I- I-“
I stammer, looking at my hand. There’s red on it, but it’s not blood- I look down beneath my horse and see a rotten tomato on the pavement. Suddenly, I understand. Peeking over the top of my destrier, I see Sandow dismount his black stallion and start rushing into the crowd, which is doing its best to part, but the dense clump of smallfolk cannot make way for him before he barrels into them. Through the veil of heads, shoulders, and arms, I see a man that is not facing the street, who is doing everything in his power to claw his way through the mass of people and slip into one of the many alleys of King’s Landing. He isn’t as bulky or fearsome as Clegane is though, and it’s plain that the Hound is closing in on him.

> “SANDOR! DON’T!”
> Stand and watch
> “Stag Guard! Escort me back to the Keep!”

>>6426260
"ARREST THAT FIEND"
> “Stag Guard! Escort me back to the Keep!”

God excuse to return.

>>6426260
Hmm. sparking a panic will just cause a riot.
Fleeing from a thrown tomato isn't gonna help us either.

Demand calm and half a crown for that man's arrest, Then about face and return to the castle.
Play it as a parade ruined and some generosity to the smallfolk for the aid of their king.

>>6426290
Support

>>6426299
>sparking a panic will just cause a riot

So will immediately putting a bounty on the fruit thrower.

>>6426260
>> Stand and watch
> send a detachment of 10 men to help Sandor lest he be cornered and swarmed by filthy peasants.

>>6426254
The Stag Guard is looking good.

>>6426260
> Stand and watch
> Send a detachment of 10 Stagguardsmen to help Sandor lest he be cornered and swarmed

Lego my ego

I haven't read or watched game of thrones but I skimmed the wiki for season 1 of the TV show, this is after we've been retarded and had whosamawhatsit beheaded yeah?

> Stand and watch
I just want whoever tomatoed us beaten badly, then tarred and feathered. He doesn't need to die.

>>6426884
yeah. Ned stark dead, we cant change that. quest started right after sansa pushed us.

The stags ahead of me finally come to a halt, some of them turning their heads back my way with confused glances. It all had happened so fast- the tomato hitting me, Ser Arys catching me, the Hound leaping off of his horse to chase after the man that threw it- it occurs to me only a few moments have passed, and I might yet be able to intercede to prevent a tragedy from occurring- or losing any more face among the people of King’s Landing.

The crowd that split as Sandor barreled through them quickly reforms, and were it not for his superior height, he would be totally obscured by the stream of smallfolk in between him and the lane. That puts me ill at ease, so I turn to the stag formation and bellow an order to the men at the rear to fall in on Sandor to offer support. The stags are quick to heed, raising their shields and starting towards the new line of peasantry, spears pointed forward. If Sandor had to force his way through them, these handful of smaller stags might have to- Fuck!

“BELAY THAT ORDER!”

I cry out just in the nick of time, one of my men’s spear arms coiled to strike out at the center mass of the blob of smallfolk, who have failed to make way for the stags, despite their terror. He glances at me, confusion turning to fear when he sees the anger on my face.

“I- changed my mind! Escort me back to the Red Keep!”

Do I register a note of disappointment on my stag’s face at that? Could he have been excited at the prospect of wetting his spear with the blood of an innocent man? I ought not be surprised- as much as they love me, I must not forget the low stations from whence I formed this Stag Guard. A gold cloak on the edge of the crowd sees something I do not, and pokes his sword in between two smallfolk, taping them both with the flat to urge them to spread out. I suppose it’s to be expected that the gold cloaks have more experience with crowd control.

It takes a minute for the crowd to part, not being able to spill into the street where I, my royal mother, Princess Myrcella, and the rest of the royal retinue is, but they eventually shift sideways flush against the buildings to give enough room to allow Sandor to return to the street. The lobstered gauntlet on his right hand is dripping with blood, which he wipes off on the gold cloak of the city watchmen that had made his passage for him, before returning to my side.

> “You alright, your grace?”

“Just a rotten fruit. Ser Arys caught me before the street could snap my back in two.”

He nods. I decide not to enquire about the fate of my detractor. He wouldn’t kill the fool for lobbing produce at his king, would he?

My order to my Stags seems to have reached the front of the train by now, because Ser Mandon appears beside us.

> “What happened, your grace?”
He asks.

> “He was struck by a projectile from some treasonous whelp, you buffoon!”
Cersei hisses from atop her horse, taking a break from tending to the sobbing Myrcella.
> “I trust he will not have the opportunity to make that mistake again, Hound?”

Sandor meets my mother’s gaze, stoney-faced as always.

> “I’d be quite surprised to see his face ‘round here again, your grace.”
He says, which seems to placate her, thank the Seven.

> “I’d expect nothing less. Now, did I hear you correctly, my son? Are we ending this folly here and now?”

“We are, mother,”
I say, nodding at Ser Mandon, who nods at the trio of sergeants who accompanied him to the back of the stag procession. They all turn to walk back up the train and bellow orders to turn around.

Walking back up Aegon’s High Hill felt quite the same as leaving the domicile of a woman after she had balked at the proposition of sharing a bed. A walk of shame, to be sure, but also a troubling omen to come out of what was meant to be the Stag Guard’s introduction to King’s Landing. Janos Slynt, who seemed to have been the most incensed at the parade’s cancellation, had to order the gold cloaks marching behind him to run ahead and clear the King’s Way, which had seen its crowds return after we had all marched past. By the time we had reached the King’s Gate of the Red Keep, it had taken us twice as long to cover the same distance when we had first set out. Adding insult to injury, nobody had found it prudent to mention there was a large bit of tomato skin still on my cheek until we were three quarters up the hill.

The servants in the outer yard, still in the throes of preparing the tourney field and mounting the gallery, did not go to great lengths to disguise the annoyance on their faces as they had to pause their labors to let everyone walk back through to the middle bailey. Most of the gold cloaks simply dispersed once we reached the square outside of the King’s Gate, but Janos Slynt was sauntering along beside my mother after we had dismounted and climbed the steps into the main keep.

> “Sweetling, I’ve a council meeting to attend to, so I’ll be absent from your tourney.”
Cersei told me, kneeling down to kiss my cheek before walking with Slynt towards the Small Hall, leaving me with Sandor.

“When abouts does the tourney begin?”
I ask the Hound, turning to him.

> “Meant to be at noon. I’d say an hour, maybe less. Should we fetch your bride?”

“Oh, let her alone until it starts. Her conversation is not like to make the minutes go faster.”

> “Joffey!”

Me and Sandor turn towards the voice. Tommen bounds towards us, his little feet carrying him just fast enough to stay out of reach of his elderly Septa, whose wrinkled face peels back in horrified anguish when she sees who her charge is running towards. Tommen collides into me, and I wince from the twinge in my back, but I stay on both feet and contort the pained clenching of my teeth into a big grin.

> “That was a fast parade! Did you make your horses run?”

“Not quite, Tommen. I had them turn back because I missed you.”

> “I wish I coulda gone too! Why can’t ponies be in parades? Mother said it wasn’t indigified for a pony to be in a parade!”

“Undignified,”
I correct him, not unkindly, and ruffle his blonde hair,
“Mother gives a lot of what’s proper, doesn’t she? That’s what mothers do, though!”

The Septa wheezes as she catches up, eyes wide as dinnerplates, her lithe frame heaving as she finds her breath.
> “Your grace, I do apologize- Tommen is being very willful today. Come along, young prince, Maester Pycelle does not have all day to teach you your sums,”

> “I don’t wanna do sums! I wanna be in Joffey’s tourney!”
Tommen protests, clutching at my leg.

> “You are too small to fight in a tournament yet, your grace. Perhaps one day, when you are older, and stronger, and wiser, you shall join the lists and be crowned the champion of your brother’s twenty third name day.”
The septa says, her impatient tone suggesting little faith in her placations.

> “Twenny THIRD? That’s…”
Tommen’s brow furrows as he puzzles it out, and then his eyes go wide with indignance, shouting,
> “TEN YEARS! That’s too long! I’on’t wanna wait ten years to be in a tourney! I wanna be in Joffey’s tourney TODAY!”

> “Seems like the young prince already knows his sums,”
Sandor says with a raspy snort. The septa shoots him a look.

“How’s this, Tomm? Go with Septa Ileene to the Grand Maester and work on your sums for now. When it starts, I’ll send for you, and we can find you a suitable opponent to joust against.”

Tommen’s eyes brighten up, and he nods without another word, as if he’s afraid he may jinx himself. His septa holds her hand out, and he takes it, the pair of them walking back down the corridor.

> “But you must needs give Grand Maester Pycelle all of your attention in the meantime,”
She warns him as they walk away.

> “I will... but I won’t like it! I wanna be with Joffey, he’s being nice to me right now and I wanna make the most of it before he stops!”

Another painful twinge rips through me, but not in my back.

On our way to the kitchen, to steal a loaf and some wine to share, Ser Arys Oakheart intercepts us in the corridor.

> “Ah, your grace! I’ve been looking for you.”

“What is it, Ser Arys?”

> “Your uh, stags, my king. I understand you had some trepidations regarding their participation in the, er, melee, but there are plenty among them who seem to have their hearts set on it. Shall I permit them to join the lists?”

> “Why not? Just make sure they understand they won’t be paid for the duration of any injuries they may have to nurse.”
> “Absolutely not. I will not have my stags wounded before they’ve even had a chance to see battle.”

>>6426951
>> “Why not? Just make sure they understand they won’t be paid for the duration of any injuries they may have to nurse.”

>>6426951
> “Why not? Just make sure they understand they won’t be paid for the duration of any injuries they may have to nurse.”
Tourney weapons only again.

>>6426951
>> “Why not? Just make sure they understand they won’t be paid for the duration of any injuries they may have to nurse.”
>"And make their injuries are addressed!"

Tourney weapons, well-padded, color system, and head protection.

>>6426073
>>6426093
So, do we want to try this idea? Or wait and see about building a barracks after the Black Water Bay battle? I don't mind throwing out some old bones.

We could also do the most expensive thing, which is to transform the Dragonpit into a new fortress and make it a barracks/training ground for the Stag Guard.

>>6427030
>Cellar of Skulls barracks proposal
Yes, I want it.

Sell the bones to some collector as a relic of a bygone era.

>>6427770
Good

“Why not?”
I say after a moment, finally deciding that the morale of my stags is more important than their discipline at this particular point in time,
“As long as they understand they won’t be paid for the duration of any injuries they may have to nurse.”

Ser Arys nods, an unmistakable relief washing over his face. He must have been dreading proscribing the melee to the stags. Might he fear them? Oakheart takes his leave, and the Hound and I continue on our quest to be in our cups before noon.

The kitchen is a place that the old Joffrey was quite familiar with, and by the grim looks the cooks, bakerboys, and washermaids give me, the kitchen of the Red Keep is also quite familiar with him. I hold my hands up defensively and say,
“Worry not, I’m here for skins of wine, not skins of cats!”
The uncomfortable laughter followed by averted gazes give me the notion that my jape did not land. Oh well, at least one of the washerwomen hurries to put a wineskin in mine and Sandor’s hands each.

The warmth of the wine in my belly diminishes the soreness of my back and the sting of the parade ending early. Gods be good, it’s even starting to help sink in that today is a day to celebrate! As the pair of us return to the entrance hall of the main keep, I see Lancel talking with a clerk. When he sees me, he dismisses the clerk and turns toward me, bowing.

> “T’was a fine parade until that mishap, your grace. Would that I could have taken the knave with mine own hands.”

“I’m sure the knave in question would have preferred your hands to my dog’s, given the choice.”

Lancel regards the Hound politely, just managing to stifle a cringe. He nods.
> “Indeed. We men of Lannister may rest easy knowing our King is in your able hands, Ser Hound.”

> “It warms my heart to know that, but I’m not a fucking Ser,”
The Hound says, punctuating his profanity with another swig of wine.

> “Ah- forgive me, I forgot. I fear you both must be patient with me today, I am most- My attentions are quite indisposed.”

I quirk a brow, asking,
“Grim tidings from your father and my grandsire?”

Lancel straightens his back, shaking his head and insisting,
> “Oh, no, no, nothing like that! The rebel Northmen are soon to be crushed, never you mind that, your grace. Merely, ah- well, I just meant that if you mark my absence at your tournament, pray do not think less of me.”

He takes a bow and hurries away, and the only answer I have for the confusion of that encounter is another sip of wine.

> “He’s jumpy, that one,”
Sandor observes.

“That he is. Talking of meekness, I think we ought rouse the Lady Stark from her tower,”
I say, marking the way the Hound’s face darkens.

> “Might make the hour pass slower, talkin’ in circles at her, your grace.”
He offers as I proceed towards the main staircase of the entrance hall.

“Maybe some wine will do her nerves good.”

It takes a lot longer to reach Sansa’s tower, mostly because I meander up the stairs at a slow and steady pace, ever vigilant against straining my back. As impatient as I am, the way I willfully place each step of my foot seems to drive Sandor mad, and I suspect the suspense of our next encounter with Sansa being drawn out this much is maddening. More’s the pity for him, I will not injure myself any further if I can help it.

Finally, we mount the tower steps and arrive at Sansa’s chamber door. I raise my fist to beat against it but think better of it after the long climb and glance at Sandor. He makes a pitiful effort to suppress a sigh and then raps his knuckles against the wood. After a long moment, a small voice responds within,
> “I-is that you, my liege?”

“It is! The Hound is with me. May we enter?”

Another long moment, then,
> “If it please his grace.”

The Hound opens the door for me, and I walk through before him. Sansa stands in the center of her chamber, clad in a pink gown, her red hair pinned behind her head in a bun, two long braids failing over her shoulders. Likely her maidservant’s doing, I doubt she found the will to dress herself so extravagantly on my account.

“Your gown is lovely, my lady. I am honored to have your company for this tourney, however brief.”

She nods, replying,
> “I shall be glad to be at my King’s side on his name day for as long as he likes.”

I’m sure.

> “Is the tournament beginning already?”
She asks.

“Ah- not exactly. In truth, the parade through King’s Landing came to an inauspicious end, so I’m afraid the Gods have conspired to extend our time together by… a half hour, If I am not mistaken, Hound?”

Sandor belches.

> “Then I am glad that- oh, but your parade. I hope his grace was not in any peril- but I am happy to have more time with my beloved-“
Sansa stammers, likely suspecting a trap that would force her into either expressing relief that my much-anticipated parade ended early so that we may be together longer or in expressing regret that my parade did not play out and imply she would sooner spend her late morning with the red flux. I graciously rescue her from chasing her own tail.

“It was quite a dull affair, all told. Come, let’s arrive to the tournament early to get the best seats.”
My jest does not land, but I am sufficiently inebriated to not care. I take Sansa’s hand with mine own and clutch my nigh-empty wineskin with mine other, and we exit her chambers and begin descending the tower steps.

As we descend, Sansa’s pace is slightly faster than my own, and she accidentally pulls me down to the next step before I am ready to descend. A flash of pain aggrieves the small of my back as my foot sets down, and I wince. Sansa goes pale.

> “Ah! Forgive me, Joffrey, I- I forgot the-“

“It’s fine. I’m fine. I pray my lady grants me patience as I make my slow descent.”

She’s quiet after that, but she waits for me to make the first step downward before she steps down beside me. If this slow descent annoyed Sandor, it seems to be an axe hanging over this poor girl’s head. I can feel the tension in her arm multiplying by the moment, simply grasping her hand. It doesn’t help that I can’t seem to control the expressions I make as I step downward, always anticipating each new step shall come with a fresh jolt of pain. By the time we’re halfway down the stairs it finally occurs to me that she must think I am in constant pain, instead of constant anticipation of it, and that I am silently cursing her for it all. In hindsight, I should have just sent Ser Arys to fetch her like what really happened.

“It does not hurt, except when I descend too boldly, my lady,”
I offer, trying to put her at ease.

> “I regret it so…”
She chokes out, quieter than a mouse.
> “Would that I could take it back-“

“Stop that,”
My aggravated tone cuts through her like a knife,
“I killed your father. By rights, you should shove me down these steps and throw me over the gallery.”

I am not certain what I had intended, saying that, but it earns me a silent rest of my journey down her tower steps, across the covered gallery, and down the main keep steps as well. Only when we are in the middle bailey is the silence broken, Sandor piping up,
> “Want I should fetch another pair of skins?”

”Please.”

I have no account for my desire to reconcile with Sansa. It is a solved issue, dead on arrival- before my arrival to this world, in fact. Would that whatever cosmic jape that landed me here had the courtesy to place me in the young prince’s head moments before Ser Ilyn decapitated Ned Stark’s head with his own sword, or better yet, before he had harassed Arya Stark and the baker’s boy on the King’s Road, or better yet, in the head of somebody with a much nobler reputation, like Robb Stark, or Jon Snow, or seven hells, the Hound! No such luck! Instead, the yoke about my head is made of actions I had carried out before I had any say, and this poor maiden is a living reminder of my sorrowful lot in this second life. Oh. Perhaps that’s why I fixate on placating her.

At any rate, I don’t get another sobbing whisper or anything else out of her for the rest of our trek to the outer yard, climbing the gallery(a much finer one than the hastily thrown-up platform at the Stag Trials), and taking our seats in the covered box. Still, silence, as we sit in the gallery, watching the servants and squires arrange the wooden beams set in a square atop the dirt and clay of the yard to fashion an arena. A pair of servants mark my presence and deliver cheese, grapes, and wine, the latter of which I imbibe in, and Sandor returns with another pair of wineskins, which I imbibe in also.

Sansa politely eats every clump of grapes I offer her, but otherwise stays silent, even as supplicants fill the gallery seats beside us, and Tommen and Myrcella arrive with their septa, right up until I give an affirmative signal to the herald to commence the tournament with a fanfare.

As the procession of knights ride into the arena, streaming banners and bathing in the half-hearted cheers from the meager crowd, I already know that this tournament shall be a dull affair right up to the melee. I chew on a cube of cheese and turn to Sansa, deciding to take some responsibility for the half hour of cold silence we have both been basking in and attempt to strike up a conversation.

“Viserys Targaryan is dead, you know.”

She blinks, and looks at me.

> “The- the exile?”

“The very same. Molten gold on his head. A grim way to depart to be sure, but he had the temerity to insult a Dothraki warlord.”

She nods, and I believe for a second she finds the news fascinating before I remember her penchant for courtesy. I sigh.

> “That upsets you, my lord?”
Sansa asks, misreading my sigh.

“Oh- not at all. I was just informed today, and thought it might interest you.”

> “It’s terribly interesting, my liege. No doubt Varys or Littlefinger had shared such grand tidings with you as a present for your nameday. One less pretender.”

I blink. Actually, I don’t remember Varys or Littlefinger telling me that, or anyone else for that matter, but I remember Joffrey telling Sansa as much on this day in the true history of this world. Someone surely mentioned it during the feast. I just forgot, is all. I’ve been in the habit of paying little mind to news from my mother, maester, and others that I already know of due to knowledge of this world from my previous life. It’s actually quite infuriating at times, to have to keep my mouth shut when somebody passes along hearsay that I know for a fact is not true.

> “Are you competing, Hound?”
Sansa asks Sandor, glancing behind our seats.

> “With this lot? Why bother?”
He answers.

“As with the Stag Trials, I fear we are wanting for worthy champions due to the war,”
I explain.

> “That’s why I getta joust too!”
Tommen excitedly interjects, bouncing in his seat.

> “And I will be watching your bout with bated breath, Ser Tommen!”
Sansa tells him with a mite more sincerity than she reserves for me. Childishly, that irks me, but I hold my tongue.

The first jousts are, to put it politely, not very impressive. Ser Hobber Redwyne is unhorsed by Ser Balon Swann in the first bout, but only after sliding off his horse twenty paces from his daze of being hit in the helmet, not in a dramatic fall after the first contact. Next, Ser Morros Slynt faces Ser Horas Redwyne, the latter of which upstages his twin by breaking a lance on Slynt in the first bout, though not unhorsing him. The second go around, Slynt flinches away from the lance and unhorses himself, tumbling across the yard like a stone kicked up by a wagon wheel. Sansa and I share a laugh, but the rest of the crowd is quiet and plainly not entertained.

“This is faring worse than the parade,”
I tell the Hound with an ambivalent smirk, and he nods his agreement.

> “Melee might be worth watching, though. From what I hear, half the roster are your Stag Guard.”

“That’s- do you tell me true? That’s ridiculous! After today my stags shall only be nursing wounds and grudges!”

Sansa giggles at that, but her face pales when I glance at her. I decide the best course is to ignore it.

> “I told them all to forget the melee, your grace. Nothing good would come from them fighting each other, I said,”
The Hound continues.

“Well, you might’ve voiced that notion when Ser Arys was asking me this morning! You’re the Commander of the Stag Guard, you ought have final say!”

Sandor shrugs,
> “It’s your company. You’ve got final say. I wouldn’t presume to give orders over your head.”

I shrink back into my chair, aghast. On top of a large contingent of my stags becoming wounded, bitter, or both, now my Hound thinks I’m a fool. Perhaps that last part is not so much a change.

I turn to Sansa, a helpless grin on my face,
“I fear your brother Robb might have the better of me in terms of commanding men.”

> “My brother is a traitor. I pray the king’s peace be restored in the no-“
Sansa begins to say before I throw a hand up and scoff.

> “It’s not too late to cancel the melee,”
Sandor reminds me.

“Oh, but- the morale,”
I turn to Sandor without a grin on my face, but I imagine I look no less helpless.

> “Fuck the morale. We ain’t marchin’ them anywhere anytime soon. No better time for them to gripe than when they’re garrisoned in the Red Keep, eating your food and taking your coin.”

“That’s a fair point…”

The next pair of jousters appear. One a freerider, the other- more drunk than me and Sandor put together. It’s him- Dontos Hollard. I rise from my seat and inadvertently give the “thumbs down” gesture, forgetting that the customs of the Roman Empire and all of its majesty is an unknown and alien culture to these Westerosi. The freerider marks my strange gesture, as does the herald, but Dontos continues to fail in his attempts to mount his horse.

“That man is plainly drunk!”
I finally shout when I catch my mistake.

> “So- So he is,”
The herald admits after the half-naked Dontos’s horse flees from him after his third attempt to climb atop it. The crowd laughs- the loudest they’ve been since the first joust. Ser Dontos jogs after his steed, but eventually tires of the effort and throws his hand up in forfeit, sitting down in the dirt of the arena and bidding a nearby servant for more wine.

“Very amusing! Give him more wine!”
I say, sitting down, biting back a seething rage at the drunkard’s spectacle. I’m almost ready to kill him myself- Why is this stoking my anger so?

The crowd bellows a cheer after I speak, but Sandor and Sansa- and Tommen and Myrcella seem to pick up on my anger. Even the herald seems to approach the gallery with a cautious pace.

> “My liege, shall I call another opponent for Ser Lothor?”

“No, no, I think we may proceed to the melee,”
I grumble, sipping some more wine.

> “B-but I was supposed to joust, too!”
Tommen protests, standing up from his seat. For some reason, that angers me as well, but then I remember how sad his words made me earlier this morning, and I nod.

“You’re still going to joust, Tommen- at the end of the tourney! We’re saving the best for last, that’s how all the great tournaments have done it!”

That placates him, and even better, earns a smile from Sansa. He sits back down, and the herald nods, walking back to the middle of the arena to give Ser Lothor the bad news, when suddenly the Kings Gate portcullis starts rattling open, and a trumpet on the guardhouse sounds. All eyes divert from the arena to the entrance to the outer yard, the silence soon surrendering to the pounding of horse hoofs beating against the ground. The first riders through the gate hold the unmistakable crimson banner of the Lannisters, though the banner and the few men riding under are the only ones whose allegiance is obvious at first glance. The rest of the party are clad in dark materials, boiled leather and worn steel, sellswords and freeriders and hedge knights- followed by beastly men draped in animal pelts- and worse.

The crowd falls deathly silent, obviously perturbed at the unannounced arrival of this motley assortment, but I stay silent because I nearly forgot this was going to happen.

The band of riders pays no heed to the wood logs laid about in a square perimeter to delegate the arena space, filling the square with horses and the men atop them as easily as a flask is filled with wine or water. The foremost horses part at the behest of their riders, making way for the leader of the party- a stout, armored dwarf sitting atop a bespoke saddle strapped to a courser. With some effort, he swings his stunted leg over the back of his mount and drops to the ground with an unexpected grace, his smug, confident grin doing much to make up for the awkward way he must waddle to traverse the terrain on his own two feet. Tommen and Myrcella immediately launch from their seats, their own little legs deftly descending the wooden stairs of the gallery to carry them to their uncle, who they both latch into a hug. His lobstered arm rests on Myrcella’s shoulder easy enough, but Tommen is of a height with him, so his other arm wraps around my little brother’s back under his armpit. A heartwarming scene, to be sure, but it does not last more than a few moments before he bids them to lead him back up the wooden steps, though having to slow their frantic, youthful pace to accommodate his warped figure. In only an instant, however, he ascends the gallery steps, crossing in front of the lordlings and ladies of court to stand before me, his nephew, unwashed, grimy, dirty, sporting all of the weather of a long journey. Just as the Hound and my Kingsguard have shadowed me all this time, he is quickly joined by a greasy looking vagrant and a one-eyed skeleton of a man that stand on either wing of his back.

> “Your grace,”
The dwarf says, bending his knee with some effort.

“Uncle Tyrion-“
I say, hardly believing this was happening, despite my foreknowledge that it certainly would.

> “I am pleased that your recent ascension did not make you forget your manners,”
Tyrion says, the edge of his mouth quirked up into a subtle grin.

> “They said you were dead,”
The Hound says.

> “I’M glad you’re not dead,”
Myrcella says, grinning much more broadly than my uncle.

> “We share that view, sweet child,”
Tyrion says, then turning to Sansa,
> “My lady, I am sorry for your losses. Truly, the gods are cruel.”
Sansa frowns, her mouth parting very slightly as she tries to calculate the correct response. Tyrion turns to me and adds,
> “I am sorry for your loss as well, Joffrey.”

“Yes, thank you,”
I say,
“But seeing you alive and well is the best gift I could ask for on my name day, second only to my king father returning to us to rule once more.”

Tyrion closes his eyes and nods, his smug grin turning into something more heartfelt.

> “Nobody is happier to see me arrived safely to King’s Landing than I, your grace,”
He says, opening his heterochromatic eyes. I must admit, they are off-putting. I know not which eye of my uncles to meet his gaze with, and so mine own gaze flutters between the pair.

> “Though your lady mother would be a close second in abject joy to see her sweet brother alive and well. Tell me, where is she?”
Tyrion asks, his lips returning to a sly grin.

“The last I saw of her, she was heading to the small council chambers. She is quite involved in affairs of state,”
I say, expertly obscuring the true feelings I have of that fact from my facial expressions.

> “Oh, I don’t doubt it. Nobody shall ever say Cersei Lannister was not an active agent in the matters of the realm. Tell me, nephew, has she ousted my lord father from his position as Hand?”
The glint in his eye tells me I did not obscure my true feelings well enough. I sigh.

“I am sorry to say I have not kept up with the realm’s administration. I have been preoccupied with raising my new Stag Guard into a competent force,”
I reply, somewhat timidly.

> “Ah yes, your Stag Guard! I heard tell of your new bodyguard company on my way here!”
Tyrion belts out a laugh, turning to Sandor,
> “Has my nephew grown tired of looking to such a grim face for protection?”

The Hound scoffs, first regarding Tyrion’s sellsword and wilding, and then him, saying,
> “Your king’s grown tired of quite a lot of this place, little man.”

Tyrion frowns for a beat, then looks at me. Whatever face I meet him with, it does not answer his unspoken question. He quickly recovers, shrugging,
> “Well, I’ve grown tired of fresh air. It comes to a point with a man, when he’s spent more than a fortnight on the road in the open, chilly, fresh air, when he starts to miss the stuffy, humid respite of a chamber in a fortified and well-stocked keep. I shall take my leave, your grace, and bother you no more on your nameday.”

Tyrion manages a bow before he turns back towards the steps of the gallery, his sellsword and wildling in tow. As I watch him descend, I remember that he is going to see my lady mother in the midst of a session of the small council to proclaim his new status as Acting Hand of the King. It occurs to me that having the support of the actual King might be of some use to him, and though he shall attain his station of his own wit, it might be useful to lend my voice to him and have him owe me my assistance.

Then again, my stags are about to compete in a melee, and the absence of their king would not go unnoticed, or unbegrudged. Also, it would break Tommen’s heart.

> Accompany Tyrion to the Small Hall
> Remain in the gallery and watch the rest of the tourney

>>6429044
>> Remain in the gallery and watch the rest of the tourney

>>6429044
> Remain in the gallery and watch the rest of the tourney
We can invite dear Uncle to dine later and find out on the day's events of the small council.

>>6429044
>> Remain in the gallery and watch the rest of the tourney

>>6429044
>> Remain in the gallery and watch the rest of the tourney

>>6429044
>> Remain in the gallery and watch the rest of the tourney

>>6429044
QM?

I watch my uncle waddle off towards the middle bailey portcullis, his band of sellswords and wildlings trotting after him on their horses through the gate. I want to go with him, not only to ensure he assumes his role as the acting Hand, but also to show him that I support him fully, but at this point in time I’m aware that my stags need to see their leader present and engaged with their struggle for glory. Besides, I have the privilege of knowing for certain that he shall assume his new title without any intercession from me, so it makes more sense to prioritize my stag’s morale. Not that I’ve given them any reason to doubt my support for them.

In truth, my stags do worry me. So concerned I was with establishing rapport with them that I think I might have neglected the stern hand that’s required for hierarchical respect. It does not help that I am still a boy, and though my authority does slightly exceed that of a more timid boy king of the same age, I still do not command the true power of the Iron Throne. Having allowed them to compete feels more like a capitulation to their will than a reward for their good behavior, and I’m sure Ser Arys is of a mind with me on that. My only saving grace is the dock on wages, should any of them split a shin or break a handful of ribs during this folly.

When all of my Uncle’s band have disappeared from the outer yard, Ser Lothor is nowhere to be found. The herald looks around the edge of the arena for him, and when he does not find him, decides to go ahead with the commencement of the melee. After billowing into his horn, he summons all of the listers with a gallant shout, and the arena quickly fills with all of those poor souls that could not afford a horse, my stags in their shiny, castle-forged helmets making up half of the crowd, a few hot-white antlers visible among them from reflecting the sunlight.

“Mayhaps the antlers were a bad idea,”
I gripe.

> “Nonsense,”
Sansa says, to my surprise,
> “They strike a noble silhouette.”

I nod politely. This is going to be a disaster.

The herald walks backwards from the center of the arena, pushing through the membrane of fighters all gathered around the edge. I expected there to be a delineation of teams, but instead all of the fighters, forty in total, take their places around the arena in an oval. Before I can object, the herald sounds into his horn, and my stags and the newcomers rush toward each other with their weapons in hand.

Gods, but what an impact! The circle of forty men contracts into a blob of thirty-two as eight men are knocked to the ground in the initial clash, the velocity of the battle coming to a grinding halt as each man finds an opponent in front of and on either side of him(and, if he’s among the unlucky souls in the center of the mob, behind him). Hastily counting the antlers that rise above the heads of the crowd, I’m relieved to find that none of my stags have been felled yet, and note that no pair of antlers are pointed at another, the stags apparently working in tandem where they can and focusing on non-antlered combatants. That’s to be expected, I suppose. To say nothing of the natural comradery they’re undoubtedly starting to develop, attacking a fellow stag threatens his wages should he be injured. No doubt that lot would be quicker to forgive a broken arm than missing a week’s pay.

Whether the stag fighter’s moratorium is spontaneous and instinctive or a pre-arranged agreement, it does not escape the other fighters’ notice, and the flow of battle starts to rearrange itself along stag and non-stag lines. Periphiery fights begin along the edge of the crowd of men, the center of the throng beginning to crumble as the men therein are assaulted from all angles. I see a lone pair of antlers near the center dip beneath the horde, and my stomach turns anxiously as the bodies surrounding it close in on the newly formed gap in the mob, each of their weapons seeming to strike at its center. Such was my concern for the stag that fell in the center that I don’t notice that the mass of fighters has thinned by ten more men, leaving the undulating circumference of frantic brawling small enough for the stags without the mass to form a circle to envelope it in totality. Panic grips the non-stags and astonished glee grips myself as we simultaneously realize they are surrounded, and they all launch into and frantic and disorganized thrust to break out of their encirclement. Their frenzied about-face does not lend itself to coherent thrusting and swinging however, and my stags easily parry and riposte them back, contracting the swarm of non-stags into an even denser pack.

Then, the final stroke: A flash of red-stripped yellow erupts from the center, several fighters shoved in all directions as a man launches to his feet and starts swinging his fists with abandon. The man is without a helm, but the unmistakable colors on his surcoat betray his allegiance. It’s Aldwin! Even from the gallery I recognize those piggish eyes and huge nose on that pinhead, covered though it is in dirt and streaks of blood, but the loss of his helmet does not seem to trouble my corpulent stag as he knocks more men off of their feet, sending them leaning against the backs of their ad hoc comrades and knocking yet more down consequently. The attentions of the trapped fighters once again reverses, and the stags on the exterior capitalize, closing in. It’s a slaughter. By the time Aldwyn is reached by his fellow stags, they’d been striding atop the felled bodies of their trapped adversaries to finish off the few that still stood. There aren’t enough spectators that the cheering reaches the clamor of a fully-seated tournament, but the din of this crowd certainly gets close, my stags all stepping off of the mound of bruised and knocked-out fighters to take in the adulation. I shoot from my seat, clapping and shouting and punching the air, turning to Sansa and my younger siblings.

Sansa is visibly perturbed, though when she sees me look she forces a quivering smile and starts clapping politely. Myrcella is pressing her face into her septa’s bosom, who strokes her hair with one hand as she tries to pull Tommen back down into his seat as he jumps up and down atop it, belting cheers from his tiny lungs and waving his hands around wildly.

> “Dirty trick, that,”
I hear Sandor mutter behind me. I turn back, and from the look on his face he must not have expected me to hear his quiet words beneath the tumult of the yard.

“What do you mean?”
I ask him a mite too quick, feeling myself grow defensive.

Sandor sighs and stands up straight from the wooden beam he’d been leaning on.
> “I only meant, your grace, that the poor sops laying on the ground expected a free for all.”

“Was it not a free for all?”

> “Not when half the listers are working in tandem, it ain’t.”

“But it’s only natural for fighters in melees to make alliances,”
I complain.

> “Sure, after the horn bellows, you might give a nod to a man during the fighting, and he might nod back, or he might not. Putting your name on the list knowing that half the roster ain’t going to fight you is another thing.”

I frown, feeling somewhat ashamed for having cheered now, though also suspecting that I am being counselled. The Hound shrugs.
> “’Course, you won’t win any wars without dirty fighting.”

“But this was not a war,”
I say, chagrined.

> “No, it wasn’t,”
He says, nodding.

Well, that took the bite out of my sword. I was so swept up in seeing my stags act as a coherent fighting unit that I didn’t stop to wonder how after but two months of training, they would manage the situational awareness and coordination required for such a cunning design in the thick of battle. The answer of course, as my Hound pointed out, was that they did not- this scheme was hatched between them long their names were added to the lists, no doubt whilst in their cups. Going against men unaware of their agreement would be the only way twenty of my stags, still wet behind the ears, could possibly hope to best twenty other men in any combat scenario without too many severe casualties (sans Aldwyn of course, and I make a note to have Pycelle tend to him).

What confounds me now though, is why did they make it so obvious? Given the pool of applicants I recruited my stags from, no doubt more than one of these men have enough low-born cunning to conceive an intrigue much less apparent than the display I had just witnessed. If their game was splitting the winnings amongst themselves after clearing the competition and taking a fall from the designated victor, they’d have done better to employ half as many men in their conspiracy.

They aren’t even pretending to fight each other now, I mark with a frustrated confusion as I turn back toward the arena,they’re all just standing there and staring up and me with dim, toothy grins, and-

Oh. Oh dear.

Realization hits me like an arrow through the heart. They didn’t launch this scheme for profit. They did it to impress me. My mouth opens, and words fail me. I don’t know how to proceed.

> “A splendid show, lads! I hardly recognize the beggars and thieves I pulled from the streets of Kings Landing but two months prior!”

> “Have you oafs taken leave of your senses?! Have you forgotten that this is a FREE-FOR-ALL? I count eighteen men still standing!”

>>6465155
Yipee! my favorite quest is back!

>>6465155
> “A splendid show, lads! I hardly recognize the beggars and thieves I pulled from the streets of Kings Landing but two months prior!”

but also have them finish the fight, but remind them not to brutalise one another. friendly combetition might be good for the unit.

The spectator’s cheering dies down as they see I’ve turned back to face the arena. A beat passes, and I clear my throat awkwardly.

“A splendid showing out, lads! I hardly recognize the beggars and thieves I pulled from the streets of King’s Landing but two months ago!”

More applause and shouting, and the stags punch each other’s shoulders and pat each other’s backs. I hear a disapproving grunt from behind me in the same place Sandor had been standing.

I continue,
“However, the melee is still ongoing. You’ve pummeled half the roster into submission and two of you have fallen bravely during your daring stratagem, but this was not a bout of teams, it was a melee. So, carry on!”

The stags look at each other with faint confusion and perhaps even disappointment when I instruct them to continue fighting. The spectators match their humor in the withering applause that lifts from the stands as I sit back down in my chair. I am unbothered by the popularity of my decision. The first course of the melee had been exciting, granted, but if they expected anything beyond praise and acknowledgement for upending the spirit of the melee, they would all surely be disappointed. Calling an early end, no matter how decisive the stag’s victory was over the non-stags, would be bad form, and splitting the victor’s reward between them would be out of the question. Even split between twenty or ten and eight men of their salaries, the winnings would still be rather an ostentatious sum, and though I could not bring myself to scold my stags in front of a crowd, I will not reward knavish behavior. No, I remind myself, they only hatched the scheme to impress me. I must have more faith in my men.

Despite their tepid response to my call to continue the match, they each break from the line they formed in front of my gallery and square their shoulders, gazes darting between each other, save for Aldwin, who approaches my gallery with a casual posture.

> “Yer grace!”
He calls, bowing, blood dripping from his forehead onto the clay dirt beneath his pin head.

“Yes, Aldwin?”

> “I’m terribly sorry to disobey you, it’s just that I’m awful bruised and sore and me ears ‘ave this terrible ringin’ from when me helm got knocked off. If it’s all the same to you, may I please forfeit?”

Smiling, I say,
“Yes, Aldwin. So long as you go find Grand Maester Pycelle at once.”

Aldwin smiles, and I mark the absence of a few teeth. He lumbers away from the gallery and the arena after nodding his head and saying,
> “I reckon he’s in the rookery, same as always, but I’ll obey your orders, my liege.”
As he saunters off, some of the less injured non-stags pull themselves to their feet and take reprieve on the perimeter of the arena, clutching their bruises.

I look up back to the stags still in fighting form. They’ve spread out further now, seeming to pair up into duels between individuals. Aldwin’s withdrawal has left the count at 17, and so naturally I spy a trio on the very edge of the spread of still standing men eyeing each other nervously. One of the pairs finally begins their bout, and the sound of dulled steel clashing shocks the rest of the stags to begin fighting.

My gaze bounces between the pair that began fighting first and the trio. Looking at the pair as they fight, it’s obvious Ser Arys has taken his charge of training the Stag Guard to heart, and the weeks of repetitive and tedious drilling he’s put them through has borne fruit. The two stags take turns swinging their swords at each other, no doubt matching the rhythm of the training exercises Ser Arys put them through, but the fluidity of their dance as one brings his hilt high above his head, only for the other to counter by bracing his hilt above his shoulder, using the momentum of blocking the strike to line up his next attack- it’s utterly mesmerizing. The swords clash on high, then at the midsection from a wide side swing, then a curved blow that starts from the heel and targets the hip, then back to striking at the head. They go through this cycle several times until at some point the two stags realize they are falling into the rut of their daily training, and attempt to iterate on their drills. Here is where it gets interesting.

The stag to the left of me begins a side-swing, and his partner to the right swings his blade up to deflect- except the blade sails clear past the aggressor’s. A feint! The left stag halted his blade mid-swing, twisting his arms up to assume the high-strike position, about to bring his longsword down square on the right stag’s helm. The right stag stiffens his posture as soon as his parry does not connect, he’s obviously perturbed from the familiar rhythm of training being interrupted, and it almost costs him a smarting blow to the head. Fortunately for him, he snaps back into awareness, dodging backwards as the tip of his foe’s blade misses his helmet by but a few inches. The left stag’s feint was a gamble, and he lost, his sword sinking into the clay earth of the outer yard and kicking up red dust. The right stag, to my- and the spectator’s- surprise, puts his foot over the end of the sunken blade, couching a sideward swing that nobody suspects is a feint, bringing the blunted steel around his torso and colliding into the left stag under his shoulder, unlatching his hands from his buried sword and sending him falling over. The crowd roars- or at least attempts to, and the victorious stag wastes no time in finding another opponent.

The trio, on the other hand, is comprised of two smallswords armed with a heater shield against one longsword. Predictably, the two smallswords, who have trained alongside each other these past turns of the moon, find a commonality and begin approaching the longswordsman as a pair. Again, Ser Arys Oakheart’s training methods are plain, as the longswordsman immediately makes use of his range advantage, pointing the tip of his dulled blade at either assailant whenever one gets too close for his liking. Ser Arys’s disciplined humor is reflected in the lone stag, who does not give ground to his two opponents unless to correct a disadvantageous angle they attempt to force him into, or to prompt one to advance further than his ally, that he may delay a simultaneous attack. All’s the pity for him, that Sandor Clegane was charged with training the spearmen of the Stag Guard, who are armed with the accoutrements of the longswordsman’s opponents. Where Ser Arys Oakheart is a man of honor and discipline, Sandor Clegane is a pragmatic, cunning, and, let’s face it, vicious fighter, and whether he’s imbibed his charges with his combat philosophy or he’s merely of a mind with the sort of man that would enlist in the Stag Guard, the two smallswordsmen quickly realize a discrepancy in the terms of engagement between them and their sole adversary. Leaning towards each other, they exchange hushed, brief words before one charges the lone foe with their heater shield raised, baiting him into a panicked series of swings that bounce off the oak and iron with thumps of violent percussion, the other kneeling down to scoop some heavy red clay into his hand and following up behind his ally to fling the handful into the eyes of the longswordsman, who flinches back, lowering his guard just in time for two dulled smallswords to start raining seven hells upon his unguarded form. When he yields, he takes his helm off to sputter dust and wipe his eyes, and his two victorious enemies saunter off towards the rest of the fighting. Despite the Hound’s disapproving scoff, I believe I hear a grunt of approval from his direction when he sees the two men he’d been training best one of Ser Arys’s. I bite my tongue and refrain from asking him if two against one is a dirty or fair play.

The other six bouts, I’m sorry to say, I had not been following. During the course of the two I’ve been watching, the others had played out along with the proceeding matches decisively decided, leaving but the winning stag from the initial bout, the two smallswordsmen, and then another stag armed with a longsword. The two smallswordsmen realize the mistake in approaching together all too late as their two remaining foes take note of their collaboration and, naturally, nod at each other, forming themselves against their harassers.

Even from a distance, the unease this puts the smallsword skirmishers in is plain in the way they look to the other, then back at the longswordsmen, then back to the other. They lean close to each other and deliberate for much longer than they had when they faced a single foe, but the longswordsmen waste no time in aggrieving them, denying them whatever design they might have calculated and putting them on the immediate defensive. The longswords attack as a wedge, launching themselves towards the space in between the shortswords and placing themselves back to back after successfully separating them. From there, they needs only to comfortably strike from their superior range, landing blow after blow on the separated shortswords’ heater shields, diligently striking and not letting up until one of their blows might finally snake around the shields. One of the shortswords fares worse than his peer, and a glancing strike to the side of his shield slides the leather straps right off his scrawny arm, the oak and iron bouncing on its edge until it lands against the pile of felled non-stag fighters. He bounds backward, proving himself to be deft on his feet, even in his armor, and it might be that the weight of the shield had been holding him back. He uses his freed hand to slide a dirk out of a sheath on the small of his back and spins it in the air, catching it on the tip of the blade. Coiling his arm back, he flings it at his quickly advancing opponent, who makes no move to dodge, undoubtedly secure in his helms protection. No matter- the dirk misses its mark- or rather, the shieldless smallsword was not aiming for him in the first place. Rather, his quarry was the other longsword, who had been hacking at his ally the entire time. Spinning through the air, the dirk makes a swishing noise that gives me doubt that it’s blade is as dull as the rest of the tourney gear, but when it hits the back of the longsword’s helm, it bounces off harmlessly, though the helm’s wearer flinches with a start, turning his head back to see what had struck him.

Obviously, the smallsword whose shield he had been battering seizes the opening at once, closing the distance between himself and his assailant and putting all his weight behind his shield to tackle the longsword off his feet. This causes the still standing longsword to repeat the mistake of his partner, turning his head away from the shieldless smallsword, who, in turn, repeats the triumph of his ally, though without a shield to ram with, he settles for a smarting blow to the knee. The longsword’s legs buckle and he hits the dirt with an audible gasp, receiving further blows from the standing smallsword. As one of the cunning smallswords presses his foe into the dirt with the weight of his shield, the other swings his sword down on his foe with all of his might, denting the poor fellow’s armor with every instance of contact.

Eventually, the one receiving the smallsword blows raises his hands to yield, and his better immediately ceases, leaping over the defeated longsword’s body and beelining toward his ally, who is still struggling atop his opponent, yet to secure a surrender. The matter is made redundant as the shieldless smallsword kicks his erstwhile partner in the head, a metallic pang ringing out as his leather boot connects with the visor of the helmet, knocking the man off of the longsword and onto the dirt, out cold. Before the longsword can comprehend why there is no longer the weight of another man on him, the shieldless smallsword points the tip of his blade at his head, looming over him. The felled stag yields. The spectators, and myself, begin cheering, and this time, I do believe we reach the volume of a properly attended tourney.

Standing from my seat once again, I wait for the cheering to die down as the champion of my Name Day Tournament approaches my gallery once more, this time without a gaggle of ruthless co-conspirators in tow. When he stops walking, I raise a wineskin and bellow,
“There’s a true champion! Your wit is truly as sharp as your steel, and you are a stag among stags! That display was the very excellence I had conceived of honing when I had established the proud Stag Guard! Unhelm yourself, ser, and let my court regard their champion!”

Immediately, I note that I had inadvertently insulted the man when I said his wit was as sharp as his steel, since all of the blades in the arena were dull, but nobody seems to notice or care as the applause picks up again, least of all the man of the hour. He grabs his helmet and lifts it off his head. Raven black hair, heavy with perspiration, falls from the rim of the helmet as it’s unequipped, and the man’s- no- the boy’s face is red with exertion and dirty. He looks up at me, his usual passive expression twinged into the slightest, self-satisfied grin. That’s Robert!

The comet glowers above.

Later, in the Throne Room, I break away from the latest group of gladhanders and sycophants wishing my nameday be a happy one, and by the way, what is my opinion on this small matter regarding this lordling’s fief. I am tired, but my belly is full from yet another feast, my head is buzzing with wine and my back, gods be good, does not ache. Sandor had excused himself after the tourney with some weak pretense and so Ser Mandon took charge of being my shadow for the rest of my nameday. I would sooner have Ser Arys at my side, but he insisted upon attending to the Stag Guard after the tourney, no doubt to reprimand them in some manner. As promised, Sansa was given my leave to return to her chamber after the tourney, which is, predictably, precisely what she did.

As for my stags, they went back to their temporary quarters to lick their wounds and no doubt downplay the severity of their injuries in hopes of avoiding the dock on wages I had threatened for anyone too injured to continue training. As far as I know, Aldwin’d be the only one that would qualify, though if he willingly took the role of the bait in the scheme his more clever stags had hatched, then they had better kick back some of their own wages to him if they’ve any honor.

Myself, I knew the tournament was the last bit of my name day that I’d have any say in, so I surrendered myself to my mother and her attendant lordlings and ladies, who gnawed my ear off about their petty fiefdoms and land disputes up to, during, and after the evenfall feast. I’d hoped I’d see my uncle Tyrion, but he was woefully absent from all of the proceedings I’d suffered through. I glanced at my mother, across the hall, and saw her suffer through a taste of the marathon she put me through today, smiling and nodding at a man that obviously had ulterior motives for speaking to her, though certainly not to preside over some contentious issue. Excitement bubbles up in me as I realize I might yet have more free time today.

> Visit Sansa
> Find Sandor
> Find Tyrion
> Try out my new crossbow
> Visit the Stag Guard
> Check up on Aldwin

>>6465966
Can we do a combination of checking up on aldwin, on our way to finding Tyrion?

Also, glad u are back from your long hiatus

“I say, Ser Mandon,”
I turn to my Kingsguard, plucking a flagon off a nearby table and using it to top off the wine in my tankard before setting it back down,
“I have missed my Uncle this past feast. Do you know where he might be?”

> “The dwarf? Nay, grace. Perhaps your mother might be privy to that.”

“Perhaps,”
I sip my wine and glance sidelong at Cersei, whose skills in courtesy are plainly dwindling by the minute as she tries to unlatch herself from her drunk suitor. Even if she did know where Tyrion was, she might use me as an excuse to escape her awkward conversation and continue parading me around to guests of the Keep, which would spell the end of my respite. I turn and walk towards a postern door, exiting onto a balcony that overlooks the outer yard. The guests there quickly take notice and raise their drinks in mirthful acknowledgement before returning to their conversations, and I walk to the stone balustrade and look down on the yard. The whole keep is iridescent in torchlight, and I can see the servants and off-duty house guards having their own celebration as plain as if the sun was still up, dancing and drinking and eating together over the red clay that hosted my tournament but six hours prior. The middle bailey’s portcullis is thrown open, and I see another gathering of gold cloaks and presumably stags through it, participants of both celebrations freely crossing the open threshold to mingle with one another. Though my view of the bailey is obscured by the wall that separates it from the yard, I do make out a throng of large men dancing about a pit fire, the regular-sized silhouettes giving them a wide berth. My Uncle’s wildlings…

“Ser Mandon, I believe I’ll be a smallfolk’s king this evening.”

> “Best pull another white cloak from the hall a’fore you go down there, grace,”
Moore says, spying the same large men through the portcullis with a concerned look.

Thinking of my mother, I turn and walk lengthwise down the balcony towards another door, calling back,
“You can see to that! Meet me in the middle bailey!”

As I close the heavy oak door behind me, I see Mandon stare after me in abject shock before hurrying into the Throne room. Him and Ser Preston Greenfield manage to intercept me as I descend the large stone steps to the middle bailey. I ignore their aggravated looks and lead them down onto the landing, offering my most gallant smile and affirmative nods to those servants, gold cloaks, and stags that take notice of my presence. Most of those in the crowd are canny enough to part, making way for me and my two escorts as I get closer to the concerningly large fire at the center of the yard, but a man steps in front of me, prompting Ser Mandon and Ser Preston to step between us. He’s wearing a wool roughspun tunic and breeches with a leather jerkin, and he’s clasping a wineskin in his hand that, by the smell of him, is not his first this evening.

> “KING JOFFREY!”
He bellows, clumsily half-bowing and spilling some wine out of his skin.

“Well met, man!”
I say with a grin, hiding my faint aggravation deftly.

> “Oh, we pummeled them right proper today, ser, didn’t we?”
He grins toothily and takes a swig out of his wineskin. I notice a bruise on his arm as his sleeve falls to his elbow and realize this must be one of the stags that competed today.

“Indeed you had, it was a masterful stroke of low cunning, but my Stags must needs be ruthless from time to time, I’m sure.”
The crowd around us laughs and cheers, only encouraging the interloper.

> “We knew- *hic*- We knew you’d be watchin’, so we knew we had to win! That’s what we do for you, grace, that’s what we’ll- *hic*- always do for you, is win!”

“Well, you owe a great deal of your victory to Aldwin. If Robert has not given him a share of the winnings, I hope you all consider pitching in some of your wages.”

> “Aldwin-? Whossat?”

The flash of annoyance on my face must have been plain to all, because others in the crowd grab the drunk and pull him aside before my Kingsguard get the chance to shove him out of the way. We proceed towards the fire as the drunk stag continues calling my praises, the others around him bidding him harshly to shut his mouth. Thinking of Aldwin, I remind myself I must stop by the rookery to check in on him. He had more than one cut on his head by the time he forfeited, and though I doubt he made very much use of it in his lifetime I still hope that the wounds are superficial.

Finally at the fire, all except the Vale wildlings stop dancing, and as I parse the hairy, skin-clad men as they throw their bodies around the fire, spilling ale and wine from the skins and tankards in their hands, a creeping tension overlooks the more civilized crowd, likely imagining I find the lack of deference from the clansmen to be insolent. Well, I do, but I do not take enough offense that I would skewer the mood by chastising men who are, in all fairness, dancing on my behalf.

Instead, I shout as loud as I can,
> “Shagga, son of Dolf!”

That stops the clansmen in their tracks, and they all turn to look at the boy who called one of their own out. I do not imagine many of them know who their rightful king is at a look, but they aren’t so dim that the towering, armored men on either side of me do not give them a hint as to my importance. To my right, the dancers part, and the largest of all the wildlings is visible long before he passes the parted crowd, though the two whores he’s got on either arm are not.

> “Who calls for Shagga?”
He rumbles with a slur before his eyes follow the gaze of the rest of his kinsmen.

“Joffrey Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.”

The clansman’s eyes narrow as he regards me, and he lets go of his whores, who make a speedy exit back into the crowd. The way he holds his fists makes Ser Mandon and Ser Preston take a single step forward, hands on their pommels.

> “Shagga knows not of this boy king! Shagga is a Stone Crow besides, not a First Man or a Rhoynar!”

“Ah, but Joffrey knows much of Shagga! Even before you arrived with my uncle, I’ve heard many a tale of the Stone Crow’s giant and his fearsome axe!”

Shagga’s eyes narrow even further for a moment until they pop open, and he bellows out a hearty laugh.

> “The halfman’s kin is a boy king, and he knows of Shagga too!”

This causes the other clansmen to start laughing along, then the civilized men and women begin laughing nervously as well, though I suspect they are as lost as I am as to what was so funny about what I said. Shagga approaches me, and Ser Mandon and Ser Preston step in front of me, halting him.

“That’s alright,”
I say, not knowing if it is alright, but bravely I nudge past my Kingsguard and stand before Shagga.

> “Shagga knows the Rhoynar. They live atop the mountains of the moon. Boyking’s uncle the halfman said that the mountains will belong to the clans, and not the Rhoynar.”
He says, looming over me, adding with a lot less jollity,
> “Does the halfman lie to Shagga and his kin? Will the boyking do as the halfman promised?”

I cross my arms, meeting his gaze unwaveringly(or at least, that’s how I hope it looks to all that witness me).

“I have no love for the Arryns. When this war is over, your kin and fellow clans will be decreed the rightful lords of the Eyrie.”

Shagga huffs,
> “But what of the mountains?”

I smile,
“Forgive me, yes, the rightful lords of the mountains.

Shagga turns away from me abruptly, facing his wildling kin and throwing his arms up, bellowing,
> “The halfman told Shagga true!”

The wildlings cheer and launch into an even more fervorous dance, Shagga turns back to me and ruffles my head, unseating my crown and making it droop over my brow as he gives me a hearty thump on my back. Not my back-! Oh. It’s painful, granted, but not piercingly so. Only about as painful as a perfectly healthy boy my age being pounded on the back with his giant, calloused rocks for hands would be, though there is a lingering ache in exactly the same spot it’s always hurt. Perhaps I am more drunk than I thought.

“Speaking of the halfman, Shagga, I would know where he is.”

Shagga regards me again after taking a tankard from a passing gold cloak and gulping it down in two swings, passing it back to the peeved watchman, saying,
> “Shagga knows not where the halfman is. Last he saw, the halfman went into the city.”

I groan. Of course! Fucking Shae. Likely at this very moment.

“Thank you, Shagga. You may return to your kin and your whores and your drink, now.”

Shagga immediately starts off to the dancing wildlings without so much as a nod, leaving me and my Kingsguard among the gap in the bustling crowd.

> “Whoring, most like,”
Sir Preston says to me, somewhat insolently and completely unhelpfully.

“It is as you say, Ser,”
I grunt, turning back toward the stoney steps.

Galt the Merry greets me and my Kingsguard as we approach the rookery.

> “Good morrow, your grace! May the blessings of the Seven be with you on this, your name day, and on until next spring!”

“Hello, Galt. You weren’t wounded during the tourney, I hope,”
I say, grinning at the familiar face as we come to a stop at Pycelle’s wooden door.

> “Nay, your grace, I did not have the honor of participating. What a showing out on young Robert’s part though, eh? Others take the little bastard, he’ll be the richest of our sorry lot for a hare’s age,”
Galt’s smile falters,
> “Actually, talking of hares, I came around to check on Harlan. His was the head our youngest stag kicked in the final bout. Rather unsporting by my regard, but then again it was a melee after all.”

“Was he hurt terribly?”
I ask, concern growing.

Galt screws his face, grimacing guiltily,
> “Actually, I’m not certain. I meant to visit the Maester right away, but, well, Robert took his winnings and began buying drinks for the lads, and, well, I wanted to show my support for our champion no less than any other. I’m here NOW, though, and I’m sure Harlan will be honored that his king is checking in on him far more than a fellow stag.”

“I was not thrilled at the prospect of you lot swinging swords at each other beyond your drilling, but I am comforted that Aldwin has had the company of a fellow First Stag in the rookery,”
I say as I rap my knuckles on the wooden door.

> “He’s not in!”
A voice from inside bellows. I open the door, and Ser Preston, Ser Mandon, and Galt follow me in.

The interior of Maester Pycelle’s rookery is as one would expect, a semi-circle room with desks, bookshelves, and drug cabinets. From another door within, chattering voices can be heard, but I take a moment to check something. The bowl of raven’s messages is half-full, I glance over the pile of tiny scrolls for any black ribbons tied around them. Before I am done, the same voice comes from the open door on the flat wall, and the four of us enter.
> “In here.”

Pycelle’s personal quarters seem to double as the castle’s hospital, several cots splayed around the floor, injured men in various stages of recovery laid upon them. The men that are awake go quiet when they see me enter, except for one man sitting in a chair against the curved wall in the back.

> “Yer grace! ‘Tis an honor, truly!”
Harlan beams with a grin, his head bandaged up with tight linen strips.

“Hello, Harlan! Good showing at the melee today!”
I say, stopping before his chair. He tries to get up to show deference, but I halt his efforts with a gesture.

> “I feel fine, truly, but the Maester’s insistin’ I stay awake all night and not move me head too much. Is my wages getting’ docked?”

“That’ll depend on what the good Maester says about your condition, Harlan. You certainly got off easier than some of these other men,”
I say, glancing around the room at the injured fighters. Some of them laugh, and the effort makes a few of them cringe in pain.

“Are these all stags?”
I ask, turning back to Harlan.

> “Most are, aye. Some are the ones we beat in the first half, mother bless ‘em. They tell me Robert won in the end. S’it true he’s the one what kicked me head in?”

> “Oh, yes,”
Galt says, grinning,
> “We’ll have to keep an eye on that one. Cunning little bastard.”

Harlan shrugs,
> “I was plannin’ to do the same to him, but the bastard I was on top of wouldn’t let go of me shield.”

> “Serves you right, stag,”
A man on a cot behind us says, clearly one of the non-stag fighters. I glance back at him, and he remembers I’m in the room, sputtering,
> “O-Oh, no offense intended, grace, I- I only meant-“

“Don’t reopen your wounds now, no offense was taken.”

> “I don’t see Aldwin in here,”
Galt notes, glancing around,
> “Was he dismissed by the Maester?”

Harlan’s face falls. I feel my gut twist.

“Harlan?”

> “He- I heard- Word is, he collapsed halfway from the arena to here, your grace, and he- he bain’t wake up after.”

A quiet takes over the room. I feel a hand pat my shoulder, and I am unsure if it is Galt’s, or Ser Preston’s or Ser Mandon’s, but I remain still.

> “Well, now… He was a good man, the poor brute,”
Galt says, shifting on his heels.

> “Every man knows the risks of a tourney. Won’t be the last man the gods take from us in such a way,”
Ser Mandon offers.

I inhale through my nostrils. So needless, that death. If it were an unlucky strike or a bad fall, that would be one thing, but Aldwin had deliberately positioned himself in the center of all those men. Did he even volunteer, or was he goaded by the other stags into taking the position on account of his large body and small mind? Imagining his fellow stags convincing or coercing him into being the bait for their scheme, taking advantage of his agreeable temperament, knowing that he had no idea he’d be the first of my stags to die before the company ever saw it’s first battle, I am struck with a horrible realization:

I feel absolutely nothing.

“Pardon me,”
I say as I turn about and push through my Kingsguard, hurrying out of the rookery.

> Visit Sansa
> Find Sandor
> Try out my new crossbow
> Visit the Stag Guard

>>6466223
> Try out my new crossbow
oh shit i didn't know this was back.

>>6466223
Try out the crossbow

I hear Ser Mandon’s and Ser Greenfield’s boots stomping hurriedly behind me as I stand in the corridor, looking around aimlessly. When they come up behind me, I turn to them, and they both look at me searchingly, postures tensed, as if they’re unsure I’ll bolt down the corridor as fast as I can, or perhaps they’re expecting me to begin bawling. I do neither. There is probably a scowl on my face, though, I can feel how my brows are knit together in concern. Aldwin, affable, fat, drunkard Aldwin, is dead. I knew the man but for a few months, and only spoke with him a handful of occasions, truly, but he was a founding sword of my Stag Guard, and one of the more innocent of the lot at that. Ought I not claim some part in his demise? It was I that gave the stags leave to fight in the melee, it was for my favor they concocted that scheme that placed Aldwin in the center of punishment. Surely I ought to want, nay need to do something, to weep for a life needlessly taken, to wroth at his co-conspirators, but the only thing I feel is confusion and panic at finding neither course compelling.

How much of you is left in here, Joffrey?

I recall the deaths I had witnessed during the Stag Trials, the two smallfolk that did not get up after the first bout, and how unmoved I was after the fact. I note that this is the first time I’ve thought of them since the day it had transpired, and not out of an unwillingness to grapple with the reality of their deaths, but merely out of disinterest. They weren’t important. Aldwin wasn’t important either, was he?

The mind of the young prince I’ve been occupying has seen his share of death in excruciating, immediate detail, often from his own orders. One thing I do take care not to dwell on is recalling those memories that are not mine, of how much he relished the horror, and pain, and pleading of his victims. My stomach churns just thinking of it now, and that at least I might take heart in. Whatever my physiological reaction to death might be, my moral compass is still mine own, and I need not draw tears to comprehend and prevent tragedy. Well, not real ones, anyway.

> “Your grace, are you well?”
Ser Preston finally works up the courage to say something after the two of them stood quietly and watched me glance around and ruminate. I clear my throat.

“I’ll be fine, yes. Perhaps, if I rejoin my guests, I might take my mind off of this horrible loss.”
That, or become envious of Aldwin’s present condition.

“On second thought,”
I say just as we begin walking back towards the throne room,
“Where are the gifts I received this morning being held?”

> “You or your lady mother’s servants would know,”
Ser Mandon says, helpfully.

I stop walking and turn to Ser Mandon with a smile,
“Then we shall wait for you in Maegor’s Holdsfast until you find one and have her fetch my crossbow.”

The dull-faced Kingsguard stares at me for a moment before grunting and stomping off towards the Throne Room.

“Oh- and plenty of quarrels!”
I shout after him, but he does not give any acknowledgement that he heard me.

Fortunately, the next time I see Ser Mandon Moore, he’s clutching my crossbow in one hand, the cranequin in the other, with a quiver slung from his shoulder. The crossbow Lancel presented me with did not come with quarrels, so I imagine he had to walk down to the armory either before or after retrieving the weapon. Whatever misadventure he had embarked on, it gave me and Ser Preston time enough to set up targets in the inner courtyard of Maegor’s holdfast, mainly wooden pales from the holdfast’s kitchen. I would sooner have used sacks of flour for my target practice, but as I had plucked them from the cupboard, I remembered that King’s Landing would very soon be in the midst of a famine, and it seemed exorbitant to waste good flour on such a folly.

The inner courtyard was alight with torches when we had first arrived, and as we had set up the targets at intervening spaces I saw a servant relight a torch that had been extinguished by a draft. Mother or someone must have ordered every torch in the Keep to be lit tonight, and indeed, between the massive fire in the middle bailey and all of the lights on the balconies and wallwalks, it occurred to me that the tower of the hand, the only visible part of the Keep from this courtyard, has never been so brilliantly illuminated at night before. Would that uncle Tyrion were here to appreciate it, but I suspect he’d sooner stay between Shae’s legs, my name day be damned. In any case, all my wooden targets are plainly visible from the edge of the courtyard, where Ser Mandon shows me how to mount the cranequin onto the stock, hook the string onto the rack, and then crank the pinion until the string is pulled back with a tension far exceeding what human strength can achieve. After the string crosses the trigger mechanism, it is locked into place, and the cranequin is removed, allowing a bolt to be loaded. Ser Mandon places the loaded weapon into my hands, and I freeze for a moment.

In my old life, I had handled a deadly weapon exactly one time, a replica luger, on an ill-advised excursion to a shooting range when I was nineteen. My uncle had a veritable assortment of antique and iconic weapons, but such was my unease in handling firearms that I would only try out the pistol, and only after being coaxed for ten minutes. The weapon I now grasp is a far sight more primitive than any firearm to be sure, but the damage it’s capable of inflicting must surely be tenfold. The quarrel looks much fatter in my field of view as I tilt my head over the crossbow to line up my first shot, and I shudder inwardly at the thought of being on the business end of this contraption, to have such a thick chunk of metal pierce through my body at such an astonishing speed.

This would be like to punch through plated armor at a hundred yards, I think to myself, half a heartbeat before I loose it on the wooden pale ten paces in front of me. A cloud of splinters explodes in all directions with a mighty knock, the crossbow kicking forward in my hands, the string snapping like the jaws of a lizard-lion. Ser Mandon and Ser Preston flinch beside me as the chewed remains of the pale skip back atop the paving of the courtyard and crash into the posterior wall, the two wrought iron rings that bound the wood coming undone from the impact and clinking down against the stone like a dropped coin or rolling away like a wheel dislodged from a carriage’s axel.

Myself, Ser Preston, and Ser Mandon exchange stupefied, wide-eyed gazes with each other before we look at the damage. The pale is utterly destroyed, its wooden strips frayed in all directions, a large hole punched through one of the strips and a larger portion of wood completely missing from the other side. Closer to us, on the ground near where the pale was laid, the tip of the quarrel sticks out of cracked stone, the rest of the projectile worryingly missing despite the three of us pacing the courtyard twice.

“Well,”
I finally say after making my second round,
“I can still hear the festivities. No doubt we’d hear screaming if it had landed on somebody.”

Ser Mandon and Ser Preston nod their assent.

“Obviously, this crossbow is not a child’s toy, and this courtyard is too small an area to practice with it.”

Ser Mandon and Ser Preston nod their assent with added affirmation, and we take our leave from the courtyard with haste after collecting the crossbow, cranequin, and quiver.

“Steady as she goes, now. It’s alight, fire!”

Priscilla fires the crossbow, loosing the quarrel off of my mother’s solar and over the Blackwater, the strip of flaming parchment affixed to it shrinking into a twinkling, falling star of orange as it flaps in the wind. We all burst into laughter and I thump Priscilla on the back before putting the cranequin back on the crossbow to wind up for another shot.

> “Me next!”
Phoebe pleads, giggling as she finishes tying another strip of parchment onto a quarrel and dipping the tip into the tar pot.

“Very well, but take care that you haven’t any oil on you.”
I laugh as I strain to crank the string past the trigger.

Phoebe leaves the quarrel in the pot as she bounds around the table, bouncing up and down
> “I don’t, grace! Gods, but it smells horrible, doesn’t it?”

The mechanism locks with a satisfying click and I remove the cranequin. Handing it to Phoebe, she winces as she feels its weight and I realize that she might have a bit more difficulty in holding it aloft than a woman like Priscilla might, who is taller and stronger than her. Gallantly, I stand behind her and help support the crossbow by reaching my arms around her, but not before taking a hearty swig of wine.

“Now, don’t be afraid when you pull the trigger. It’ll kick- but only softly. You’ve held babes that kick harder than this thing is like to.”

> “Oooh, but it’s so heavy,”
Phoebe coos, chancing to lean slightly back against me. I love being King.

“Priscilla, the quarrel, if you please.”

> “We oughtn’t dwell here for much longer, your grace,”
She chides, flicking excess tar off of the end of the quarrel and parchment back into the pot before loading it into the rack,
> “Your queen mother will be most cross if she should find you here when she returns.”

“But hers is the only chamber that faces the Blackwater! Would you sooner have me firing these flaming bolts off mine own solar, into King’s Landing? Steady, my dear, don’t let the tar drip onto the wood.”

> “I’d sooner we not drip tar within her solar.”
She says, her tone hardening just a mite.

“We already tried firing these with just the lit parchment- the breeze quenches the fire! Talking of fire, Priscilla…”

Priscilla takes the torch off of the sconce, much less amused than a moment ago, and holds it close enough to the soaked parchment that the flames lick the oil and it comes alight. Phoebe gasps and flinches back into me. I keep the crossbow erect and steady.

“Fire!”

Phoebe looses the quarrel, and the burning parchment diminishes into a tiny point of light as it flies down into the Blackwater, swallowed up by waves darker than the pitch we dipped it in. It’s the same as the first twelve times we’ve done it, but no less amusing than the first, although Priscilla seems to be changing her mind on that.

I am loath to leave Phoebe’s side, but I take the crossbow into my own hands and kneel down, setting the cranequin on it to wind it up once again.

Phoebe picks up the tankard of wine we’d been sharing and takes a few small sips, and after Priscilla gives her a cold glare, she says,
> “M-Mayhaps, Priscilla has the right of it, your grace. ‘Tis getting awful late.”

“Very well. One more volley.”
I grimace as I crank the string past the lock again. The two chambermaids exchange dire glances.

> “Would his grace not prefer a nice, warm bath?”
Priscilla offers, her tone becoming more placating.

“It will take time to draw it. You may take your leave and get started on that now.”
I take a quarrel from the quiver, and realize there’s no paper tied to it. Grunting, I set my crossbow down and begin tying a strip of paper onto the bolt.

Priscilla throws her hands exasperatedly, throwing the door open and marching back through my mother’s chambers to the corridor as fast as her legs will carry her. Phoebe persists, drifting around the table, putting a hand on my shoulder. The act interrupts my tying, and her arm flinches back as I look up at her.

Still, she persists, cooing,
> “His grace is thirteen today. Nearly a man grown. I’ve not much to offer you, certainly nothing befitting a king on his name day, but,”
Her hand touches my shoulder again, and she squeezes,
> “If his grace’s back does not trouble him so much, perhaps-“

> “What in SEVEN HELLS is that STENCH?”

Priscilla had left the solar door slightly ajar, and from within we hear my mother’s voice followed shortly by a door slam.

> “That is burning pitch, my lady,”
Another voice says, as easily as if he was telling her the name of a town. Lancel.

All of Phoebe’s alluring humors have vanished, along with the flush in her cheeks as she turns paler than the moon. Thinking quickly, I stand up carefully so as not to slide the chair, pick up the pitch jar and toss it through the window.

> “Are those baseborn lackwits burning PITCH to keep their fire alight? Is that why it’s grown taller than the walls?”

Phoebe is frozen in place, and I stumble around the table, giving every piece of furniture a wide berth before I collide into her, pulling her away from the table and up against the wall, covering her hand with my mouth. A heartbeat after we reach the wall, the door slams open. Fortunately, we are on the other side of it, so Cersei does not see her son and his chambermaid. She does see the quarrels and crossbow on her table, though, which is presumably why she scoffs.

> “Those stupid girls,”
She spits.

> “Which ones are those, my lady?”
Lancel says from within her chambers.

> “Joffrey’s chambermaids. I give them the simple request to keep this crossbow of yours out of his sight for the evening and they dump it in my solar! Are my personal chambers to double as a vault for all that I would sooner he not brandish in front of dinner guests? And what a foolish thing to give a boy of thirteen!”

> “I could take it back,”
Lancel offers, his voice closer now.

> “Don’t be stupid, cousin. He’s already seen it. If he asks for it and it can’t be produced immediately, we’ll all have hell to pay.”

> “I’ll get him something better,”
Lancel placates, his voice as clear as Cersei’s is now.

> “Such as what? A CATAPULT? Perish the thought, the damage is done.”
Her voice trails back inside. I hear Lancel groan softly.

> “Don’t just stand there, you oaf. Close the damn door, it’s putrid out there!”
Another soft, impotent groan, and then the door softly closes.

I exhale. My head is swimming with wine and I can feel my own heart pounding and Phoebe’s beating faster still. I don’t know why I leapt to conceal myself, except maybe to prevent Cersei from seeing Phoebe, the comely chambermaid, alone with her son, and getting any notions about protecting me by shipping her to Harrenhal. I would certainly be safe, save for a shrill scolding that would follow me out the door, down the hallway, right up to the spiral steps. If I could manage to be artful about it, I might be able to smuggle Phoebe out of here, too, but the copious amounts of wine I drank seem to have dulled my imaginative faculties.

“Not a sound,”
I whisper to Phoebe, making sure she nods affirmatively before taking my hand off of her mouth. I walk up to the door, wondering what I’ll say, wondering whether I should even open it, before I hear Cersei say,
> “I think he suspects me,”

> Reveal myself
> Eavesdrop

>>6467305
> > Eavesdrop

> “Who suspects you of what, cousin?”
Lancel says, the oak door muffling his voice somewhat.

> “Joffrey.”

> “What does Joffrey- Oh.”

> “*Oh.* Should I bid you take your leave and resume talking to the wall? Just now it would be an improvement in the wit of this conversation.”

> “I hardly think his grace has the faintest notion, cousin. Even if he did, he would not like to be wroth. Robert certainly loved him not, and his death has secured him the crown.”

> “Don’t SAY that name, you idiot! The walls have ears, even up here.”

> “Why do you imagine he even cares, is what I’m getting at. He has not made mention of- his father- since his coronation.”

> “Not to you, he hasn’t. He’s- At any mention of my husband, he becomes choleric, and the way he looks at me in turn- he *knows!*”

> “He’s always been hot-blooded, cousin.”

> “Not *as of late,* he has not! Ever since that fall, he’s been playing the part of the smallfolk’s king, forgiving the servants’ indiscretions, fraternizing with them, *eating* with them. Whenever he holds court he dismisses anyone before him accused of treason without so much as a flogging, no matter what treacherous and black slanders that got them arrested in the first place. Ever since that Stark bitch pushed him off the wall, he’s had naught but milk in his veins. The only time I’ve seen his temper truly rise was when he heard about that lackwit Trant’s nighttime visits to his betrothed.”

> “Perhaps when his back is fully mended, he’ll have more of his vigor.”

> “I thought he’d grow bored of that ridiculous Stag Guard folly of his by now, but day after day he watches them train in the bailey, and they sleep in the sept and stables and wherever else they’re unwelcome- and now that little monster is here, too- what possessed my sire to make *him* Hand of the King?”

> “Never you worry about Tyrion, cousin. I’ll rend his tiny head from his twisted skeleton at your word.”

> “And then those beasts he rode in with will do the same to you, no doubt. This keep is quick becoming an inn for simpleton brutes, excepting that they are all PAID to stay here and not the other way around.”

> “Tyrion’s are a different specimen altogether. Vale wildlings, are they not? It would not surprise anyone if a fight were to break out twixt them and the stags of King’s Landing, and if it were severe enough, his grace would have no choice but to sequester one outside the Keep’s walls. It would thin either host’s numbers in any case.

> “That is… not the dullest thing I’ve heard this evening, cousin. Come here. I grow tired of talking. No, keep the armor on.”

When it becomes clear that Cersei and Lancel have engaged in something I would prefer not to eavesdrop upon, I slink back from the wall, my head racing with blood. I glance to my right, and Phoebe is covering her mouth with both hands, tears streaming down over her knuckles as she silently bawls. It’s a heinous crime that Cersei and Lancel have just plotted to be sure, but why should she care if my stags and my uncle Tyrion’s clansmen-

King Robert! Fuck! Did she know what they meant? A sickening pit clutches in my stomach, and for a moment I’m horrified I’ll give the game away vomiting right outside their solar’s door.

My stomach holds, which is more constitution than Phoebe seems to have, the tears continuing to flow and her knuckles turning white from how hard she literally holds her mouth. I place my hands on her shoulders and gently pull her to the corner, where we both sit down. I stroke her hair, her back, kiss the back of her head, but she still quakes with terror. We wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Flying near the moon, the comet blasts its tail silently in the night sky.

When we have waited for hours, the wind picking up, the noise of the castle finally diminishing and the noises from inside Cersei’s chamber long since silent, I stand up and pull Phoebe to her feet. She has at least stopped crying by now, though she still shakes and is as pale as when Cersei had first returned to her apartment. I give her a scolding glare and place a finger in front of my mouth. After a long moment, she nods weakly. I open the door to Cersei’s solar.

My feet feel like lead, and my head rages from all the wine I’ve had earlier tonight, but I know I must be quick. Clutching Phoebe’s wrist like a vice, I pull her inside, quietly shutting the door behind me. A hearth burns, its embers no longer casting light, and we hear quiet snoring. From across the chamber, I see a thin orange line and know that her door is there, so I pull Phoebe along through the pitch black, quietly but quickly, and through the grace of the Mother, neither of us bumps into anything before we make it to the heavy oak door.

Before I begin to slowly press it open, I chance a hushed whisper to Phoebe,
”Keep your head pointed down.”

The door opens, and light floods into the room. Looking back, I dread seeing either Cersei or Lancel stir from the orange glow of the corridor torchlight, but they both remain asleep, Lancel curled into a ball on the far end of the bed, Cersei splayed out over most of its surface area her bare breasts rising and falling along with her breathing. We’ve made it! I shove Phoebe out the door and close it behind me.

Two Lannister House Guards straighten with shock as they see their king shoving a maidservant along. I knew they’d be there. There was no way around them, save for climbing down the edge of the holdfast from the solar. All I can hope is that my confident gait as I walk down the corridor with Phoebe will be enough that they do not suspect anything is amiss, and have no reason to mention it to their charge, my queen mother. Fat chance of that. In any case, this is my last hurdle in my escape from Cersei’s chambers and the most dangerous yet.

How do I play this?

> Keep walking with a confident gait. The faster we leave, the less likely either of them get a good look at Phoebe’s face.
> Threaten them. Perhaps this looks like something more scandalous than it is, and they can be made to think their silence is more to their advantage where it concerns Cersei.

>>6468035
> Threaten them. Perhaps this looks like something more scandalous than it is, and they can be made to think their silence is more to their advantage where it concerns Cersei.

Hey OP, i noticed that we dont have a lot of activity in the thread, might be due to the hiatus and ppl not thinking you would return, maybe you should consider making this thread die, and make a new one so ppl have an easier chance at noticing your return?

>>6468065
this please