Applause - A story on Joffrey Baratheon {AGOT}
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Thank you! I've been worried that it may come across as a bit artsy, as there is a lot of repetition while i'm trying to get inside the character.
The story will get a bit darker especially around V, that being the reason I added the "lady and her Dwagon" bit.
Those are the only scenes that I'm writting as I'm posting the story (As the rest is already written to ch VIII). Do you think they work?
The framing device is very well-done; the sinister children are rather interesting foreshadowing while remaining believable as children. The mentally-ill interpretation of Joffrey is one that I like. Martin has the bad habit of vacillating between incredibly symbolic sections and very grounded, literal scenes. Joffrey's hallucinations tie the two together in a way that makes the contrast work. His punching Tyrion back and fascination with blood is so in-character I'm kind of in awe of how well it fits.
I can't honestly say I remember Ser Daven Lannister from the books, but the melancholy tone of his section works perfectly for the feeling of the event itself as well as developing a theme of how other people are going to suffer because of Joffrey. Even when he doesn't intend it.
All in all, this is a well-written piece of story-telling with multiple layers of meaning without obtuseness. I eagerly await more.
Thank you very much for the kind words and the helpful review. I hope to show how this Joffrey came to be in the next chapter. It will probably be posted on Wednesday, earlier if I get some writing done this weekend.
Daven is not a POV in the books, but he does appear on occasion. He was an important general for the Lannisters and even Jaime was impressed with him.
The children are not supposed to be overly fleshed out. For one, neither will ever be named, but there are some very obvious clues here and there, for another I left their age completely blank. For now it mostly seems Val is a bit paranoid and the kids are just that. She is paranoid, but the kids section will get darker as time passes.
to the point and much appreciated.
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III: Joffrey
...
III: Joffrey
...
“The boy Joffrey, the boy Tommen and the girl Myrcella being abominations born of incest!” Joffrey read again, out loud, for his uncle. Tyrion already knew the paper by heart, but that was of little consequence.
Since the conquest, almost three hundred years before, the small council had held some of the most formidable men to serve the Iron Throne.
Had the performance from that mourning’s meeting been the rule, Joffrey would have felt rather underwhelmed.
The power of words, condensed in a small parchment, delivered by raven. No ciphers, no codes. Paper and ink enough to have pandemonium in a room with some of the greatest minds in his kingdom. Seasons were changing indeed.
Joffrey had a wide smile breaking his face.
“You are taking it better than I feared.”
They had retired to the Hand’s tower, where most of his new classes were taking place, much to his sister annoyance. The audience chamber was a well furnished room, in its Myrish rugs and wall hangings. It also had some of the softest seats in the Red Keep.
“Better? Had this not undermine my claim to the throne I would have it proclaimed in all septs and all squares! I would pass it as law!”
“He did call you a boy.”
“Do not sell the usurper short: he named me an abomination! And yet he wrote ‘my brother Robert, our late king, left no trueborn issue of his body’! While sieging Storm’s End! For that alone I would absolve him of the insults directed at me!” he paused and looked at his uncle’s declaration of war. “I would still cut off his hands, mind. His slights against me are forgiven, but he still insulted most of my family.”
Tyrion could but snort. Joffrey’s bloody enthusiasm was infectious.
The world looked bright again for the boy-king. He did not believe the words of course. But the fleeting dream of being rid of his father’s legacy was welcome. His mind had even been soothed for most of the council, even as his mother raged.
Tyrion would no doubt dampen his fires.
“Pyscelle received a new crow from my father. The overgrown rodent would have opened it too, had I not placed a mercenary at his footstep.”
“We know he ignored the order to march to King’s Landing. Does he speak of a second fall of Castamere?” There was no hope in the king’s voice.
“His host was but obliterated at Darry.”
Tyrion would no doubt dampen his fires. Others take them.
The pain returned and colours left. He pressed the wound in his cheek, a habit that had stopped it from healing. The stab in his face overcame the hammer in his head. The colour in the room returned to him.
It would not last.
“Survivors? Any fallen of note?”
“No one he considers relevant. He does not give the numbers of his soldiers, nor the direction he takes them.”
“Meanwhile the wolf boy will burn the Crownlands.”
No matter the damage done to the North’s army, they knew their army would not hold in the field. Not alone.
“Our host is ready to march.” Joffrey commented. The last men from Crackclaw Point had arrived late the night before. “I have no doubt you tried to fill the command with your creatures.”
“As did your mother tried to fill it with hers.”
“Ser Balon Swann will lead.”
“So you heard. He is a good man, one of the few loyal swords in our side. He is also rather versed in the art of battle.”
Joffrey laughed at that. It felt hollow to him.
“A compromise. A man not yet controlled and much disputed. Who’s your man?”
“Bronn.”
That had been a surprise. The sellsword was as close to a friend as his uncle had in the capital, but he thought his uncle would have better sense than to trust him.
“Won’t your man sell us as soon as someone makes a rattle with their purse?”
“He’s well bought.”
“My mother’s?”
“She has her share.”
Joffrey could not say he was pleased. He trusted ser Balon enough, but for how long would he be able to hold command when surrounded by vipers? He was but a soldier.
“Yours and my mother’s games start to tire me.”
“She still styles herself as queen-regent. Consider yourself lucky: her order to kill all your father’s bastards in the city almost went through.”
“The murder of half the town’s babes would go well with the smallfolk.”
“No doubt.” His uncle was looking at him. Studying him? “You would still enjoy it, would you not?”
Their wails as the children were taken from their mothers, their blood staining steel. Crimson and screams.
They would be beautiful.
The claw returned and tore his head.
New pressure to the wound. Better.
“I’m sure one can find more suitable a show. Your sellsword had been doing an impressive job of cleaning the streets until now.”
It was not as big a digression from the conversation as it might at first appear. Bronn’s approach to crime was well in hand to his king’s views. The city had never been so calm, the dungeons never so empty. It had impressed Joffrey enough to have him buy the sellsword’s time. His dueling was never worse, but his fighting skill had progressed by leaps and bounds.
“Your mother is enjoying her rule a little too much. I fear she might do something drastic.”
Joffrey saw in the corner of his eyes the golden shadows of a woven lion. He did not turn. He would find nothing. He pressured the scab again. And yet the pain worsened.
“Here’s a story, uncle. Do try to find the lesson in it.”
He took a breath. It hurt still.
“I remember my mother crying exactly once.” It had been dark and he had been in his chambers, forcing sleep to come. He could never tell exactly how old he had been. She had held him and he had held her. “It is still one of my most shaking memories.” She held him with despair, to the point where he had felt crushed. “Never learned what my father had done that time, but I now know enough to venture.” It had not been the first time she was struck. Many more would come after. “I saw him strike her only once.” Because he had ran whenever he felt a new strike coming. “They were fighting over a tapestry of all things.” An insult to her. A constant question of ‘why couldn’t you be her?’. “I always wished I had been enough a man to take her place. To stand between them.” But that was not who he was. And his father had been a monster of rage, resentment and fat. Still he had always wished. “I never did.”
His head was aching and his chest felt crushed. Did all men felt so at some point or were it still memories, phantom pains from when his mother had come to him in tears?
“My father was not a good man, no matter what the smallfolk and minstrels may sing. He whored or he drank. He whored mostly drunk, of course. You could hold a flank by arming his bastards. He feasted and he hunted. The vaults would be empty without the Iron Bank’s coins.”
Joffrey laid on the long seat.
“He claimed a kingdom out of love and burned it out of grief.”
Let his son take care of the chars.
“Of course, you knew most of this.”
Tyrion said nothing. He did. He got up and searched for some wine. Something dornish. His cup was filled till the brim and drank in a gulp.
The Hand finally caught words.
“And his bastards?”
Pain flared. “I will not hold them responsible for my father’s ineptitude.” No. His nail found the scab. He wouldn’t be a kinslayer. His nail dug deep. Not even to correct his father’s wrongs. Blood. If he repeated it times enough he might convince himself.
“There is still use to be made of them.”
“Of which of them do you speak? Edric Storm is held by my uncles. The others are not well known enough.”
“If they were recognized as your brothers…”
Tyrion was stopped there. “Only my father had that power.”
“Perhaps. I shall take a closer look at the charters.”
Joffrey let silence reign the hall. It truly was a comfortable room. There were no tapestries and the air was cool. It was small wonder that the seat of Hand was so sought. The blood flowed down his cheek. His pains calmed.
“Little Finger’s plan has merit.”
Why his uncle had felt the need to break the silence eluded the younger blonde. He would admit though: lord Baelish had a terrifying mind.
“It’s a good tale. Make it travel faster than my uncle’s and people will ignore his.” His hand went to his cheek, then brought the blood to light. “I still want him to travel to the Vale. If anyone can bring the Arryns to us it would be him.”
A girl hidden behind a corner of the keep came to mind. A child three years his junior, holding a ball, who feared getting caught or even seen. An ugly and sickly little thing, tested from birth with grey scale scars and Stannis Baratheon as a father. The only girl the then prince had ever pitied.
Raven and ink would test her yet again. Stories of her being the result of a union between her mother and the fool they kept at court would tour the kingdom. A humiliation even to a girl with so little pride to call her own.
The feeling of blame was not one the king was used to.
The pain in his scab helped mask it.
Still, he could not hold his tongue:
“I would pity the fool that takes my aunt Selyse to bed.”
“You may pity Stannis after he is hanged.”
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Appendix III
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Appendix III
...
“That is quit-” Val stopped as she looked at the girl in her care. She was smiling. Damn.
“What is whoring?” innocence. She could pass as the epitome of innocence. Damn, damn.
“Not something one your age shou-”
“Could we go whoring tomorrow?”
Damn, damn, damn.
“That is no-”
“Could we? Could we? Could we?” and why was the girl so loud? Even louder than was her usual.
Colour drained form Val. Damn, damn, damn, damn.
There were footsteps before the door opened.
Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.
Val’s lady was at the door.
“What is the meaning of all this racket?” No. Mother no. Val tried to speak, she was cut short.
Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.
“Mother! Val is taking me whoring in the morrow! Would you come?”
Others take her.
...
So... a whole chapter that could be pretty much surmised in this screenshot. At least I hope to have made you understand how Joffrey works a bit better and why he is how he is.
Balon Swaan is another minor character from the books, but an impressive warrior all the same. Being content also helps. He will get quite the reputation during my story. In the books he was eventually chosen to be a kingsguard. One of the few good decisions Cersei made during her regency.
Tyrion’s man:
The queen’s:
Bastards like Mya seem to have more importance in ck2 than in canon. I don’t see anyway Highgarden would accept her as a bride, but in game it will work. Why is she needed then? Mostly because off changes I did to the core game, making Myrcella too young and Margaery too widowed.
GRRM’s Joffrey had a very “let’s cut’em and see if they bleed” approach to his father’s bastards. However, the stigma on kinslaying is such that it stopped Roose Bolton from killing his bastard, Ramsay Snow. If you know these characters then you should understand how big a deal it is.
Joffrey still dislikes them, but will try very very hard not to have their heads adorn his hall.
...
IMPORTANT: Due to the nature of posting a story as one writes, I added a chapter that should be read between chapter III and IV; let's call it Bonus I. At the end of it there will be a new link sending you back to chapter IV. I Hope you enjoy it.
...
So… thoughts on the chapter? What worked for you? More importantly: what didn’t?
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I finally had some time to read this aar and I am enjoying it. It's nice to see that somebody is doing an aar as one of the characters people love to hate. I'm looking forward to seeing future updates.
I love AARs that follow multiple people's POVs like this one. The only issue I have is that you said you will not be doing multiple chapters of the same person. This concept will allow for Joffeey to be the center of the story but I personally like to see depth added to the other minor characters.
Will this aar come to an end once Joff dies? Or will you continue on as his children or other characters?
Finally should get some free time I would really appreciate if you could check out my own aar 'From Lords to Kings'. I'm also writing it in multiple character POVs. My aar is set up as a book series which centers in the Vale around one family but also brings in elements of the other regions. As of right now I only have book 1 posted though I have four books already written on paper.
Thank you and keep up the writing.
I love AARs that follow multiple people's POVs like this one. The only issue I have is that you said you will not be doing multiple chapters of the same person. This concept will allow for Joffeey to be the center of the story but I personally like to see depth added to the other minor characters.
Will this aar come to an end once Joff dies? Or will you continue on as his children or other characters?
Finally should get some free time I would really appreciate if you could check out my own aar 'From Lords to Kings'. I'm also writing it in multiple character POVs. My aar is set up as a book series which centers in the Vale around one family but also brings in elements of the other regions. As of right now I only have book 1 posted though I have four books already written on paper.
Thank you and keep up the writing.
...
Tyrion’s man:
You know Bronn as an amoral bastard that would murder a child for the right amount of silver. He also has decent martial. He’s still surprisingly liked.
Bronn is the epitome of the Punch Clock Villian/Punch Clock Hero (depending on what the people paying him want), and I think his snarky, cynical pragmatism is what wins him a surpising amount of fans. He kills people for a living, he makes no apologies for it and he doesn't try to rationalize it or justify it. In his own way, he's the most honest man in the city.
This story needs Joffrey to be the center of attention, but that doesn’t mean the minor characters won’t appear again, they just won’t be the POV. This is a limitation I placed on myself, so every POV from “not-Joffrey” characters would tell a story by itself. I loved writing Daven, but I think his arc was well closed and any additional POV with him will ruin the effect. He will appear again, however. Sometimes rather veiled others as an important part of the story.
Yes, it will die with Joffrey. But it will probably get faster as the war ends. Right now, in 3 chapters, only around 2 months passed.
Depending on how it’s received and how much time I have on my hands I might do a follow-up story. It will mostly depend on how much time I find myself with once this story ends. February is a very calm month in my university. March not so much. April, May and June are dreadful.
Am considering making sure the Lady and Dwagon characters actually exist in game and chronicle their rise. Because they would rise. Or maybe continue this game a few generations after with an ironborn/reachman/northman. Time will tell.
I did read your story when you first posted it. I admit I haven’t seen it since, though. I remember liking how you presented your characters, from the maester perspective. I’ll try and read it when I find time. I need to study nephrology today I’m afraid.
Thank you and I hope to entertain you further.
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He will have a POV soon enough, but I'm not sure how popular it might be... I wrote Bronn as the epitome of cynical pragmatism, but Tyrion won't be there for him to be snarky to/with. It will be mostly killing and looting. He specialises in both but they aren't particularly funny.
(Due to the nature of posting a story as one writes, I added a chapter that should be read between chapter III and IV; let's call it Bonus I. At the end of it there will be a new link sending you back to chapter IV. I Hope you enjoy it.)
Grease on Brown. It would stew for years on end in a massive metal pot, too greasy to touch. The film of fat bubbled, presenting a few chopped morsels of something. It was the cheapest meal anyone could find in King’s Landing and oft the only. One could buy it with any coin or green. The deal was good: add something to the pot for a bowl. More if the offering was fresh.
There had been nothing fresh to add to the bowl for a few weeks. The roads were closed as knights fought their battles and no food came from the Roseroad.
And yet the bowl was full. One preferred not to know what the meat inside it was, but there was little a hungry man would not try to quiet his stomach for the night.
Robin took the spoon to his mouth. The taste wasn’t hard to ignore, not after years to acquire it.
The pot-shop was full once more that day. He recognized many of the man inside. He recognized the dangerous man, of no questionable reputation as everyone knew what they did and loved.
The city had been quiet. During the last few days any criminal found would be removed from the streets to never be seen. No one minded. It were less mouths to feed, less competition for when better days came. But quiet was not peaceful. And as bellies were left empty, people would rattle. The alleys were tense, even as most, one could say, unlawful businesses were brought inside closed doors and darker holes.
There were whispers of siege, of stags in the Stormlands fighting for the privilege.
There was good business in a siege, for a man of his profession. His brothers were gathering, stealing and wheedling all grain they could find. If the blockade came to be each sack of wheat would be worth gold.
As Robin left the shop, he touched the seven pointed star tattooed under his left eye. A warning to those who knew to watch him close: ‘Let me not see you again this day or I will present you to the Stranger’. They knew his name. They knew the words.
There were still some hours before night came and still work to attend. He had someone to meet. Some old granaries whose owner where ‘willing’ to sell.
Barros was a fat man. Bald and with a constant smell of wine and piss. He had been the one to arrange the meeting.
The Headless Steed was a shady place in its best days, somewhere between a whorehouse and a winesink. It was deep inside the seven knives’ turf, one of the many gangs that ruled the Bottom, not somewhere one would stroll. Still the streets were full and as Robin went on fuller they got. Close to the Steed was a makeshift stage of tables and planks, stopping the road. On the stage, a singer:
“Great Robert, beloved, was not yet cold,
A body bough with Lannister gold,”
A pleasant enough voice, Robin though. A voice forever silenced as soon as word reached the keep. The song was new, not something he had heard. And still the crowd knew the words and sang it with glee.
“When the lions chanted in their bloodied feasts
For their king, the worst of beasts!”
It was mess of drunks, peddlers and whores. Like all of the Fleas had come to lay witness as this poor sod dug his grave. But then why was it that they knew the words?
“The things they do would leave a whore red
They steal our daughters, our wine, our bread”
The stench of people and drink was coming to Robin’s head, making it twirl. The mess in his mind was mirrored in the minds of the hundreds around him.
“As we, Great Robert’s loyal, die of hunger
They feast on our flesh and of our younger”
The gold cloaks came. Not enough for that crowd, not loud enough to stop the words.
“The Imp took it all, leaving but nothing behind
For he takes us for mute or deaf or blind”
Shortly no one would know how it had started. No one would remember the vile wine and honeyed songs.
And what would be a fire started as a rock. A single rock thrown at a golden cloak.
“The things they do would leave a whore red
They steal our daughters, our wine, our bread”
A mob was a fickle thing. Its workings a heated debate.
Somewhere, somehow, fires broke and followed the crowd. And with the crowd came death and pillage and rape. King’s Landing would paint the sky in red and ash.
Robin had run as soon as he could. It was not wise to remain at the center of a riot. The winds could easily rip one to pieces. He navigated the maze of streets and corners as only someone grown at Flea’s Bottom could.
He left cries of pain and pleasure behind, without so much as a look.
Cries, ash, screams, cinder.
And then a wail.
He could ignore the cries, ash, screams or cinder.
But not even the tear-star could ignore a babe’s wails.
Weak. How weak he had gotten, weakness that would get him lost in an alleyway, dead.
He turned on the next corner and took a knife from his pocket while still in motion.
A septon. Starting on bald, doing what little he could to stop two thugs that had found him as he escaped. Behind him, a couple. Well dressed and with an infant in arms. The man flourished his sword as a hunter would brandish a torch to the wolves. Small lords were good pickings. Great even. You just don’t find them.
The streets don’t teach warriors. They train killers. Robin was no warrior.
His dagger was on one’s neck before they had time to notice him. The other was given a kick, sending him strong against a wall. Before he could recover, Robin took the lordling’s arms and pulled him and his sword, impaling the second. He would not live long.
“Run!” As if it needed saying. Nobility and clergy obeyed the smallborn.
They tried running through the ash and cinder. But the lords were unused to the chase that he had played since a kid, running off with goods that would become his.
“Run!” He yelled again, to his back. They could not keep. He turned to the mother and took her child, without a word. It was just another good to smuggle through the maze, ignoring cries, ash, screams and cinder.
They had transverse what felt like the whole city. Somehow, the three following him had remained. They stopped by the river, where the monster the capital had awaken seamed mostly undisturbed.
Behind them fire and smoke. Red and Black. The capital’s colours.
The clergyman was the first to catch breath.
“The Most Devout could use a men like you.”
“I’m no holy man.” In other circumstances he might have been with the man that attacked them, now dead. In other circumstances he might be dead. Weak.
“You are not, tear-star, but well know none the less.” He tensed. Being recognized was seldom good. There was little reason for a man of the Faith to know his name.
“Nor am I a good man.”
“You will find that in war bad men have much demand.”
Robin returned the babe to its mother’s arms. She cried in thanks.
“May I ask how you came to be?” He heard a child cry, but that was not what was asked; how did this soldier take the dagger?
Should he indulge the man? The faithful already knew who he talked to.
Something had him speak. Good stories ask to be heard, the bards would say.
He sat on the grass to the sides of Blackwater Rush. They would be safe for now.
“I made bad decisions all my life. One of those decisions ended with my knife on a cutthroat’s belly. My sister, Mother guard her soul, was, let’s put it, displeased. And yet she took it into her hands. She said that if she at anyone point said the words, her words, that only she knew, I was to stop and obey. She used them twice, much to my benefit, before a septon came to our street. The ironborn had called for war, you see.”
Balon Greyjoy had started his rebellion.
Both nobles had taken their place in the dirt, too far from caring about the grime in their garbs.
“He talked of men, evil men, who raped and pillaged, who bowed to a monster in the sea. I followed, as many did, to the other side of Westeros. I had a riverman tattoo the star of seven under my eye, so the drowned would know who had slain them.” A child’s folly. One not ready for the blood that would come, even after seeing his share.
“Somehow, never knew how, never cared how, my group was placed under a westerman. I remember little of the marching we did, but of a village somewhere near Banefort. There was plague there.” Which? A maester could tell, but Robin had no chains round his neck.
“Despite forbidden, or because of it, me and three others entered the village, each went their way.” He was drunk, his friends drunker. “I got inside a house, chosen at random, I think. Inside was a woman.” Or maybe she had called?
“She should not be more than thirty.” She looked like an old woman, clammy skin and fallen hairs. “She looked at my mark and asked me a septon” her fever had taken what little wit she once held “I told her I was as close to a septon as she was to find. She asked a blessing to enter the Father’s grace” her hand had reached to him, spots of black against creamy white “I told she needed not my blessing for that. She asked for mercy so the pain would end” a raspy voice, destroyed by thirst “I answered she would not like my mercy. She asked to protect her name, as she pointed to her son” the child was too quiet, too small, too dead “I told her her name was too far ruined to protect. And once again she asked, in a fever, for my blessing, for my mercy and for my protection. I answered again, in kind. But as she went over the requests, over and over, I heard her speak the words” his sister’s words “in hindsight I was probably feverish from the heat, the wine, her smell, her cries, but I heard them. So I gave her my blessing” of a thug, a murderer, “I gave her my mercy” her neck was cleanly cut, “I protected her name” the boy would suffer no longer.
“They do say I changed in that village. I got high on my command and honors as I gave the ironborn my blessing, my mercy, my protection.” And tear-star was born. “When I returned home, my sister was already buried. A fever, they said.” A lie. No fever opens one’s neck. His blessing, his mercy, his protection. It was paid in kind.
The septon said nothing at start. He just looked at the river. The fires behind them had calmed. “I would have you.”
And at first Robin added no more words, simply taking in the same image as the clergyman. The city was still painter in her own colours: Red and Black.
Bodies would be floating the Blackwater Rush for weeks to come, the river darkened by their blood and waste. Waiting for someone else to add to the pot. Grease on Brown.
...
IV: Robin
...
IV: Robin
...
Grease on Brown. It would stew for years on end in a massive metal pot, too greasy to touch. The film of fat bubbled, presenting a few chopped morsels of something. It was the cheapest meal anyone could find in King’s Landing and oft the only. One could buy it with any coin or green. The deal was good: add something to the pot for a bowl. More if the offering was fresh.
There had been nothing fresh to add to the bowl for a few weeks. The roads were closed as knights fought their battles and no food came from the Roseroad.
And yet the bowl was full. One preferred not to know what the meat inside it was, but there was little a hungry man would not try to quiet his stomach for the night.
Robin took the spoon to his mouth. The taste wasn’t hard to ignore, not after years to acquire it.
The pot-shop was full once more that day. He recognized many of the man inside. He recognized the dangerous man, of no questionable reputation as everyone knew what they did and loved.
The city had been quiet. During the last few days any criminal found would be removed from the streets to never be seen. No one minded. It were less mouths to feed, less competition for when better days came. But quiet was not peaceful. And as bellies were left empty, people would rattle. The alleys were tense, even as most, one could say, unlawful businesses were brought inside closed doors and darker holes.
There were whispers of siege, of stags in the Stormlands fighting for the privilege.
There was good business in a siege, for a man of his profession. His brothers were gathering, stealing and wheedling all grain they could find. If the blockade came to be each sack of wheat would be worth gold.
As Robin left the shop, he touched the seven pointed star tattooed under his left eye. A warning to those who knew to watch him close: ‘Let me not see you again this day or I will present you to the Stranger’. They knew his name. They knew the words.
There were still some hours before night came and still work to attend. He had someone to meet. Some old granaries whose owner where ‘willing’ to sell.
Barros was a fat man. Bald and with a constant smell of wine and piss. He had been the one to arrange the meeting.
The Headless Steed was a shady place in its best days, somewhere between a whorehouse and a winesink. It was deep inside the seven knives’ turf, one of the many gangs that ruled the Bottom, not somewhere one would stroll. Still the streets were full and as Robin went on fuller they got. Close to the Steed was a makeshift stage of tables and planks, stopping the road. On the stage, a singer:
“Great Robert, beloved, was not yet cold,
A body bough with Lannister gold,”
A pleasant enough voice, Robin though. A voice forever silenced as soon as word reached the keep. The song was new, not something he had heard. And still the crowd knew the words and sang it with glee.
“When the lions chanted in their bloodied feasts
For their king, the worst of beasts!”
It was mess of drunks, peddlers and whores. Like all of the Fleas had come to lay witness as this poor sod dug his grave. But then why was it that they knew the words?
“The things they do would leave a whore red
They steal our daughters, our wine, our bread”
The stench of people and drink was coming to Robin’s head, making it twirl. The mess in his mind was mirrored in the minds of the hundreds around him.
“As we, Great Robert’s loyal, die of hunger
They feast on our flesh and of our younger”
The gold cloaks came. Not enough for that crowd, not loud enough to stop the words.
“The Imp took it all, leaving but nothing behind
For he takes us for mute or deaf or blind”
Shortly no one would know how it had started. No one would remember the vile wine and honeyed songs.
And what would be a fire started as a rock. A single rock thrown at a golden cloak.
“The things they do would leave a whore red
They steal our daughters, our wine, our bread”
...
A mob was a fickle thing. Its workings a heated debate.
Somewhere, somehow, fires broke and followed the crowd. And with the crowd came death and pillage and rape. King’s Landing would paint the sky in red and ash.
...
Robin had run as soon as he could. It was not wise to remain at the center of a riot. The winds could easily rip one to pieces. He navigated the maze of streets and corners as only someone grown at Flea’s Bottom could.
He left cries of pain and pleasure behind, without so much as a look.
Cries, ash, screams, cinder.
And then a wail.
He could ignore the cries, ash, screams or cinder.
But not even the tear-star could ignore a babe’s wails.
Weak. How weak he had gotten, weakness that would get him lost in an alleyway, dead.
He turned on the next corner and took a knife from his pocket while still in motion.
A septon. Starting on bald, doing what little he could to stop two thugs that had found him as he escaped. Behind him, a couple. Well dressed and with an infant in arms. The man flourished his sword as a hunter would brandish a torch to the wolves. Small lords were good pickings. Great even. You just don’t find them.
The streets don’t teach warriors. They train killers. Robin was no warrior.
His dagger was on one’s neck before they had time to notice him. The other was given a kick, sending him strong against a wall. Before he could recover, Robin took the lordling’s arms and pulled him and his sword, impaling the second. He would not live long.
“Run!” As if it needed saying. Nobility and clergy obeyed the smallborn.
They tried running through the ash and cinder. But the lords were unused to the chase that he had played since a kid, running off with goods that would become his.
“Run!” He yelled again, to his back. They could not keep. He turned to the mother and took her child, without a word. It was just another good to smuggle through the maze, ignoring cries, ash, screams and cinder.
...
They had transverse what felt like the whole city. Somehow, the three following him had remained. They stopped by the river, where the monster the capital had awaken seamed mostly undisturbed.
Behind them fire and smoke. Red and Black. The capital’s colours.
The clergyman was the first to catch breath.
“The Most Devout could use a men like you.”
“I’m no holy man.” In other circumstances he might have been with the man that attacked them, now dead. In other circumstances he might be dead. Weak.
“You are not, tear-star, but well know none the less.” He tensed. Being recognized was seldom good. There was little reason for a man of the Faith to know his name.
“Nor am I a good man.”
“You will find that in war bad men have much demand.”
Robin returned the babe to its mother’s arms. She cried in thanks.
“May I ask how you came to be?” He heard a child cry, but that was not what was asked; how did this soldier take the dagger?
Should he indulge the man? The faithful already knew who he talked to.
Something had him speak. Good stories ask to be heard, the bards would say.
He sat on the grass to the sides of Blackwater Rush. They would be safe for now.
“I made bad decisions all my life. One of those decisions ended with my knife on a cutthroat’s belly. My sister, Mother guard her soul, was, let’s put it, displeased. And yet she took it into her hands. She said that if she at anyone point said the words, her words, that only she knew, I was to stop and obey. She used them twice, much to my benefit, before a septon came to our street. The ironborn had called for war, you see.”
Balon Greyjoy had started his rebellion.
Both nobles had taken their place in the dirt, too far from caring about the grime in their garbs.
“He talked of men, evil men, who raped and pillaged, who bowed to a monster in the sea. I followed, as many did, to the other side of Westeros. I had a riverman tattoo the star of seven under my eye, so the drowned would know who had slain them.” A child’s folly. One not ready for the blood that would come, even after seeing his share.
“Somehow, never knew how, never cared how, my group was placed under a westerman. I remember little of the marching we did, but of a village somewhere near Banefort. There was plague there.” Which? A maester could tell, but Robin had no chains round his neck.
“Despite forbidden, or because of it, me and three others entered the village, each went their way.” He was drunk, his friends drunker. “I got inside a house, chosen at random, I think. Inside was a woman.” Or maybe she had called?
“She should not be more than thirty.” She looked like an old woman, clammy skin and fallen hairs. “She looked at my mark and asked me a septon” her fever had taken what little wit she once held “I told her I was as close to a septon as she was to find. She asked a blessing to enter the Father’s grace” her hand had reached to him, spots of black against creamy white “I told she needed not my blessing for that. She asked for mercy so the pain would end” a raspy voice, destroyed by thirst “I answered she would not like my mercy. She asked to protect her name, as she pointed to her son” the child was too quiet, too small, too dead “I told her her name was too far ruined to protect. And once again she asked, in a fever, for my blessing, for my mercy and for my protection. I answered again, in kind. But as she went over the requests, over and over, I heard her speak the words” his sister’s words “in hindsight I was probably feverish from the heat, the wine, her smell, her cries, but I heard them. So I gave her my blessing” of a thug, a murderer, “I gave her my mercy” her neck was cleanly cut, “I protected her name” the boy would suffer no longer.
“They do say I changed in that village. I got high on my command and honors as I gave the ironborn my blessing, my mercy, my protection.” And tear-star was born. “When I returned home, my sister was already buried. A fever, they said.” A lie. No fever opens one’s neck. His blessing, his mercy, his protection. It was paid in kind.
The septon said nothing at start. He just looked at the river. The fires behind them had calmed. “I would have you.”
And at first Robin added no more words, simply taking in the same image as the clergyman. The city was still painter in her own colours: Red and Black.
Bodies would be floating the Blackwater Rush for weeks to come, the river darkened by their blood and waste. Waiting for someone else to add to the pot. Grease on Brown.
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Appendix IV
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Appendix IV
...
Val was an old woman who never felt older. Never in her life had she received such a talking to. She still shivered, her hands weak. Her lord was seen as a quiet man, but not that day. No, that day he had screamed while she was fixed to her spot by his glare. Nothing of the calm man remained, only of the warrior he had once been.
And still the girl smiled her innocent smile. If she had received words for the night before she gave no indication. That made the shivers worse.
At least she slept. Peacefully even, like the burning of King’s Landing so long ago could still heat her in her sleep.
The boy did not. He looked at his sister, much like a lovesick pup.
Other children would have melted Val’s heart.
Instead she got up to leave, trembling.
“You should have known better.” The sweet boy’s voice was serious.
Confusion.
“My lord?”
“You told mother about her skipping broidery. You should have known.”
She had skipped broidery.
The pup smiled and he had the sweetest smile.
“We pay our debts, sweet Val.” Do remember that.
He kissed his sister's cheek as he dismissed Val with a wave.
A lovesick pup indeed.
...
So as you can see I took a lot of liberties with the event that ‘inspired’ this chapter. Still, I wanted to show the spirits around King’s Landing and this is the only sign of discontent that occured. It draws inspiration from the Riot of King’s Landing. You know that one: someone sent dung against Joffrey; you don’t forget that! To this I also drew from the chapter where an unnamed bard was given the option of keeping his fingers or his tongue after singing to Joffrey about his father.
Also, little finger being cornered by peasants while getting taxes? Would never happen. Ever.
Despite having a family name I wrote him as baseborn, because, well, ‘of Dragon Gate’ isn’t a very good name now, is it?
Initially this was to be a Bronn chapter, but I had already mapped his POV for ch VI. Robin is somewhat important as he will be used as a general during the five kings war.
The song isn’t very good, but well, English is not my first language… had the song been in Portuguese I could and would have some care with metric. That not being the case I did what I could. Explain the substandard song as being penned by hungry bloodthirsty drunks.
...
So... your thoughts? Your guesses on how our resident insane adolescent will react?
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V: Joffrey
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V: Joffrey
...
Joffrey was not sleeping well. It was not a new occurrence. He had stayed at the ravenry expecting word from his armies. It was almost light. Later, he would hope he had been dreaming.
A nightmare. It should be a nightmare.
As most of his did, it started with a raven, a simple message attached to his leg. Not enough words to misinterpret: “Renly Baratheon is dead.”
Pain. So much, too much.
Joffrey crushed the message in his fist. He needed to breathe. There were plans to be made before the burning stag came knocking. He stormed the hall and turned to the servants. He needed to breathe.
“Call my council! Get my mother from bed, my Hand from whatever whorehouse he may be and Lord Baelish and Varys from wherever the bastards find sleep! Get me my council!”
Renly’s death had come too soon. Storm’s End was one of the greatest castles in the land. It would take to have it fall. No. There had been foul play. He needed to breathe. Stannis had ordered his brother dead.
Others bugger him. Others bugger him!
“I want maester Piscelle up and on the raven’s tower! Any messages are to go to me with haste!”
The council room was still dark when he entered it. Empty.
The question on the king’s mind was not how his uncle had died. That made little difference. The important question was which knees had bent to Stannis. More to the point: had Tyrell’s knees?
His head was raging and burning. The claw needed something new to be distracted with. He could barely think.
His mind raged. He couldn’t breathe.
Joffrey picked the first chair and crashed it against the pillars.
Wood shattered.
Joffrey sat on the remains. He breathed.
...
His council took to come. Unsurprisingly, Varys was the first to appear.
Good. A king needed his whispers.
“What do we know?” a test, an easy test for a Spider.
“We still know little, your grace. There is noise, for certain, but no two people agree on what occurred.” The Spider already knew about Renly. Unsurprising. “Some say it was woman that killed him, some say his wife, other talk of shadows and giants.” They had no time for mummer’s tales. Others could take their delusions.
“Highgarden?” the Stormlands would go to Stannis, but the war rested on the Reach. Best case, Mace Tyrell would call for vengeance for his fallen son-in-law. Thank the Gods Shireen was not at a marriageable age.
“My birds sing of division in the Reach’s lords. Neutrality is for now the winning case.” Neutrality was good. Neutrality meant Joffrey’s neck would not meet the axe.
The doors opened again. Little Finger this time. Well dressed for the time of day, calm. His sight alone was enough to have the claw dig deeper. But he was needed.
“My lord Baelish.”
“Your grace.” If he wanted to ask why he was called, he was given no time.
“I will need your words. Stannis has taken the Stormlands under his banner. We must make sure the Vale remains loyal. At least neutral.” His master of coin at least appeared surprised. If that truly was the case was an entirely different war.
“How did Renly bend to his brother?”
“Renly is dead.” the dead have stiff knees, unbent “The stormlands should follow Stannis.”
“After Stannis killed their lord? Or are they blaming the crown on his killing?” a fast mind on the lordling. The Spider answered him instead.
“I am still waiting to know on whom Stannis lays blame for Renly’s death.”
“I may have my words heard at Arryn’s court. Lady Lysa and-”
“The whole realm knows of your past, my lord. You flaunt it too much. While you are there I wish you to find my half-sister.”
The surprise was genuine this time. Joffrey almost smiled. Leaving someone like Petyr Baelish guessing was a challenge. A rewarding one, even. Joffrey went on.
“We have found a way to have her recognised as a royal bastard.”
“You wish to have her married.” Pieces were falling in Littlefinger’s head. He was already planning how to turn it into his advantage. He was also breathing.
“You may take some coin from the coffers to sway her. Drop the name of the knight of flowers at every opportunity. Get me my sister.”
“The Queen?” a fast mind indeed. There was no point in hiding this from Varys, of course. Best for him to know that Joffrey knew that he knew. The kind of phrase that only made sense when the eunuch was involved.
“Is not to be informed. My mother will be kept in the dark for as long as possible. It would be... unfortunate for all if she knew.” His half-sister was unlikely to survive the experience. “Now, my lords, let us learn how I found myself with one uncle less.”
...
The day dragged long and the boy-king’s head ached.
The spider’s birds were many but agreed on nothing.
His uncle and mother came together. The words they shared had left both moods bitter. That helped Joffrey’s own little.
Joffrey tried calm, but it ached, even against the cold of steel.
Ser Boros opened the door in haste, sweating, in a panic. Ominous. The Seven did not like the boy-king that day.
His kingsguard looked lost at the council. Like his tongue was hard to find. Like he was searching for an honest Sisterman.
“Speak.” Joffrey tried calm. His mind did not need Ser Boros.
But nothing came. The Blount did appear to be moving his mouth. No sound.
“Speak!” Joffrey forgot calm. His mind did not need Ser Boros.
“It burns, your grace. The capital burns.”
...
Joffrey gazed at the buildings from afar. Lost. How he felt lost.
There was pain in his head.
There was fire in his city.
The sky was painted in red and ash.
The king would see crimson drip.
...
A song! They spoke of a song! A song started the fire, rattled the crowd, killed so many and destroyed so much. A song!
And how proud the minstrel stood! So confident in his own daze of glory and greatness. He imaged his name told in whispers, like one from the Age of Heroes. A new Rat Cook or Florian. The man who sang a capital to burn. How wrong he was.
There would be no immortality for this man. Only Crimson. Only pain.
The court was full. There was fear, sorrow, sadness. King’s Landing had burned once more. The minstrel was dressed in brightly coloured rags. They would probably have looked impressive when his day had started.
“You.” A whisper. It promised death, pain, so much but too little for this man.
“Your grace” he curtsied. Curtsied! “I am most thankful to have your attention. I am the gre-” a fist took his last words from him. The Hound. Joffrey’s orders were simple and told in cold rage: ‘He will not get to say his name.’
“Sing.”
The ragged man tried to stand again. He controlled his breath.
“Of course, your grace, th-” a new fist and the bard was again on his knees, fighting for air. The court budged with each movement.
“Sing.” Not enough words to misinterpret. The ragged man sang.
“Great Robert, beloved, was not yet cold,
A body bough with Lannister gold,
When the lions chanted in their bloodied feasts
For their king, the worst of beasts!”
A nice enough voice. Sweet, petulant, if a bit roughened by the mishandling.
“The things they do would leave a whore red
They steal our daughters, our wine, our bread”
The court was nervous. It chattered, tried to jeer. But not that day.
Joffrey hand silenced all. His eyes held the minstrel down.
“Sing.” Again. Cold rage, bitter steel.
“As we, Great Robert’s loyal, die of hunger
They feast on our flesh and of our younger
The Imp took it all, leaving but nothing behind
For he takes us for mute or deaf or blind”
Joffrey felt the beast return. Stalking the walls once covered in rags.
“The things they do would leave a whore red
They steal our daughters, our wine, our bread”
The beast watched, closer. The colors around Joffrey drained until there was only song. No court, no city, no war.
“Our Queen takes her sons, alone, to bed
The things they do would leave a whore red
The Queen took her daughter, as soon as she bled
The things they do would leave a whore red.”
Only crimson and screams.
“Great Robert, beloved, was not yet cold,
A body bough with Lannister gold,
The things they do would leave a whore red
They steal our daughters, our wine, our bread
Then the lions applaud in their bloodied feasts
For their king, the worst of beasts!”
There was murder in the King’s looks, in his gait.
“You shall leave us” He said to his court. “He shall sing for me today.”
Most did. His kingsguard stayed, as others did. Joffrey took little notice. The ragged man did. Joffrey stepped closer, the man crawled farther.
“A dagger.” He ordered as he offered his hand to someone. Small matter who.
There was acceptance now, a resolute kind of panic. “I will die with the music in my lips and the Seven will take me as a martyr. Have your piece. I will sing.”
“What will you do if I cut you?” “I will sing.” “If I rip your lips?” “I will hum it.” “If I break your jaw?” “I will drum it.” “If I take your arms?” “I will proclaim it in my dying mind.” Acceptance. “Good.” Not enough words to misinterpret.
Crimson and screams.
“Sing.”
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Appendix V
...
Appendix V
...
“And so he sang. He did not hum nor did he drum. Only the Seven know if he proclaimed his song to them. Until he could not sing any longer.” The girl sang it like a lullaby.
A nice voice for one so young, honeyed sweet. Made Val dream of her own bed, to sleep for ages until she would no longer see either of the kids. Honeyed dreams.
“Do you know the Burner’s name?” The boy looked bored. He had half his head banded from an injury in the training grounds. He had looked bored even as his maester cleaned the wounds.
“No one does, my lord.” Only as the Burner, the Singer of Embers, the Screamer. “Some say Jones, some Wallace, some Adrian.” Many told that the king ordered one hundred men to spread a hundred different stories about a singer with a hundred different names. The burning would never be forgotten, of the minstrel only the Burner remained. “Some say King Joffrey masked himself as a minstrel, burned his city in his wake and played the harp and sang as the city burned.”
That peaked the boy’s interest.
“And did he?”
“Of course not, my lord.”
A ridiculous notion: King Joffrey never did learn how to play the harp.
...
A conclusion to the last chapter.
Also, Renly died! Contrary to Joffrey’s beliefs this is the best possible result as it keeps the Reach from entering the war.
Well, not much else here to say. Only that my army finaly left King’s Landing and will join the War of Five Kings.
...
The next chapter will be a little more action oriented. Not sure when it will be out; March is treating me worse than expected.
Thoughts on the chapter?
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This is the first CKII AAR I have managed to get into for some time, and it is looking good! I have not had the chance to play the GOT mod myself, so this is an Interesting experience. How is Stannis doing, anyway? It sounds like he's captured the stormlands, but I don't see anything else. The wolves are doing stunningly well, btw. Could we have a map of the Harrenhall area? If anything has changed, that is.
On a different note, I really like your writing style. Very reminiscent of GRRM, and I wonder if, in the actual series, he is planning Joffrey as a lunatic of the same order, or just the spoiled brat that has been apparent so far.
On a different note, I really like your writing style. Very reminiscent of GRRM, and I wonder if, in the actual series, he is planning Joffrey as a lunatic of the same order, or just the spoiled brat that has been apparent so far.
Thank you for your patronage
The most important thing about the mod is that it plays differently than vanilla. One of my favorite changes is the increase in the field battle score in the defines. Makes battles matter. So I actually changed my Vanilla defines to the AGOT values, making wars faster and a little more interesting.
With the risk of sounding spoilerish, the fact is Rob hasn’t done that good a job. He should have pressed his advantage and destroyed the remaining Lannister armies, instead he got sidetracked burning the crownlands. If he were marching against King’s Landing that would be understandable, but he didn’t.
As I said in the Appendix, Stannis killing Renly and inheriting the stormlands is the best that could happen. Even with the Stormlands, Stannis’ army is smaller than my own+Westerlands. So the war isn’t going half as bad as it looks. But it will all depend on the next battle against Rob. Chapter VIII if I’m not mistaken.
Also, nothing really changed or I would have posted the maps. Not that long has passed since game start actually.
As I read the books, the only thing I can tell you without spoilers is that Joffrey acts more like a spoiled teen getting into puberty than a deranged kid. He is dangerous, but predictable. We never get a Joffrey POV (shame) but Sansa describes him in length.
So, as a reader, do you think the minor characters are working or are you not involved enough with their story to actually care? Do the song lyrics work or should I have left that to the reader’s imagination? And do the Appendixes help you or are they superfluous.
And thanks again for the kind words.
Truly an impressive story you are telling. I eagerly look forward to the next developments