Joffrey VII

The pain.

Joffrey struggled to rise from his featherbed, trying and failing twice, only to collapse back into the mattress. On the third, he forced himself up with a painful wince and a desperate grab of the bedside table to steady himself. When he caught his reflection in the looking glass, the prince hardly recognized himself.

Up and down his torso, shoulders, and arms were ugly purple bruises, darker than strongwine and tender to the touch. A melee with grown-ass men was an entirely different affair from bullying a bunch of scrawny squires. He'd only started to feel sore after dancing with Sansa for what seemed like hours. In the night, he truly began to pay his debts. Her smile was worth it, he decided.

She was really starting to grow into a proper beauty. Though, ironically, as she aged, it seemed to him her mother's Tully features were receding as the Stark underneath started to shine through. Arya and Sansa looked more alike now, save for the hair. There was something wild about her, cold and strong, like a matriarch. Like, well, a queen.

Sansa had been remarkably mature about Lady Asha's teasing, though he could tell it bothered her. Diplomacy won out, for they were kin now. Before long, that pirate woman would be mother to the heir of Storm's End. Joffrey needed to be mindful of such things, especially since Uncle Renly seemed so angry at the world lately.

Realizing how helpless he was, Joffrey called for a servant to help him dress. It was somewhat mortifying, but it was that or stay in bed all day. He didn't want to miss the final rounds of the joust. Uncle Jaime had a very solid chance, especially since major rivals like Loras and the Mountain weren't present. Ser Barristan had even been unhorsed in the earlier rounds, by an Ironman if you can believe it. Ser Harras Harlaw was no slouch with a lance, maybe the only one in his whole kingdom. He sent the Lord Commander flying out of his saddle. The poor man hit the ground with a sickening crunch and was walking funny afterward.

That makes two of us. More than two, really. Since the king and crown prince fought in the melee, the event attracted a better crowd than the usual crop of sellswords, hedge knights, and second sons. Some of the best fought together and they were all paying for it the next day. When Joffrey was king, he would give up tourneys. Too much risk.

Sansa, looking lovely in a dress of golden samite not unlike the one Asha had been married in, was there to greet him in the hall, Lady at her side. That wolf reached nearly to the vaulted ceiling of the passage where his bedchamber was located. They had to send her and Ghost off to hunt their dinner a few times, so as not to eat Uncle Renly into poverty.

"Good morning, honey," he greeted her.

Sansa shivered a little when she took his arm. "I love it when you call me honey."

It was an Earth thing, one of the few he retained. Every day, he forgot a little more, his old life slipping away like a half-remembered dream. "I'm glad."

"Are you in much pain, Joff?" she asked in concern. Sansa couldn't fail to notice the difficulty he was having walking.

"Sore," he answered simply. "It was a tough fight. That was my first real melee, actually."

The wolf-girl smiled wolfishly. "Gave better than you got, though. I imagine there is a score of lords and knights having difficulty rising from their beds this morn. You fight especially hard when you wear my favor."

That surprised him. "I do?"

"Oh, yes," Sansa answered. "When you know I'm watching, when you know I'm cheering, you release a fury mostly kept buried. You told me you'd win for me when you...when you..."

Still so innocent, he thought fondly. "When I kissed you, you can say it."

"Yeeees," she said breathily, stopping and turning to look Joffrey in the eyes. Her pupils were blown wide, almost blotting out the Iris underneath like an eclipse. "It was the finest name day gift you ever could've given me. I love you, you know."

"I..." his breath caught. Joffrey wasn't ready for this, not so early in the morning. He'd imagined love would come in time. Who could fail to fall for a beautiful girl who was so devoted to you? His reply shocked even himself, but the truth resonated even as the words tumbled out of his mouth unbidden. "I love you too."

Sansa's eyes were nearly black, her smile growing wide, almost unhinged. "You're telling the truth."

Lady could tell, Joffrey remembered. Sometimes he forgot. There really wasn't anything he could do but nod.

"I'm going to give you so many sons you won't know what to do with them all," she promised. "Now lean on me. I know it hurts to walk."

Joffrey did as she bade, and they made their way down to the great hall of Storm's End to break their fast. It wasn't terribly crowded, and he didn't recognize the few people already eating.

Once they were spotted, servants guided them to a place at the high table and rushed to put plenty of eggs, bacon, and freshly baked bread with butter and honey in front of the pair. Forks existed, thank goodness, so Joff was able to gingerly feed himself, one bite of egg at a time.

"Let me help you," Sansa said. She spread butter on his bread for him and hand-fed him his bacon, one rasher at a time. It didn't hurt to chew, so he had that going for him.

The longer they sat there, the more Joffrey noticed that people weren't really coming in to eat. "Where is everyone?"

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Father was nowhere in sight, nor Uncle Renly or his wife Asha, nor a single knight of the Kingsguard. He was looking forward to talking to Tyrion about the road. Nobody could fail to notice it. Many of the knights from Cape Wrath used it to travel here, arriving faster than some who lived closer.

At last, Uncle Jaime entered, approaching the high table with a grim face. He was armed already, but not in his jousting gear. It was all white scale and plate, like he was on guard duty. "Joff, you'd better come with me," he said quietly.

Something was wrong. He could tell. Joff put his game face on and stood up under his own power, though it pained him. "Let's go."

"I'm going too!" Sansa declared, gripping his arm firmly.

"My lady, you don't need..."

"I'm going!"

It was too early in the morning to argue, so Joffrey and Sansa followed Uncle Jaime back up the tower. Every step was a torment, but he forced himself to press on.

Joff wracked his brain for what could have happened. A murder was most likely. Maybe a Greyjoy bannerman had stabbed a Stormlord, or vice versa.

There was a crowd in the hall, and someone shouted: "Make way for the king!" He looked around, but he couldn't see his father anywhere.

"This way, Your Grace," an aged maester addressed him, leading the group into a bedchamber at the end of the hall.

No!

There was Father, King Robert Baratheon, lying in bed, but his chest wasn't moving! He looked pale, deathly pale, no color at all. When Joff ran to him and reached out, he found the body cool to the touch.

For a moment, perhaps an hour, perhaps a second, Joffrey found himself fixed in place, frozen as the body beneath him. Only Sansa's squeeze of his shoulder reminded him this was real.

"What? How?" That was all he managed.

The maester, Joff never caught his name, shook his head sadly. "I know not, Your Grace. There are no obvious wounds. No strike from the melee ought to have been mortal. Why, his head is completely untouched, as you can see. Joffrey could hardly stand to look, but he ran his hand through his father's black hair. He was trembling. He wasn't ready.

Word was spreading. People in the room, people in the hall, were whispering, though Joffrey couldn't tell why they bothered. He could hear it all.

"The king is dead."

"Robert's gone."

"The prince is here."

"No, the king."

"Let's go, Joff," Jaime said kindly.

"Where's Ser Barristan?" the prince, no, the king, asked.

"He's hurt," his uncle explained. "We don't know if he broke anything, but the Lord Commander is in a bad way. He sent me to fetch you, thought you might want to be around family."

He thought right. "Let's get out of here." Sansa squeezed his hand so hard it was painful, but he was happy for the pain.

At the bottom of the staircase, they found Ser Jon and Ghost. The great hall was starting to fill up, at least. People were feasting, completely unaware, but when Renly walked in, Lady Asha at his side, their eyes met.

He knows.

When the train of whispers reached the great hall, every eye was on him.

"The king is dead," the whispers said.

"Long live King Joffrey!" someone shouted.

Ser Jon was first to bend the knee, though Uncle Jaime wasn't far behind. Servants, knights, lords, every knee was bowing. Then a horn was blowing.

"HAROOOOOOOOOOOM!" it boomed.

Sansa screamed and held her ears. It was a painful sound, the kind of vibration that rattled things loose, important things. Jon could barely stand. The wolves went mad. They snarled and snapped and fled from the hall. They couldn't bear the horn.

"HAROOOOOOOOOOOM!" it boomed again, and the wolves were gone. Sansa sagged beside him, and Joffrey had to strain himself to hold her up. Whatever it was, it hurt her. He hated that horn.

It didn't hurt Lord Renly or Asha at his side. "The king is dead!" bellowed the lord of Storm's End. "There is the one who struck the killing blow!"

Why was Renly pointing at him?

"That's so!" Asha's voice carried. "The axe he used wasn't blunted at all! Prince Joffrey wanted his father's throne!"

That was bullshit. People on their knees looked up in confusion. Surely they wouldn't believe.

Lord Euron walked in, holding the axe Joff used yesterday. "I have it here," he declared. With a flourish, he buried the blade deep in the banquet board. "Sharp as a razor, aye, and poisoned. The maester can test it for himself."

Joffrey wanted to deny the charge, but Sansa was unconscious. He needed to get her help.

"That's impossible!" Jaime spoke up for him. "He struck other men, and they didn't die! Robert's body had not a cut on it!"

There was a general murmur, and for a moment, the knights in the hall were nodding. Then the horn boomed one final time.

"HAROOOOOOOOOOOM!"

Renly, somehow strengthened by the horn as Sansa and Jon and the wolves were weakened, stood to his full height, looking very much like his father. "Joffrey Baratheon, I name you kinslayer! No kinslayer may sit the Iron Throne! You will be held here until a trial can be convened!"

This was madness. Uncle Jaime drew a blade, but suddenly they were surrounded by blades. Joffrey ordered his uncle to sheathe his sword. No one else needed to die today.