Applause - A story on Joffrey Baratheon {AGOT}

Andrzej I said:

Glad to see another chapter up, and I look forward to reading the next :happy:

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Thank you kindly any thoughts on the more recent chapters?

ggondorian said:

This is pretty much fantastic. Just discovered it last night, and read the whole thing breathlessly. I absolutely love your characterization of Joff, he stays quite faithful to the book's characterization while still managing to seem human.

Keep up the great work! It almost makes me want to play a game from that perspective!

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*blushes madly while hides in a corner*

Thank you a lot for the kind words Quite proud you used your very first paradox post to write that.

Brown and white and wet and cold.

Snow.

Not the beautiful fall you hear in songs. It had fallen many days before, vicious, angry. No: the snow had blended with the dirt below, taking a sickly dark colour, turning ground into a thick layer of mud. Brown.

The storms of the days before had subsided, allowing the march to start once again. Many men had not gotten up from their holes in the ground. And yet, the sky was still painted in clouds, passing judgment on the mortals below, a tantrum away from raining death. Fog settled instead. Too thick until it was all he could see. White.

Qarl forced his walk, his knees having to go higher with each step so as to not get stuck in the blanket of snow. His clothes were heavy, stuck in every fold he had, prickly and painful, burning against his skin, the fabric tearing itself apart with friction. Wet.

His fingers were blue; even with the protection of gloves and tunics, layer and layer of cloth, his fingers were still blue. He had it lucky: he had seen the blue turn to purple turn to black. Fingers, noses and ears fell like snowflakes. Cold.

Snow.

Winter had not yet come and yet the north was buried in it.

Qarl hated the snow.

Because worse than the pain, worse than the cold, worse than the hundred deaths it had caused, worse than it all was the simple fact that the snow made everything bland, everything the same, everything dull.

The landscape had hardly changed as any landmarks were smothered in white. The fog hid any village from their reach, the snowstorm had them lost from their boats. Any treasures looted had been left behind as to not weight them down. Any saltwives taken had been killed as to ration what scraps they had left.

The mood around him was bleak as they forced the march forward. An exception mayhaps: beside him, Aladale sang. A young man, somewhere in his twentieth name day, a prettier face than a voice and his face had been surely prettier before leaving the craft for land. His black beard was interrupted by thin scars of angry red.

The boy chose his songs well, taking liberties with each lyric, moulding them for the audience. The songs painted rough tables and chairs, mead and woman, the smell of home, the smell of salt.

There would usually be other hoarse sounds adding to the song, but not for a while now. All were too lost looking for home to find their voice. Qarl didn’t miss the salt. Salt was as bland as snow.

“-moke… Smoke. Smoke!” He didn’t recognise the voice that broke through the song.

He did recognise the sight, even if blurred by the mist around them. Tens of fires converging into a single pillar, black ash against the pale sky.

A village.

It sounds unwise to be such an obvious target at times of war; but the settlement was remote, far removed from the ocean the ironborn called home.

His lips fell apart in a smile. Awkward, too dull from lack of practice. Too many teeth, stained yellow.

The song stopped.

“’Bout time! Let us find ourselves some heat!” Aladale’s laughter was angry and ugly; to Qarl it sounded better than any other song the boy had given him.

There was one other voice, deep somewhere in the winds, giving orders and building formations. Steffar, no doubt, warmed by his own airs of importance. As close to a leader as any of the survivors. Qarl ignored his shouts, stomping forward ahead of the group. His blood boiled new strength into his legs, their stride as swift as the muddy snow would let.

Snow, fog, snow, fog, snow, until finally white stained trees appeared, scarce, most long past dead.

Qarl could see as the scattered trees stopped. And behind them the sounds of life, faint, echoed between the empty trunks. Like ghosts haunting the fog.

He took shelter beside a trunk, letting the wood lodge his weight. The cold air burned his lungs, but he breathed it deeply, ravenously.

The mist parted to form a village, as if lost in the passing storm. The houses were poorly made, mostly wood, some scattered bricks. No wall, but two watchtowers, one faced north, where a cart trail of drier mud served as entrance, one other closer, southeast, guarding the woods that neared the settlement.

Behind him, Qarl could now hear the breaking of twigs underfoot, the heavy footsteps of a desperate run. Any notion of stealth had been lost to the snow.

He counted his breaths as he waited for others to reach him.

They arrived, one after the other, all more like cold corpses than men.

Hungry wolves circling hungry sheep.

Aladale closed in just next to him.

“What is dead may never die.” It wasn’t said as prayer. The man beside him was eager, perhaps as eager as Qarl himself: he could feel fire, a burn that spread from his chest; excitement. The likes of which Qarl had not felt for what appeared to be years. He found that he enjoyed the heat.

He should wait. There would be less chance for the herd to escape if all the wolves attack as a pack.

Was no doubt the best option: there were enough houses for all the men, enough meat to sink their fangs on, he would not leave unsatiated. He should wait.

But his stomach felt hot, turbulent. As if he had boiling waves surfing in his belly. The heat felt good.

It had him notice how hungry he was. Worse: it had him remember how bored he was.

He let one last breath go, watching its vapour fly, like dragonbreath.

And he jumped, running over the snow in an impossible pace, over rocks, over stomps, desperate, seething for more heat.

The house was the first he found, old stone, old wood, old moss. The door was a beaten thing, badly framed to the walls that stood it.

Qarl felt the pressure of his axe’s handle before the thought of taking it out was even formed.

A kick, with just the right hate: the door gave easily, its planks shrieking in pain.

The inside was dark, too dark for the still bright day and Qarl could not see. No need, as gasps betrayed the owners to their presence.

Qarl might have smiled at that point. The house was warm.

There was a shade to his right, but he did not wait until he could see it. His axe flew from the side, forcing the shape against the wall, and it cut, the sound it gave but a whisper and the breaking of a twig. Screams, shrill, from three throats. He moved his elbow to the dying form, ripped his metal from its flesh. The steel was raised and cut back down in the time it took for two heartbeats. The same sound of a broken stick. And raised again. There was something dripping from it. He could not see it.

He knew it was blood. He could smell the iron against the cold, burning his nostrils. Hot.

A shape tried to pass him by, running, crying, screaming. Qarl sent an open palm against it. It cracked. A skull if the sound was any indication. His axe travelled fast where the shade’s belly would be.

New screams. The smell of entrails mingling with the iron.

“Plea-” words, now. Amidst the sobs. Qarl heard them as whispers lost in the mist.

The smell was intoxicating.

The axe’s head glided to meet the voice.

And silence.

There should still be a shape left. Qarl’s eyes adjusted to the light. A child, her hair locked in braids, snot and tears hiding the ashen colour of her skin. Her mouth was hanging open, lips trembling. The girl was missing her front teeth. She looked as if she lost her voice.

Her midriff was wet.

Qarl took off one glove, placed the hand against her face, drinking her heat.

Soft, warm.

New tears cooled it again. Qarl’s fingers moved up until they were coddling her hairs. He could not help the smile.

He took the blade from the head it had found itself buried.

She sobbed.

The axe rushed forward, its blunt head was swift like a ram.

It sounded like branches snapping under wet leaves.


He did not leave the house until the signal to advance was given. He sat against the wooden wall, his hands looking for comfort in the girl’s hairs. He wore gloves now. The girl was cold now.

Qarl ate well, saving enough of the sparse sustenance to hold his march for some days more. His face was twisted in an open smile, as he collected a few hairs from those who once called the cottage home. It would hold his march for some days more.

The fog cleared with the coming sun. The march started anew. His world was brown and white and wet and cold. But for his hands: his hands were tinged in red and iron. Warm.

Qarl smiled. It would hold.


He was surprised when a new hamlet appeared on horizon. They had not been travelling for that many days. It was smaller, built in a clear, a stream passing just at its border. It was frozen.

The ironborn were calmer, more composed since their last raid. As Aladale had sung, they would sing back.

They approached the new mark with something that neared tactic. The houses were too few to quench all the wolves.

Qarl found himself once again aside Aladale, this time both were against some granite boulders, its surface shining in blacks and silvers.

Aladale carried his smirk well, his armour was cleaner than the older raider had ever seen it. He made an imposing sight.

His coarse voice said: “Behave boy, and you may have the scraps I leave.” It was said in a congenial tone. Playful even. It renewed the flame in the older man’s belly.

“Worry not child: I will be sure to find you a woman on whose breasts you may feed.” Aladale laughed to that, loud, once, picking himself up as he used his battle axe as a cane and ran.

Qarl left his rock just as soon, taking as much of the freezing air around him as his chest could take, his muscles screaming in dissent as he tried to keep up pace with the younger raider, who got further, further, farther.

Distance turned the man into a grey splotch lost in white.

He saw as Aladale’s shade took the first house it came across, using the weight of its body to break the door that stood in his way.

And the sight changed the burn in Qarl’s stomach. Moulded it. It was not anticipation, not anymore. But it was hot, and Qarl would flock to the heat as a moth would to flame.

The distance that separated him from the house looked as if it would never end.

The steps where tearing his legs apart, scratching his skin open.

It was cold.

Searching one other house did not even feature into his thoughts.

He finally reached the building. It felt like years since Aladale had started his run. Qarl looked inside, not seeing the second man.

Instead there were corpses, two, mangled, mostly gore. Cold. No! There was surely something more! Aladale could not leave him with this hunger! Would not dare!

He felt cold.

A girl screamed. Her voice was piercing, too shrill for her to be anything but a child. She was begging the man, praying to her gods carved on trees. It meant nothing to Qarl.

“Quiet wench. No point in your screams” there was no anger in Aladale’s voice. His smile was too wide, too many teeth, his scars looked as if blood was overflowing from his mouth.

He held her down, one of his hands in his breaches.

The smell was intoxicating. Entrails, iron, sex, sweat. They burned Qarl’s lungs.

He liked the heat. He craved for more.

Qarl felt the pressure of his axe’s handle before the thought of taking it out was even formed.

He aimed for his left arm. Nothing fatal, nothing that would stop the fellow ironborn from fighting back.

It cracked, loud even against the child’s screams, sending the tall man against the wall. He picked himself up, slowly. But Qarl gave him time. There was no heat like battle, no warmth like fear of death.

The man looked at him. Confused, at first. Truly lost. Until his face was carved into a frown, teeth bared, more animal than man.

The sight made the fire spark, loaning its heat to his limbs.

Qarl wasn’t cold anymore.

The animal in front of him howled, swinging his axe with his still healthy limb, an upper swing with no finesse, fuelled only by rage.

It took but a step to have it miss, the blade digging itself deep into the wall’s wood.

His axe rushed forward, its blunt head was swift, a ram, playing Aladale’s face like a drum: a sound of branches snapping under wet leaves.

Qarl found himself atop the raider, his legs locking his opponent’s arms in place. His breath was laboured, leaving behind small clouds of vapour.

He moved his steel away, slowly, staring at the silky rays of gore and drool that it left behind. And they were beautiful. And he wanted more.

Aladale’s face had never been pretty.

Blood was overflowing from his mouth.

Qarl let his axe fly once around him, theatrically, playfully. Until it dived.

It felt hot and the iron that impregnated the air around him burned his lungs.

His sight was unfocused, inebriated with the slaughter around him.

That was when he heard a sound.

“thank you.. thank you… thank you.. than-” a mantra. The child covered herself with what was left of what had been her gown. He had forgotten about her. Her hair was red, bloodied.

Qarl moved near her, gently, putting a show as he took his gloves, palms to her empty. “-ou.. thank you… thank y-” his hand was against her cheek, almost comforting.

It was soft, it was warm.

Qarl found himself wanting more.

He felt the handle against his palm before he even thought of picking up his axe.

The old septa might as well have told her words to the wind. The room felt empty despite the two children inside it.

Still, the end of her tale was like a signal: her lord’s son got up, stepping closer to his sister, before sitting atop his knees.

The boy took his hand between the girl’s hairs. He played with them, fingers dancing as one would when playing with water. He had done so many times before. He pulled his hand away, slowly, as a caress. The girl’s brittle locks broke, a few stray hairs following their owner’s love. There were too many golden strings in the boy’s hand.

Val was long forgotten.

“You are sick.” He did not ask. There was no point.

“I have no fever, brother. It is but your imagination.” She didn’t sputter, she didn’t hesitate, her theatre was perfect. He circled the loose threads around one finger, his fourth.

“I never did have much of an imagination, sister. I had you, I needed none.” The girl blushed despite herself. She was too pale to hide it.

He kissed the makeshift ring.

It was like a second sign, a flaming arrow against a starless night.

She hit him. And again. Tears started dropping form her lids, but she hit again. No slaps. Her fists were closed as they rained down.

“Do you not love me?” there was no answer from bellow her, she hit again “Did you stop loving me?” her hands were stained in blood now, yet she hit again “Why?” her painted fingers coloured her night gown in crimson, she hit again “You will never hurt yourself so again!” and she pushed him, disgusted.

With him, herself.

He cleaned the blood that dripped to his face as if it bored him. The sight made her break a sob: “You will not do it again!”.

He pulled her, too fast, too strong. She gave a hurt cry.

Until he kissed her forehead.

“I will.” He said against her skin.

The girl bawled then, defeated. Loud. Dignity forgotten as snot mixed with blubber mixed with blood.

Val stayed put, nailed to her bench, daring not move. Her breath as soft as she could force it.


So. Not dead. Next to no time to actually write, with studying, writing my thesis and working at the hospital, but not dead.


Small overview of how the ironborn invasion of the North is going. Not much is said in the screenshot, I know, but well... Spoilers.
I honestly considered killing Qarl, as he is a horrible excuse for a human being. But I’ve been killing off the last few POV, so he got to live. Ain’t the world grand?

Thoughts?

verdas said:

In a desperate bid to avoid my own uni work I just read this whole thing, and it is fantastic. I honestly would not have guessed that your first language is Portuguese.

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william188325 said:

Just read the whole thing through and it was like reading asoiaf again Really well done!

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Aww, chucks :wub:

verdas said:

Aside from the characterization, which is excellent, I really appreciate your use of repetition throughout a lot of these chapters - it reinforces the central theme of the particular piece, and is a great way to ratchet up tension. Words or phrases repeated create a sort of mantra for each character, and the action revolves around those.

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It’s good to see it is working then. I’m constantly afraid of overdoing them, but as I write my style changes and right now I can’t even write without repetitions. Weird.

verdas said:

And skimming the comments, nobody else seems to have picked out the most important detail about our two budding psychopaths in the appendices: the boy mentions his banner being a lion and dragon .

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Small details like those are called foreboding . But my updates are so sporadic I’m not surprised most people haven’t caught it.

william188325 said:

Jof tortured and killed melisandre, and killed shireen. Unless you dont count them as important

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As Joffrey took no pleasure in murdering Shireen I don’t really count it as snapping. I do count Melisandre however. He enjoyed himself far too much with her (at least at start).

Thank you both for the replies!

Nikolai said:

Congratulations LsT_G! I've nominated you to the Character Writer of the week! Check out this thread to bask in the glory and in a week's time nominate a successor.

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Thank you kindly for the honour!

It does force me to restart reading AARs... well, we'll see what we can do

Forster said:

Qarl most definitely needs a lesson. Great update.

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Thank you I don't think he will be back however... Just assume he died horribly in the snow.

blklizard said:

Let's just say the award brought me here and I must say I love what I've read (not enough time to read the entire AAR yet ). I hope I can catch up by the end of the week while still updating my own AARs. Keep up the great work!

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Thanks for stopping by!

The water was getting cool, vapours long fleeting; The water was soiled, having taken in it the filth that had been brought by the boy. All true, both true.

Its occupant was far from noticing, all but a faraway thought.

Sight clouded, almost a poppy induced haze.

What he could feel was the hammering in his skull and the blurred pain in his back. The bathtub was perhaps two sizes too small for him. He kept hitting the back of his head against the brim. It seemed to help quiet the pain.

And again.

He had regained his sense of smell. The room was saturated with bath crystals and fragrances. Too many flowers, too many roses, red roses, golden roses, dark-

And again.

Pain.

No longer a hammer; a whip now.

And again, again, harder.

He recovered hearing. Each strike brought with it a clang and applause that couldn’t possibly be there. But the whip hurt less. Pain to shield the pain.

And again.

He used the interregnum to raise his torso from the dirtied water, bringing his eyes unto the room. The ceiling was tall, well lit by glassed windows, the stained material casting impossible colours over the room, dancing. Blood red curtains danced with them, in tune to the wind. Even if none of the windows were open.

Pretty colours in a pretty dance that dampened as they fell.

The floor was dull.

A carpet of corpses, gore, bones and dead. All in the boring tones of muted reds.

All corpses, gore, bones and dead whose rot had clawed all prettiness away.

He tried to accommodate his back to the tin. To find a position of some passable comfort.

And again.

Comfort was be a mistake, a dare to any God watching. Make it worse. Much worse. As bad as You could. As They would: tiny feet marched.

His arm moved back into the water, leaving behind a loud plop.

As the newcomer entered there was no noise of bristled bones, no noise of broken corpses. There were no corpses then.

And again.

And he could half see the man; half a man: his uncle. Even if grasping a name was grasping smoke. He was clouds, focused into colours. A red tunic, blonde hair. Lannister blonde. The colours weren’t dancing. There was no wind to set the tune.

Pain spiked as he remembered. And he beat his head once again against the tin.

And again.

Joffrey.

And again.

Others take the world, take them all. He had forgotten his own name.

And again.

“What in Hells is wrong with you? Have you taken leave of all senses?”

The small man sneered. Perhaps. His face was misshapen enough that it would be hard to tell.

“-You.” The young king said, his voice a rasp. There should have been more to his sentence, Joffrey knew. A name mayhaps or a name at least. But words were muddled in the soiled water. Hard to find, hard to speak.

And again.

His sole word had been a victory and yet did nothing to quiet the thing in front of him.

The dwarf breathed deep.

“Your absence has been noticed” how could it not, he seemed to say, “how much of your adventure has reached my father and the reachwoman is hard to tell.”

Adventure?

He brought his head back until he heard the beat of scalp on tin.

And again.

There was a vague remembering of colours, aches and impossible whispers. And so? Most his days would muddle into them.

And so he tried again: “Adventure?”

“Yes, your grace; you were found singing of all things. Lying on an empty corridor, singing to empty walls, cheered by an empty audience.” The man looked pained to find enjoyment in the story. “Would have been easy to explain were you drinking-”

“I do not drink.” And again. Somehow the whisper came easy. But not entirely true, he supposed. He drank watered wine, as would any. A poison that would waste you slower than what could be pulled from the capital’s wells.

“No. You would have appeared smelling of wine and piss instead of blood and shite. And singing.” A broken chuckle, a cheerful sob “Singing: I had you gagged so as to make less of a spectacle.”

Joffrey hummed in response, plucking his lips as if he expected them to still be bruised from the handling: “Anyone I need kill?”

Fresh red over dull red. And any applause would cease.

Tyrion found a chair – How? From where? – to sit on, cradled his face with his hand. “Seven, no… no… just… those who saw are bought and paid. They got a good pouch to carry a king up some stairs and fill him a tub.”

Too easy to trust men he had bought. Perhaps the thought that they might sell themselves to another had never occurred. Should he let him keep his peace? This once at least?

He raised his arm from the water, in thought, his hand a spoon, drops falling between fingers; his uncle’s words hardly explained the blood, filth, death.

And again.

Or the singing. He disliked singing.

Great Robert, beloved, was not yet cold,

He moved his jaw again, letting word spill: “Have they dined?”

“That is all you have for me? No ‘it shan’t happen again’, no ‘don’t question your king’,” His voice was level, more tired than angry “no explanation, no reason, only death threats and dinner etiquette?”

Joffrey let the water wash away the tirade: “Have they dined?”

His Hand breathed deep, rubbing his palms against his eyes. He wore three rings, Joffrey could not help but notice, one red, one gold, one dark, all sharp edges and horrid designs. They had looked better dripping blood.

The dwarf’s voice finally came to: “Your grandfather and Olenna Tyrell have been speaking for most of the morning. They have but settled on all treaties.”

No. No, they had not. For they would need his signature, even if it were a quick line of ink against paper.

“But have they dined?”

So, no. No, they had not. They had yet to settle on any of their treaties.

And again.

“No. Gods, no. You will still be able to entertain them with songs and murder as they feast.”

His hands reached for the brim, tensed as to allow him up. Joffrey felt the water run down his skin; better than pain. Looked around for something he could wear.

Tyrion turned his view from his nephew. For shame, for a headache, who could say, who would care?

“I will call a page with a robe, your grace.”

He nodded and left the basin. His feet reached stone, no corpses nor gore.

“Have the servants bring our guests something light; no poetic dishes, no lion’s head eating flowers, no messages veiled in poultry.”

The man looked more than pleased to leave. And then:

Cheerful sob, broken chuckle: “No corpses then, your grace?”

There was an attempt of jest in his Hand’s voice.

“Only if the cook heeds them needed.”


The sun was still up, but past its prime when Joffrey left the castle. Above him, around him, plants and leaves. Most in green and not even those in more original tones could the young king name. Botany was an utterly dull study.

His grandfather had chosen the gardens for the meetings with the flower lords. It would make the discussion more open, he had said, less ominous. A strange argument, for sure. One could but guess how much blood spill had blossomed between the capital’s tulips.

If Tyrion was to be believed, lady Tyrell had turned the same thought into words. Something about the scenery being too red for a garden mostly decorated in marigolds. Joffrey could not say. She might have been snubbing the garden’s collection.

The table picked was under a ceiling of ivy and crosswood, set with satins, goblets and silvers.

Olenna Tyrell looked older up close than from the distance of a balcony. So very small, her skin dotted by age. She wore an overly complicated piece of dark green embroiled with fake petals and was giving an overly complicated account on the farming and processing of plums or, mayhaps, peaches. Lord Lannister was across the table from her, face schooled into stone, but looking no less alert for it.

Joffrey made a show of walking loudly against the branches, cracking beneath him as brittle bones would, calling attention to his arrival. Anything that would stop the agricultural drivel was a Godsend.

The sound of wood rasping against stone as the two lifted and bowed, shortly, from the waist. It would do.

“Your grace.” Tywin’s voice had but the necessary courtesy.

“Your grace. You honour me with your presence. I much hope we do not find you indisposed. Your servants were of little help in attaining your presence.” Her smile was just a touch too high. It might have been an attempt of smugness or of grandmaternal charm; Joffrey had little reference to compare it to.

“Apologies, my Lord, Lady, time is a blur when you are otherwise engaged. And I am afraid I was in no state to receive a civilized debate.” He did not even attempt to hide that something had happened. Neither of his elders would be fooled. He marched to the head of the table, giving time for the servant to pull his chair.

Red and cushioned and much more comfortable that any steel bench could aspire to be.

“Of course, of course. Your grace gave us but time to reminisce. A sin of the old, I’m well afraid.” The Tyrell’s voice was sweet with practice.

The servant took a goblet, filled it with wine. Sent it to his lips as he took a sip and swallowed with pump. He cleared the brim with a white cloth before placing it in front of his liege.

Paranoia had as much of a reason to be sited at the table as any of them.

Joffrey turned his hand around the air, as trying to circle all who were around them.

“All of you, out. If we are to find a man or child in earshot of this meeting he will be nailed to the nearest tree.”

They went, feet quick and heads down. Lord Tywin did not frown, did not protest. Looked more bored of the command than of any conversation that may have preceded it. As if he knew Joffrey would threaten blood as soon as he sit.

Lady Tyrell’s face suddenly said nothing. And that spoke enough:

“Corpses clash rather hard with black pine trees.” Her voice was far from her previous mirth. “But I suppose there is very few foliage that improves with a dead man hanging.”

Joffrey speculated that it would depend largely on the man hanging.

“Hopefully, one will take the garden’s aesthetic into mind before disobeying.” A pause, change of tone. “Still, I will apologise for starting our talks late.” Or a way of saying: nothing you discussed so far is of consequence without my leave.

It did not go unnoticed.

“Purge the though, your grandfather is every bit as gracious a host as one could hope.”

“We have discussed much, your grace, and I believe we have drafted a more than agreeable compromise.”

The old lion might as say that his presence was unneeded, unwanted, and Joffrey was uncaring:

“And I will apologise, my Lord, if I seem to throw those hours to waste as I play this meet by ear” Tywin Lannister wanted to say something, scream something, yell something. He wouldn’t with Olenna Tyrell in presence. Not a small mercy had Joffrey been in any state to care.

Said lady’s muscles had tensed themselves.

Dull green eyes locked on amber.

“You will stop any trade with the rebel lands, be it farm produce or war supplies. Of this moment, that would signify the Riverlands, Dorne, the Iron Islands and the North. You will not sell to any with intention of resale and you will provide the capital with what it requires for the changing season.”

A heavy expense: there was more.

“The Crown expects your armies deployed on the Prince’s Pass. There will be no need to cross it, but we expect the Reach to have a sufficient force to make a dornish advance through the pass ill-advised.”

The dornish armies had used the tribulated succession of the Stormlands to push its vanguard through the dornish marshes. Hoping to have King’s Landing in its reach and allies with the local stormlords. Instead, it had suddenly found itself deep in enemy territory, with no friends and little supplies. Attrition had rotted the army away. The Prince still had men left, but all crows estimated not but half the soldiers in the King’s direct command.

“Apologies, your grace, but I fear for Dorne’s hospitality on invaders. Any men we send will break between spears and the sand.”

“Of no import. We have no intent to take one step onto their desert.”

Joffrey had tried subtle, but it was enough for the once Hand. His eyes almost shone.

“The Crown’s army will meet the Prince’s. My Lord of the Westerlands will stop any brave or dim-witted riverlord from marching south while his faux King runs after raiders and shadows. Your son will no doubt march on his accord against the northerners once the war is all but over.”

She did not try to deny it.

“On a last note, Sansa Stark is not to leave the capital until the northern rebel are buried or burned.”

And again she interjected: “I can but wonder what you could possibly mean, your grace.” All poise and concern.

“That I do not wish to find her in Highgarden or in any of the Reach’s Septs.”

End her misery.

“And the Reach will suffer no further repercussions from its previous siding with a claimant.”

Just the right pause for breath:

“Agreeable terms, your grace. But I believe a more stable tie would benefit us all.” It would, yes. But it would benefit the roselords more. “As you no doubt know, my grandson, Willas, is still unmarried. A match between the future Lord of Highgarden and your royal sister would bring our houses closer than they have ever been.”

Gold. A blinding gold.

No.

He wished himself back in his two sizes too small bathtub; scalp beating in rhythm.

“My sister is not yet bled.” The red cushions of his chair would have to do, his head went back “Our renewed friendship would require a more…” Again “Immediate show.” Again “And if you will forgive my forwardness, you also have an unwed granddaughter.”

A shadow passed in the old woman’s eyes, gaze away into the black pine trees.

“My granddaughter Margaery is…” lips moved with no voice between them.

She was what? He had but whispers: she barely slept, she barely ate, she screamed at shadows, she dragged around a dirtied -bloodied- blue cape as a toddler would a cloth doll. Whispers hurt all the more when they were true.

Her voice grew bolder: “I am not entirely sure. She is in little condition to leave Highgarden; much less for her wedding.”

Lord Lannister knew where the talk was going, sounded tired of the circles: “There is one more possibility.”

The Queen of Thorns was no lamb. She knew where she was being led to: “With that being the reason why a bastard girl is paraded all over court.”

Again. Joffrey spoke: “Yes. It most unashamedly is.”

Lord Tywin’s voice was the lift of a lip away from amused: “The match of a princess with a third born son is still much of a coup.” Still a princess, even if one with no hope of true legitimization.

“A bastard princess gives this alliance little assurance.”

But Joffrey’s words had no warmth: “It is either a bastard girl or a traumatised child.”

Even with the old lady’s eyes locked against the black pine trees, the decision was easy to see. Eyes that almost spoke in agreement: if a tree would improve with a dead man hanging depended largely on the swinging man.


Tyrion looked tired. Or mayhaps constipated. Or resigned, or sleepy. As the dwarf caught his sight, he sighted and almost bowed.

“Your grace, may I be so bold as to inquire if you had a prolific afternoon?”

Joffrey wanted a sword, any sword. Or a stick, any stick; something he could drag to the training field and wield madly until he stopped thinking and exhaustion took him from awareness.

It would have to wait.

Instead he twitched his hand into a tight fist and forced it to painfully crack.

“Too much flattery and too many attempts at poetry.”

“And that tells me nothing.”

Joffrey felt his lip rise, before the next thought hammered it back down.

“Someone tried to spirit Sansa Stark away.”

Whatever the small men had expected, that had not been it.

“I imagine them dead in a most horrid fashion.”

“Still mostly alive. I might even visit them before turning to bed. Have not yet decided: lady Tyrell was adamant against the idea of corpses nailed to our trees.”

His ugly face went uglier. Distaste?

“I can but imagine. Whose man were they?”

“Were caught wearing green and flowers.”

“Never heard of a kidnapper simple minded enough to wear his master’s colours when breaking into the king’s castle.”

And then did Joffrey snort.

“Precisely why I would have no objections into sending an assassin wearing my name on his collar.” If it was such obvious a fact whose hand gave the order, then all eyes would turn to someone else.

“Are they being interrogated?”

“Am very much afraid they are in no state to speak.” He paused for thought. “Or write, for that matter.” Or walk, or crawl.

Or not piss over themselves.

“A waste.”

And here Joffrey would disagree with his kin. They had had many a use.

“Unfortunately it does mean that we will have to tighten the northern girl’s leash.” the small man liked the direction of the conversation very little. “It also means you will need to wed the lost wolf, uncle.”

Distaste was replaced by revulsion. He did not even attempt to hide it: “You jest.”

No. He needed a Paramount for the North once the war waned. He needed one loyal to his house and he needed one with enough legitimacy not to be thrown out within a moon’s turn. And the Imp? It was no secret that Lord Tywin would never give his leave for his youngest to rule over Casterly Rock.

“Or I could sell her hand to the first unmarried men to sodomize you in front of court.” And there was no jest in his voice. “You have until the morrow to give me your reply.” Then he tried to leave.

Tyrion would not let him.

“I will not rape a girl you already torment.”

The image of a redhead bawling over her father’s head strolled over his sight. Deathly pale. Pretty. And how bluish purple would look against her pallor as it formed under his hands. How red tears would but make her blue eyes all the more mesmerizing. The young King licked his lips as lust bubbled, tried swallowing to keep the thoughts at bay.

“Torment?” he laughed and his voice was a horrible thing “I would like to push her against my sheets, bite her body until I taste her, carve my fingers into her thighs, back, breasts, hear her beg my name as she cries for me to stop, wake in the morrow sticky with her blood, crimson, bright, flowing from everywhere.”

She would be beautiful.

His hands cracked once more for the pressure, his tongue found the sting of the wounds his teeth caused his cheeks.

Pain that could not shield the pain.

And Tyrion had no more japs and no more looks.

“Just place a cloak over her shoulders and take her out of my sight.” 

A vicious way to end a night, but Val could see her last words had been appreciated. There had settled some sort of resigned peace amongst the siblings. Unhappy about their station, but, for the most part, too exhausted to stir against it.

The boy had a hand in his sister’s blonde locks. Again. It was such a common sight, the Septa could but wonder if, in truth, that was not where it belonged.

His wounds were healing. Mostly. Even as he resumed his training.

They had been spending less and less time together, their father finding always something to keep each of their hands busy and separated from the other’s.

The boy was in the grounds with his sword when the girl had her lessons at the maester’s tower. Only when the girl was taken to the gardens to work on her broidery – or singing, or dance, or whatever other endeavour that had the girl cringe – was the boy to return into the castle, taking his books into his father’s study.

Her Lord’s reason had been clear to see, but it had mayhaps achieved the opposite effect. The children spent so much time apart that when they did find themselves together they had no time or use for words.

And yet they talked: light nuzzle of face in shoulder, soft caresses running the limbs, touches of lips left on cheeks. All proper and all chaste.

Until they were not.

Until the fear rang true, caresses left red marks on their wake, kisses were bites and desperate and breathless. Their embrace frantic as they tried to melt into each other.

And if Val was the only excuse they had, the only they could use to be together so, they would use it. Abuse it.

They would let the pain of characters from ages past be the song to which they danced. Use each other to restrain their own pain. Use each other to prevent themselves from breaking.

One day, mayhaps soon, use each other to break whoever was the cause of that pain.


Wow… half a year… I feel like a bleeding necromancer here… You might as well just reread everything, but if you came up here already, that may be a moot point.

I mean, really half a year and that is just ridiculous. I could give you all my excuses, how hospital work and exam work and actually making and defending my thesis has left me a wreck… but you’re not here for that, so instead:

SCREENSHOTS!!!


So, this marriage was the center of tonight’s chapter, but really you could already see it coming, so…


A more interesting pic is showing just how far north the dornish armies actually managed to come… At this point in time my army was just coming back from the war against Stannis, who was a much bigger threat than this meager “army”.

Of course, now that the stormlands are mine and Rob is having a marital spat with the ironborn or something, I’m free to teach the prince a few basic war rules. Like supply, because really -_-

And as a small bonus:


Oh my god is my favourite psychopath all grown up *.*? *squeal*

*cough cough*

As always, your thoughts and critiques are very much welcome.

Nikolai said:

It lives!

I honestly thought this dead, so this was a pleasant surprise. As always, Joffrey's skill in this version of ASOIAF is confusing.

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Glad to see there is still interest in the story I woried that the hiatus had killed any enthusiasm any may have had. And I'm reeeeeallly looking forward to the next chapter, so that has kept the story in constant standby in my mind.

Also, I think this is the first chapter where you can actually say that Joffrey is at least a half competent king... most of the time he is too busy allucinating for you to be sure...

Warlord Skorr said:

Looks like Tyrion finally realized that Joffrey is not a cruel child to be cracked upside the head and jested at, but a vicious young monster restraining itself.
Here's hoping Tywin doesn't die learning the same lesson.

Welcome back!

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Thank you kindly

So, any guesses as to what it means "We have no intent to take one step onto their desert"? It should be easy if you remember the Baratheons died befroe stepping too deep into the crownlands...