Joffrey VIII

Before they set out, the king had his black axe reforged one final time. The twin heads, while awesome to look upon, proved unwieldy. In their place, the master smith, Tobho Mott of Qohor, wrought for him a single heavy crescent blade. He tested the weight of it, swinging several times to his satisfaction. With a good hard swing, the dark rippled Valyrian steel axehead could bite deep in breastplate, gorget, or greathelm, no matter how well-forged Joffrey's weapon was strapped to his saddle even now. He would have need of it.

They rode two hundred strong: knights, squires, men at arms, mounted archers, and a train of mules laden with sheaves of arrows, salt beef, and hard bread. First down the Rosby Road, hugging the coast towards Duskendale, all the way to Maidenpool and the mouth of the Trident. The wolves could smell Ironborn even out at sea, all three.

"This is so exciting!" Arya gushed as she chased mighty Nymeria on her palfrey. She looked a proper squire with black ringmail over boiled leather and a steel pothelm slipping down past her ears.

"You're not here to fight, Arya," King Joffrey chided her when he caught up. "When we run into reavers, you will hide behind that big, thick shield and let Ser Loras protect you. I know you're handy with that bravo's blade, but you won't be using it unless things have gone terribly wrong."

"I know, I know," the girl answered carelessly. She was thirteen now, almost fourteen, and likely thought herself invincible. She turned an accusing scowl towards him. "You let Sansa ride with you! She's not even wearing armor!"

"That's different, and you know it. Sansa knows to stay well back from the fighting. Lady is a very good tracker and knows how to work with my knights to break up enemy formations. Nymeria needs to follow her lead. I vowed to bring you back to your father without a scratch, and I mean to keep my promise."

"You're still not half so worried about her as me!"

I'm more worried about the enemy, actually, he thought. Sansa would show no mercy. He ignored the rest of her complaints.

"Anyway, we've got three wolves, which means it will be very hard to surprise us." It was a cheat code, honestly. Those wolves had super senses. Fighting rebels, especially very annoying rebels that raid and sail away, was not exactly how he envisioned his early rule. The pure rage he felt at the murder of his father and the slapdash coup had simmered into something darker and crueler. Joffrey really wasn't in the mood to show much mercy either. Maybe he'd let Lady eat the prisoners. Sansa had offered.

***

The stupidity of the Ironborn shocked even him. They'd caught multiple raiding parties with their pants down, sometimes quite literally, as they attempted to violate his subjects. These pirates were too bold by half, thinking themselves untouchable as long as they stayed close to water. Lady, Ghost, and Nymeria ate more than a few. Uncle Jaime, Joffrey's new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, had overall command, but they made decisions together, taking into consideration all the intel the wolves could gather.

Things progressed well with Sansa. They cuddled at night now, though no further than that. Even so, she was terribly thrilled by it. The only weird part was having Lady in the tent with them. She was always there, watching.

Crossing the Ruby Ford proved difficult. The waters were high and flowing strongly, swollen by early winter snows that fell and melted swiftly. It took three days to organize rafts, seeing as the local area was almost wholly depopulated.

A bad sign. The Ironborn have been this way.

They followed a trail of burnt holdfasts and ruined villages, roughly parallel to the Green Fork of the Trident. One terrified survivor claimed it was a fleet of a dozen longships, stopping and unloading reavers to despoil any settlement they chanced upon. Joffrey certainly couldn't allow them to continue.

On the third day of the chase, they found a mass of wreckage, ruined barges, and charred river galleys, rotting on the shore or caught on rocks. The wolves confirmed their quarry was close and heading in their direction. Whatever ship sailed down the Green Fork would have to return the same way. The king and Ser Jaime discussed setting a trap.

"Let's rig some of this flotsom together and try to create a barrier," Joffrey suggested. "They'll have to stop when it bars their way."

"A dozen longships, Your Grace," Uncle Jaimed said worriedly. "Have we the numbers?"

"Likely an exaggeration. If it looks like too many, we can withdraw inland. Our party is mounted, and theirs is not. There is no need to fight a battle we cannot win."

A dozen longships turned out to be five, more than manageable. The vessels sat low in the water, laden with plunder and prisoners. With unwary arrogance, they sailed their longships into the reeds that crowded the river's edge. Men cursed as they waded into the waist-deep water, looking for where the lines holding the impromptu dam had caught. None of them seemed to suspect the barrier was intentional.

The position the royal party took had decent cover, with plenty of hills and hedges they could use to hide their numbers. "Send the bait," Joffrey ordered.

They arranged things to make it seem as if a local landed knight had rallied the men of his village, showing only thirty or forty archers on foot, with one man ahorse. The bait took up position on a strip of land with a gentle incline, as if to offer battle.

"Five hundred men, at least," Jaime spoke rapidly from their concealed observation point. "More than twice as many as we have. Do you want this fight, Joff?"

The Ironborn were laughing and pointing, walking up to the bait group in a loose formation. Some had even left their armor back on their ships.

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"Look there," the king said, pointing out the deck of a longship. "You can see women in chains. I'm not abandoning them. They have five hundred men, but no knights, and no wolves. Once they're within bowshot, we move."

Ser Jaime nodded with grim obedience. They'd been more formal since Joffrey became king, but it wasn't so bad. His uncle was still his uncle, but Joff was king, and Jaime Kingsguard. It was only natural.

At Joffrey's signal, Jaime's squire, a grandson of Lord Brax, blew a trumpet. Thirty archers became a hundred as men rushed into firing positions. Grey goose shafts rained down on the Ironborn, felling more than they would have if they were all armed and tightly packed.

Bold Nymeria was hiding in the reeds, and erupted like a goddess of the river as she fell upon the rear guard the Ironborn left to watch their ships and prisoners. Lady and Ghost positioned themselves on the flanks, darting in and pouncing on the unwary, making not a sound until their jaws were crunching throats. It was a few beats before the reavers realized they were dealing with more than they bargained for.

With another blow of the trumpet, one hundred knights and squires mounted up and raised their lances high. Joffrey had never taken to tourney lances. The things were too long, light, and designed to break. His war lance was shorter and heavier, which made it easier to handle in the king's opinion. For lack of a better word, tourney lances were fiddly. It was easier to put the war lance, with its shaft of ash tipped with steel, exactly where you wanted it.

On the third blow of the trumpet, the archers stopped firing. The Ironborn only had a moment to cry out when those lance points lowered.

"CHARGE!"

In two wedges, one led by Ser Jaime and another by Ser Balon Swann, they crashed into the reavers. All the momentum of Joffrey's mount concentrated into a single, armor-piercing point, which he drove into the mailed chest of one of the foes. His lance was sturdy and held. With excellent riding discipline, the formation stayed together and wheeled for another pass. The shaft of his lance stood the shock five more times, and only broke off like the stinger of a bee when he pierced the breastplate of one of the chief reavers, a man with a bony hand painted upon his shield.

With Nymeria behind them, Ghost and Lady on the flanks, the fools had nowhere to run. Joffrey and his knights rode them down like bandits, not soldiers. Once the last had fallen, he sent some archers to secure the longships and summoned Sansa and Arya from the rear. He left them a strong guard and ordered they stay mounted at all times, just in case the worst should happen. It did not. Ser Loras brought the Stark girls to him safely.

His queen dismounted and ran to kiss him amidst the carnage, taking no notice of the dead and dying men lying about. Arya looked a little green, still.

"You were so brave, Joff! I watched the whole thing. You must've killed ten or twenty!"

Joffrey laughed. "Not half so many, honey, but I thank you for inflating my numbers." Some part of him knew she liked it when he killed people. Well, this is what came with marrying a wolf girl. Sansa looked truly beautiful like this, wild yet feminine.

He went back to see who the lord he killed was. It was easy to forget Ironborn sigils. They were all really creepy and macabre, as you might expect from people whose religion was piracy.

Huh, would you look at that!

The king picked up a red-rippled sword of Valyrian steel and gave it an experimental wave.

Uncle Jaime gasped in wonder. "Your Grace, that is..."

"Merry Christmas, Uncle!" Joff handed the blade to him, and then he realized what he said. "Er, that is, consider this an early name day present."

"Joffrey, you can't!" Jaime protested.

"I can and I will! If you haven't noticed, they call me Black Axe, not Red Sword." He left his uncle sputtering and went to direct the freeing of the prisoners. "It looks like we're done, boys. Returning these people to their homes, if they still have homes, takes priority. Our hunt is done unless we run into more."

He put his arm around Sansa while the men got to work, helping the traumatized women to dry land. They watched the wolves run and play amidst the bodies. Hardly any of theirs had fallen at all, a total rout.

"Honey, why are there four wolves? I didn't hit my head, right?"

Sansa thought for a moment. "That is...Shaggydog! Mother is bringing Rickon with her! Their party is half a day's ride up the Kingsroad from here. Lady can feel the hooves of their horses through the ground."

***

"Sansa! Arya! You both look so beautiful!"

Lady Stark was weeping with joy. Rickon, too, was weeping openly to see his sisters for the first time in years. He was a boy of eight and looked very similar to the way Joffrey remembered Bran Stark.

During their family reunion, Joffrey had a quiet word with Lord Edmure, who had been escorting his sister with a strong force of knights. "My lord, we rescued some of your people," the king informed him. "The Ironborn had them in chains for some time. Do you suppose it might be possible to see them somewhere safe? I fear they don't have homes to return to." He lowered his voice. "It might be wise to instruct your maester to brew a generous batch of moon tea."

Lord Edmure, who held the Riverlands now that Lord Hoster had passed away, nodded gravely. "Of course, Your Grace. Finding you riding to defend my lands cheers my heart. I know you shall be an excellent husband to little Sansa, though she's not so little anymore, eh?"

They laughed together. Sansa was pretty tall, actually, coming up to his chin, visibly taller than her mother. Arya wasn't far behind either.

"If you can see to your people, I can see Lady Stark safe to King's Landing, my lord."