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?