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IX: Joffrey
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IX: Joffrey
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Like magic, the tension that had enveloped King’s Landing during the last few months was gone. Tales of victory were aplenty and food was arriving from Rosby. It would seem that if one is to control a crowd and city all one needs is bread and wine: Magic.
The procession for Lord Tywin’s victory was quite the event. The streets of the capital were clogged with ragged men and tattered women. The same ragged and tattered that had made it burn. There were petals and music, laughs and sighs as the golden host entered the city. No matter that the plan, the troops, the movements, the supply routes, that all the strings pulled and pushed, all that had made the triumph possible, had been organised by others.
Petals were still thrown, like magic.
Because that day, Tywin Lannister was a hero.
Forget the crimes, the murders, the sack during the Rebellion. No. Forget them all. Because that day, Lord Tywin had killed enough men, killed enough of them, to be more than a killer, than a murderer, than a monster. A hero was above such notions.
And with the hero named, the stories needed more characters; more magic!
Because the king was certainly mad! A mad puppet, whose strings where pulled by an evil monkey, a deformed monkey with mismatched eyes! A better tale already, one that could be sung in halls and festivals: it had some magic!
Forget the defeats at Darry. Forget how better the war - the song! - would be going had the hero listened to the orders of the mad king and the evil monkey.
Music was still played, like magic.
The irony of the parade had quite the impact on the young king. A fierce, physical impact in the form of raging storms and bleeding minds. A pain the king was not alone in suffering.
Joffrey did not remember his Hand half as bitter, half as mad, even if the halfman spent little and littler time with his king. The dwarf had seen fit to spend his week consorting with whores. Or one whore in particular, if the Spider’s whispers were to be trusted.
Only the whispers, not the man. Never that man.
His mother had also found someone to warm her sheets, it would seem. Some cousin of his. An unimpressive looking whelp that would soon have a discussion with his king. Joffrey had more than enough brothers and more than enough headaches.
If only their affairs had left them calmer, more agreeable. But no. That would not befit a Lannister. His mother had lounged her fingers and an arm into the crown’s treasury. A scandal in the making when he least needed it. And his uncle had been locked outside the keep, somewhere, for a week, pouting like a child who had been given less sweet bread than its brother.
Spoiled children the both of them; how much they manage to resemble one another, even despite all the loathing one felt for the other.
If only his problems could leave with the same ease as his city’s. Like magic.
King’s Landing looked beautiful that day. No squalor, the filth hidden.
Laughs and sighs still all around, like magic.
Laughs and magic that butchered the kings mind and killed the colours he so loved, until there was only pain, Pain, PAIN.
It took a godforsaken city to throw petals, play music, laugh and sigh at the show presented, to fall for such easy tricks.
But it was Joffrey’s city. And even if the Gods ever want it back, it would still be his. And not even Them would take it from him.
...
The doors were closed to him. His council’s doors closed. To him.
Who did his grandfather think he was? How dared he to close him off, like what happened on the other side of those doors was of no concern to him, like he was a child with no business playing with crowns.
Who did that men think he was?
The two guards in front of the council’s doors were dressed in Lannister red. Shaking like leafs to the winds. Behind of the King, two of his own guard.
“You are blocking my way.” A hiss.
“W-we” he stuttered but kept firm “apolo-logy your grace. Our lo-rd has commanded that no one is to pass this do-or.” The men managed to speak commanded in one breath. What a clever little pup.
Joffrey reached his arm for Ser Moore. He had been carrying the king’s sword beside his own. He placed the hilt on the king’s hand and pulled the sheath from the sword.
The leaves trembled all the more.
“A mistake I am sure. One would never bar one’s King passage in the King’s own halls.” Joffrey did not ready his sword. Just left it there for the leaves to see. Maybe that had given the leaves some nerve. The man tried again.
“Our Lord gave us order not to be disturb-”
And never got to finish.
The blade flied, too fast, too sudden. It buried itself on the guard’s thigh, deep, and was taken before the man knew what had happened. The king’s Hound had his hand against the second, smashing his head against the wall. Once, twice.
Two sickly cracks and a grown men wailing.
“A mistake.” Joffrey placed his sword over the shoulder, as he explained. The blood shook off from the blade in an arch, painting the king with droplets of red.
The king pointed to the door. He did not see his Hound scowl before opening them. One guard was still screaming, his blood tainting the great castle.
And that was how Joffrey was presented to his grandfather: in Crimson and Screams.
...
There was little doubt in Joffrey’s mind that there were far too many secret paths that linked the Red Keep to small and unassuming manses throughout the city. There was also little doubt that the paths were not secret enough or the houses unassuming.
Too many people knew of them, as one person was too many. More than one passageway would circumvent the walls of the Keep. They were dangerous, a slaughter in the happening. A threat to address at a later time.
And the manse where his Hand had decided to drink himself to oblivion was anything but inconspicuous. Clean, with fine rugs and thin curtains. He barged in, too quickly to appreciate the statues or marbles.
He found his uncle in bed, inside his whore. Sounds and shapes that he would have gladly died without.
“Up.” His voice broke the room. The girl looked startled at first, but ended smiling, no rush or modesty; all of her was desire and sex.
“What the hells are you doing here?” His uncle however had the grace to cover his form. Not a small blessing.
“I said up. You’ve had your fun, but now I have a kingdom in need of guidance. Girl, help my uncle get dressed. I want him to look as a Hand.” Maybe he was asking miracles of the girl? “... or as much to that extent as possible.” He stepped outside the room and leaned against the stone walls. It became obvious how beautiful the house was, how little there would be missing. The tables set with wine and fruit, fresh even. One just had to ignore the smell of sweat and sex. Joffrey was not very good at that.
“And why are you here, your grace?”
His uncle was drunk. At least Joffrey hoped the damage to his mind would pass when the next morning came.
“I said I have need of you.”
“You have. But why are you here?” Maybe his mind was better than Joffrey gave him credit. A good question indeed. Why was he here?
“Your father decided that my presence was unnecessary to today’s council meeting.” He heard his uncle give a small laugh on the other room.
“A song I would love to hear! How did it end?”
“I stabbed his guard.”
There were no laughs for that. Only the sounds of Tyrion readying himself.
“That must have changed my father’s perception of you. He sounded worried that you might be too...” He hummed, like singing would find him the words “... insane.”
“He did not open the door. A mistake, really. But you should have seen grandfather’s face: he almost frowned.” It was mostly a cold look. A calculating look. Joffrey hadn’t smiled either at their reunion.
“A great accomplishment, your grace.” Tyrion probably had received the same honour as soon as he was born. “Did the man live?”
The guard had bled through the afternoon, his screams piercing the young blonde’s mind even in the distance of the maester’s tower. Even after he bled all he could bleed. Even after dead.
Screams.
Joffrey shrugged, as if the fortune of man so far below himself was of little matter “And also a coded bird landed; Little Finger is to arrive today by boat. My sister is with him.” This was a gamble for the queen’s brother. How much of his involvement did she know?
“And does your mother know?”
“I can’t be sure.” How much of the Spider’s web was also owned by her? “But even if she does not, she will soon know I invited my father’s bastard to court.”
His uncle left his room, dressed. He still looked little like a Hand. Mostly like a dwarf. But then, Joffrey supposed it was hard fact to disguise. His whore left with him, maybe with the thought that the lack of garments would send a better statement.
In a way, it had. The king’s eyes left her form, as if by disinterest: “Is she always looking for new patrons?”
Tyrion did not look pleased himself. “Shae has a rather practical view of life.”
“Your father knows you are keeping her in the city.” The seasoned man had almost reacted when he said so, listing her as one of the many reasons why Tyrion was an inept Hand. “The thought seemed to sour him.”
“He should be happy. He was given the badge back.”
Joffrey reached for one of his pockets and threw the content to his uncle’s chest. Tyrion caught it with difficulty. In his hands the copper brooch.
“The great Lord of the Westerlands will depart soon. Our armies are due south: Stannis is laying siege to Wendwater.”
The Imp’s head was already at work, turning, bending.
“There is much to do then.” He paused “Is my father still at court?”
Joffrey sneered.
“He will not give you to the Others today, uncle.”
But he might try. It might even solve one of Joffrey’s headaches.
Like magic.
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one promise kept.
