Joffbros...

“Well,” I begin, waiting for the jollity to ebb away, “I am relieved, mother. Surely you understand the conclusion I jumped to, given your hasty words on that regrettable day. I believe I owe you my apologies.”

Cersei beams, moving to embrace me, pulling my head into her chest and cooing,
> “Oh, think nothing of it, my sweet. You are a king, it is only natural for you to be exacting in your will. It is already forgotten!”

I return the embrace, squeezing her against my body, sighing. Despite how conniving she has just proved herself to be, I must admit that this affection is easing the tension in my back and improving my mood. I break away from her and turn back to my guard, grinning, not giving a second thought to how such a display might have altered their respect for me.

“Stag Guard, take Ser Trant away.”

> “Aye, your grace!”
Aldwin says, his face the jolliest of all of his cohort, who seem to be more enamored with the wholesome image of their boy king reconciling with his mother than amused at their liege lord being smothered by her breasts, and I thank the gods for that small mercy.

And then with a calmer tone and easy grin, I dash the brief respite from the tension everybody has suffered.

“Relieve Ser Trant of his armor and white cloak and then take him to the Middle Bailey and have each man of the Stag Guard hit him with the scourge. When that’s done, take him to the top of the eastern wall and hang him over the Blackwater for as long as whomsoever volunteers sees fit. The man that does it shall dine on lobster this eve, though if he drops poor Trant, mind, he shall go two weeks without wages. If Ser Trant survives, deposit him outside of the Red Keep, sans his sword, his honor, and his knighthood.”

That wipes the smile off of everybody’s faces, particularly Trant’s, whose face turns ghost white again.

> “M-My liege! Mercy!”
Trant cries.

> “Let’s not be so hasty, sweetling,”
Cersei coos waveringly, placing a hand on my shoulder.

> “Can I be the one to hang him over, grace?”
Aldwin asks.

“You may, Aldwin. If you should have doubts, you may pick the next man to volunteer.”

Everyone is aghast except for Aldwin, who puts a giant hand on Ser Trant’s shoulder, pulling him along despite the rest of my Stag’s hesitance to carry out my order. I cross my arms.

“Need I repeat myself, Stag Guard?”

That gets them moving. As they march Trant off, whose pleas for mercy echo against the scarlet stoned walls, the two guards I sent to clear the floor of any servants pass the column, returning to either side of Cersei’s door, leaving themselves, my mother, the other house guard, and myself all alone. Where moments ago I had everyone in my power, now I stand against my mother and three of her men.

Except they’re all still in my power. What are they without me? For a moment, it looks as though Cersei may order them to do something regrettable to all involved, but she sighs and slinks back against her door.

> “What possessed you to do that, my son? Now your Kingsguard has but six men. It is an ill omen to have less than seven.”

“My Kingsguard has only had six men this past fortnight, mother. As we selected my uncle for Lord Commander, he was wearing a pair of Tully manacles.”

Cersei slaps me, belting,
> “Do NOT make light of your uncle Jaime’s peril! He is under the auspices of Stark whim as we speak because he marched to defend your throne!”

“Then it is a good thing,” I say, rubbing my cheek indignantly, “that Ser Trant did not lose grasp of Sansa as he was dangling her over the lower bailey. I doubt the good King Robb will trade uncle Jaime back for a maid, but he surely would not think twice about ending his life if he hears that I’ve slain another one of his kin.”

Cersei glowers at me, nearly spitting,
> “I BEGGED you not to execute Lord Stark, my son.”

That takes the wind out of my sails.

“So you did. I should have listened. Would that my father had more opportunities to beat some sense into me.”

Cersei gawks,
> “Now I am to blame for stopping your father from knocking your teeth out? Mother above, grant me mercy and forgiveness, for I shall never know it from my own son!”
She looks at me, her scowl diminishing into a weary, pleading gaze,
> “Joffrey, you have been putting me ill at ease these past weeks. I am proud, mind, that you are taking such an interest in raising a troop, but the haste and suddenness of this fixation is such that I cannot help but wonder whether you emerged from your fall unscathed.”

I stare at my mother, caught off guard.

> “I want to be like my father, who raised nigh all of Westeros in rebellion against the Mad King Aerys.”
> “I was only pushed because I showed Lady Sansa her dead father’s head. If someone showed you Lord Tywinn’s head and had the lack of wit to stand near a dropoff, would you not push him, mother?”
> “Is it so bad I’ve grown out of my monstrous habit of killing cats, my lady?”

“Is it so bad I’ve grown out of my monstrous habit of killing cats, my lady?” I finally arrive on words that do not get caught in my throat, and look Cersei in the eye.

> “No, I was not speaking of that in particular,”
Cersei says after a pause.

“I have been cruel without purpose, mother. A gleeful sadist, eager to follow his every whim to its horrible conclusion. I do not intend to be so pointlessly cruel now. The only cruelty that shall serve me hence will be whatever gives pause to my enemies, and only a very measured cruelty at that.”

I glance between the three Lannister guards, who have by now assumed sentry positions on either side of Cersei’s door, the odd man out standing next to the left guard. All three of them have their gazes fixed forward, each knowing better than to give any indication they hear my mother’s words and mine own. I approach one, scrutinizing his helmet and the eyes beneath it as I speak,
“I intend to rule. I intend to rule with advisors who shall defer to me in all matters, not puppet masters who would tell me only what I wish to hear while seizing the machinations of state for their own ends. With a measured fear of consequence, I believe I will achieve this before my age of majority without resorting to rabid spite that serves no purpose except to amuse me.”
I fixate on the lion badge the guard I am scrutinizing wears. I turn back to face Cersei, who is staring at me with an uneasy look in her eyes, her mouth slightly gaped, and her brows knitted into a concerned frown. I smile lightly, approaching her.
“I shall remember the House of Lannister, have no fear of that. I shall also remember you, mother. But I am to be a King, not a puppet, and for that, I will have my Stags.”

She stares at me for a beat, and then her expression melts into the sort of adoring, reverential smile only a mother could have, and she holds her arms out invitingly. I find my feet are carrying me towards her, and she wraps me in another embrace, clutching me tighter, kissing the top of my head.

> “And you shall be a wonderful king, my son.”

What can I do besides return the embrace once more? Loathe as I am to admit it, Cersei’s maternal affection for me seems to fulfill a gap in myself that drinking, eating, or admiring my youthful chambermaids simply cannot. Even as I remind myself of how cruel this woman has been and how cruel she will be yet, to feel her stroke my back is as if my mother from my old life was doing it in her stead.

When we separate, I say,
“Now, I beg your leave, my lady. I would enjoy an afternoon of solitude before tomorrow’s festivities occupy my time.”

Cersei kisses my forehead.
> “Of course, my son. I have kept my guests waiting long enough myself. I hope to see you at supper, still.”

I nod and walk back towards the spiral steps, Cersei dismissing the extra house guard and then returning to her apartments.

Dismissing Trant has been a boon for my influence to be sure, but I can’t help but feel as if Cersei has gotten one over on me still. She seemed much too happy to capitulate, even considering how deftly she threw the blame onto Ser Trant. I’m obviously overlooking something, but after that impromptu speech about my intention to seize power well before I come of age and her support for me in saying so, the tiny niggling of doubt I feel now seems all the more irrational. I have missed something, I am sure, but however significant what I’ve missed is I cannot fairly remark upon.

> Return to Sansa
> Return to my Stag Guard
> Talk to Pycelle about the Wall
> Talk to Varys

>>6420592
>Return to Sansa
We can gather dog too.

Apologise for her being terrorised, admit that Trant is being stripped of his position for going over our head and that all has been forgiven regarding our fall.
Tell dog if it happens again.

>>6420592
>Return to Sansa
Cersei got one over on us? Meh, how bad could it be? :)))

Anyways, time to properly deal with the Sansa issue. Inb4 some other bullshit intervened while we were gone so Sansa's suffering cycle could continue

>>6420592
>> Return to Sansa

>>6420592
>> Return to Sansa

>>6420591
>I have missed something, I am sure, but however significant what I’ve missed is I cannot fairly remark upon.
She's back to getting boned by Ser Lancel or whoever it is.

> Return to Sansa
Pick up doggo

More stairs greet me in the entrance hall of the main keep, and then more stairs still as I ascend the coiled stone steps of Sansa’s tower. It’s hardly midday and I’m already tired, the toll of my black mood having sapped all the vigor I started the day with. I believe I shall double my milk of the poppy dosage. As I round the wall and start on the final stretch of steps, I see a crowd gathered on the landing. A gaggle of servant women linger on the outside of Sansa’s door, exchanging hushed, hysteric whispers between each other before one of them sees me ascending the stairs and gasps.

> “King Joffrey!”
She says, bowing, the others quick to follow,
> “Ser Clegane is in Lady Sansa’s chambers! He b’aint lettin’ none of us in!”

As I reach the landing, the five maids naturally part to allow me access. I remind them, not unkindly,
“The Hound is no Ser,”
And I pass them, grabbing the latch of the door and throwing it open.

Inside, I find Sandor brooding on the edge of the chamber, leaning against the wall, and Sansa sat on the edge of her bed, hands in her lap, staring down at the floor. Both of them look at me when the door opens, and I cross the room to stand by the edge of Sansa’s bed.

“Ser Trant has been dismissed from the Kingsguard.”

She stares up at me.

> “If it please your grace to have dismissed him, then I am glad also.”

I look between her and the Hound. Sandor does not seem particularly moved by the sudden removal of his colleague.
> “Meryn Trant hardly knew the difference between the grip of his sword and his own cock. His grace shouldn’t have any trouble finding a better man to replace him.”

I nod, then look back at Sansa.

“My lady, I beg you believe me, I had no notion that you were being frightened by Ser Meryn in such a grievous manner. I knew not that you were being terrorized at all.”

> “I believe you,”
She says, unconvincingly.

I sigh.

“I do not begrudge your lack of faith, but in future if somebody treats you dishonorably you must find your courage and tell me of it, whomsoever should molest you. Just now, I very nearly had my own mother dragged down to the black cells because I believed she was the one who orchestrated this outrage.”

Sansa stares.

> “I am a traitor, your grace, I deserve whatever punishment my king sees fit.”

I sigh. There’s never going to be a moment where I break through to her, is there? Why would I think there would ever? I killed her father!

“Fine. This holding you over the balcony was not the punishment your king saw fit, however, so you may rest easy knowing that the proper heads have rolled for it. Now, I am going to make it perfectly plain to all in the Red Keep that any retribution that may find its way to you out of dismissing Ser Meryn shall be met with a much more final penalty than simply having him whipped and tossed out of the King’s Gate. If that is insufficient to prevent further hostility towards you, you may inform myself, Sandor, or any of my Stag Guard, and it shall be swiftly corrected.”

Sansa stares.

“Or don’t! Suffer whatever wroth befalls you like a martyr, if it please you. You might have the notion that this is some elaborate ruse to trick you into some nebulous misstep, but then I suppose you’ll have to weigh the far-off consequences of such a ploy with whatever immediate dangers my court may trouble you with. You’re a keen girl, I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”

Sansa stares, her brow furrowed, and her mouth opens,
> “I…”
She looks at the Hound for a moment. Huh? She looks back at me just as quickly and gives a decisive nod.
> “I shall inform his grace if anyone should trouble me.”

I stare for a moment, and then finally say,
“That is good. Please do.”

The three of us simply stand in silence for a dozen or so heartbeats. I did not expect to return to Sansa’s chambers a gallant hero with laurels thrown upon me for ousting the dullard bully that traumatized her, and just now I realize I had no idea what to expect at all.

I clear my throat, straightening my posture,
“Now, you are of course still welcome to spend my name day however you wish, be that in your apartment, or anywhere else in the Keep, but I would be honored if you would join me at least for the feast, and perhaps the tournament, if it please you.”

Sansa nods, saying,
> “I would be honored to be present for all of the festivities on the morrow, if it please my king.”

“Are you certain? It would not offend me if you would sooner be by yourself and dine alone.”

Sansa looks at the Hound again, and I look at him just in time to see him shrug his shoulders at her. He sees that my gaze is on him and straightens his posture, staring ahead at nothing.

Sansa says,
> “If- If it please his grace, I am embarrassed by my conduct earlier, and would prefer to spend the… evening by myself. That I might not embarrass his grace if my tears should return.”

“Just the evening? You may have the whole day, my lady, if it please you.”

> “W-well, perhaps sooner than evenfall, perhaps after the tournament, then. I should be pleased with whatever food his grace would send to my chambers, and shall say some prayers for his continued health.”

“You want to go to the tournament?”

Sansa stares.
> “Yes- If- If his grace would have me somewhere else, I would not object-“

“No, I shall be glad to have your company. It’s settled, you shall accompany me for the tournament and then you will take your leave.”

My word! She would sooner stay in her chambers the whole day tomorrow I’m sure, but she’s so meek about taking these openings I’m giving her and I’m quite sick of talking in circles. I shall never earn her trust or affection again, that much I can accept, but I’ll certainly train her single-minded agreeability out of her if I keep a limited window of when she may be willful. Gods willing, the next time I ask her what she’d prefer to do, she will not be so meandering in seizing the opportunity to answer truthfully.

> “I- I look forward to it, my lord.”

“As do I. Now, I believe me and Sandor have kept you long enough. We shall take our leave.”

I move away from her bedside, Sandor joining my side as we walk to the ajar chamber door-

The ajar… chamber door…

What a fool I am, forgetting that Sansa’s chambermaids were Cersei’s creatures. A twinge of pain in my back flashes as I open the door all the way and find the flock of chambermaids still waiting on the landing, each of them chattering with each other and acting surprised to find me and the Hound at the threshold.

I’m so sure.

> “Oh, are you done speaking with Lady Sansa, your grace?”
One of them crows, moving aside to grant us passage.

I close the door behind me.

“All of you are to find a new chamber to look after,”
I say with an icy tone.

> “B-begging your pardon, King Joffrey, have we done something to offend Lady Sansa- or you?”

“Not at all! Your skill as hearth keepers is so exemplary to a woman, I find they are wasted on my captive. You shall each be attendants to a more worthy occupant of this keep. Forget all you know of Sansa Stark’s proclivities, preferences, and most of all, conversations she’s just had with her liege.”

The maidservants all look at each other.

“Or I’ll have each of you stripped, bound by your hands and feet, and carried down the hill to Flea Bottom.”

That seems to cut through their pretense of confusion. Pale, ghastly faces nod plaintively at me, and only after me and Sandor start down the steps do they timidly follow us.

> Return to my Stag Guard
> Talk to Pycelle about the Wall
> Talk to Varys
> “Why did Sansa glance at you in her chambers, dog?”
> Return to my chambers for a double-dose of milk of the poppy [End Day]

>>6421369
>"I hope when she next asks you for Advice Dog, you can advise that she take at least some of what I say as honest truth. I gather I've earned the fear but talking in circles really is quite annoying. Do check in on her when your time permits."

>>6421369

> Talk to Pycelle about the Wall

We should make sure we can still send men there even with the war on. Perhaps we can send ships up around the Vale straight into the Gift? The Wall's gonna need as many men as it can get, after all.

Also, support this write in; we can chat with The Hound on the way to Pycelle's chambers.
>>6421396

>>6421369

>>6421396
>>6421400
+1

>>6421369

supporting
>>6421396
>>6421400
> Talk to Pycelle about the Wall

>>6421369
> Talk to Pycelle about the Wall

>>6421369
>> Return to my Stag Guard
Time to build it further.

Until the war of 5 kings is over we will have problems in doing things with the Night Watch. Sending men and equipment by sea would be quite expensive too.

The Night Watch order is a shadow of a shadow of its former self. It also does little on its own at this point. It would devour any funding like the famished beast it is, and then require more for the upkeep. One has to wonder if the lands of the so called Gift and all those ruined Castles near the Wall would be better in the hands of new noble houses instead. Or if the Night Watch should exist at all.

>>6421396
>>6421369
Support just be mindful. Sandor has a lot of new duties with being the Stag Guard Commander.

We cross the covered balcony, and I take a moment to lean on the banister and let my back recover from the effort of traversing Maegor the Cruel’s staircase gauntlet for the better part of the morning. From up here I have a view of the middle bailey, and can see that my Stag Gaurds have ceased drilling, Arys Oakheart demonstrating only a handful of stags while the rest meander about the yard, fraternizing and gossiping.

> “Want I should go down there and whip their asses back into training?”
Sandor asks, peering over the banister by my side.

“No, dog. They’ve earned a reprieve, at least for an hour or so. Would that you could have seen them when I arrested Trant- they fell in on him without so much as an order from me.”

The Hound belts a short laugh, saying,
> “Would that I could indeed. They’re still green as grass, but I’d bet the rest of my face that worm pissed himself when that happened.”

Now I laugh, nodding.

“By the way, the next time Sansa confides in you, I would be most grateful if you nudged her in the direction of taking me at my word. I’ve given her every reason to mistrust me, I’ll grant, but it’s rather tedious trying to accommodate her. Perhaps you might attend to her every now and again, she may be more receptive to you than to me.”

Sandor spits over the banister, grunting,
> “Doubt that. Can’t even look me in the eye, that one.”

“You didn’t kill her father, on the other hand.”

> “No,”
He says, spitting again,
> “That I fucking well did not. Where’re we headed, your grace?”

I get up off the banister.
“It’s been a long while since I’ve bade Pycelle send a message to the Wall on my behalf, and he still hasn’t mentioned any response. I would remind him and see whether the Night’s Watch has ignored an inquiry from their rightful king, or if Pycelle’s wits are starting to elude him.”

The Hound nods and starts off without me,
> “Well, we know where to find him by now, don’t we?”

Minutes later, Sandor pounds on the door to the base of the rookery, and almost a minute later still, it creaks open. My Grand Maester sucks air through his open mouth when he sees me, and the width of his eyes I do not harbor any delusions that he knows why I am visiting.

> “Y-Your grace! W-why, ‘tis an honor, to have your p-personal, audience!”
He waffles, bowing as much as his tired, arthritic bones will allow.

> “M-might you require, an additional dosage of- of- the milk of the poppy?”

“In fact, I do, but that is not why I have made a call to your quarters today, Grand Maester. Do you remember when I had you send a dispatch to the wall?”

The Grand Maester’s yellowed eyes stare off into space for a moment before he nods affirmatively.

> “Yes, of course! The raven. I- I had sent a bird to the wall that very hour, your grace- I used one of our fastest, as well- let me just see- you must forgive me if I have not opened the response yet, just a moment-“

Pycelle retreats back into his quarters, walking to a desk with a disorganized assortment of stacks of parchment, tincture flasks, and other esoteric devices. He starts pawing through a bowl, and I realize from the sound that it’s full of rolled up slips of parchment. It does not take him long to produce the slip from the bowl, and he walks back to the threshold, removing the small black ribbon and unfurling the slip. By some miracle, his wizened eyes read off of the tiny lettering as easily as if it were text from a full-sized book.

> “Ahem. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont reports an attempt on his life by a… by a wight. How queer. He informs us that Ser Alliser Thorne is travelling to King’s Landing to present evidence of this attack to his grace King Joffrey. He reiterates the Watch’s need for men and supplies and tells of a plan to venture beyond the wall with a significant host of black brothers to frustrate Mance Rayder’s schemes and to learn more of the Others.”

Pycelle glances at me with a smirk when he is done reading, as if we are sharing in a jape at some third party’s expense.

> “Wights? Like the monsters?”
Sandor asks, scoffing.

> “Dead men- reanimated to serve the others. I believe the Lord Commander is referring to the very same, Ser Clegane.”
Pycelle nods, offering a rasping chuckle as he rolls the paper up.
> “There are- respected Archmaesters, in the history of the Citadel, that have written extensively on wights. These Archmaesters, mind, have been- been long dead, however. Longer dead than the last dragon of the Targaryans. I would sooner believe that Lord Commander Mormont was simply assaulted by a particularly ghastly wilding and is honestly mistaken, than that the dead again walk among the living!”

“I suppose we shall have to see what evidence Ser Alliser will bring with him,”
I say, an icy chill flying up my wounded spine. The image of a pale, gaunt hand reaching up for the moon from behind the wall makes an unwelcome rehearsal in my mind.

> “Truly, your grace, I believe that the Watch shall have all the men they need for the time being. Best not allow superstition to predicate your policy, if you shall forgive me for saying so.”

I nod, putting the old windbag out of mind for a moment. I wonder if Yoren’s caravan has been molested since I ordered all the gold cloaks back into King’s Landing. I really only gave them one more day, I’m sure my mother’s connived something to intercept them.

“Thank you, Grand Maester. That will be all for now.”

> “It is an honor, nonetheless, to serve a king with such particular concern for the Night’s Watch, despite the ongoing northern rebellion. Allow me a moment to fetch you more milk of the poppy- and drakesroot!”

The bagged crushed herbs are burning a hole in my pocket as we exit the castle and step onto the middle bailey. My back aches. More of my stags are training than before, but there are still slackers. Aldwin’s unmistakable frame is belting laughter with a pair of stags I do not recognize, no doubt recounting this morning’s scandals to his brothers in arms. Fine. Can’t let him make a habit of that, though.

A pair of goldcloaks glance sideward at my stags as they descend the serpentine steps towards their barracks. A seagull cries faintly in the distance. More than tired and in pain, I am anxious.

> Return to my Stag Guard
> Ask someone about Yoren’s caravan and whether it is still on it’s way to Castle Black… but who?
> Return to my chambers, imbibe in poppymilk. [End Day]

>>6421881
> Return to my chambers, imbibe in poppymilk. [End Day]

There's no real way for anyone in King's Landing to know if Yoren's caravan actually made it to the wall or not right now, and I can't really think of anything else to do today.

>>6421881
>> Return to my chambers, imbibe in poppymilk. [End Day]

>>6421881
As i expected not much can be done right now for the Night Watch. We need to end the war first. After that we plan something for them.

The Stag Guard needs to be shaped and influenced further, it will take effort for complete it. But we have already put a lot of pain on our back with the sudden rage and movement of today.

Tommorow there is the namesday, so we will have little time for our Stag Guard. Best keep them close to us. Many of them wanted to join the melee, should we allow them ? I am not sure. It would make them happy to have an attempt to honor us and also gain prestige of their own. But like Sandor said they are still green. The tournament is an excellent way for see who else we can recruit for the Stag Guard, and also a new position in the Kingsguard. And the Master of Arms. Those are two other prizes that might interest knights.

Also it seems the Gold Cloaks are a bit miffed. Likely because the Stag Guard is yet to have its own home (we will deal with that once the war is over).


>>6421905
For today there is not much, but we do have a lot to consider on our heads in the following months. Like what to do with Petryr, Janos or Varys. Or our plans for the 6 or 7 kingdoms. And the other issues in King's Landing.

>>6421881
> Return to my chambers, imbibe in poppymilk. [End Day]
Forgot the vote

> Return to my Stag Guard
Stag's guard still need a permanent place to bunk.
Free space in the bailey within the castle walls, adjoining the stables given their starting location?

>>6417049
>>6422005
Right now they are spread through stables, sept and gold cloak barracks.

Realistically we would want to make an expansion of the Red Keep and create a Stag Guard barracks building in the castle complex. But right now we have still the war going, not sure if we should start building anything.

I exhale, the very act of my lungs deflating enough to aggravate my back. Tomorrow’s parade shan’t do it any favors either, even if I’m on horseback. The very thought of sitting astride my destrier as it trots on the cobbled squares of King’s Landing is enough to make me want to retire to my bed already, and I take a moment to thank the Seven that I woke up in the body of a king who has that privilege and not in a farmer or butcher or smith who must toil regardless of how broken his body is.

“All right, Hound, they’ve had enough time to rest. Let them drill with spears for the rest of their training,”
I say, stopping myself from glancing longingly up at Maegor’s Holdfast.

Sandor nods and stomps across the Bailey towards Ser Arys and ser Mandon, speaking to them both, who then turn to speak to each other. Ser Arys gives a grateful nod and hands his tourney sword to a stag, then crosses the bailey towards me.

> “Clegane has relieved me of training, your grace. Where would you have me?”
He says cheerfully, no notion of the morning’s scandal visible on his face.

“Outside my chambers. I am going to retire early, I’ve decided,”
I say, starting towards the steps to the main keep. The damned steps!

I must have made a face as I imagined climbing the steps again, because Arys falls in flush beside me and whispers,
> “If it please your grace, I can provide support while he mounts the stair.”

“Not in front of my men,”
I reply, not unkindly.

When we finally reach the landing to the keep, I pray to the Smith that the anguishing of my spine is but a superficial pain and that I have not undone any of his careful work stitching my bones back together with today’s follies. Only when we cross the dry moat into the holdfast and arrive at the base of my spiral steps do I meekly hold an arm out for Ser Arys that he may help me up the steps like a crone. His support does help, but I still wince with every few steps, and halfway up I wonder if I ought to have summoned a couple of house guards to simply lift me up and carry me the whole way.

At last, we reach the top, and though I do not let go of my white cloak’s arm, Ser Arys at least has the circumspection not to make mention of it nor ask whether he should accompany me into my chambers, simply opening the door for me and helping me in far enough to hand me off to my chambermaids. Priscilla’s broad shoulders and heaving bosom are a welcome sight both, and after she helps me to my bed with all the strength that Ser Arys lent me plus a mite more tenderness that only a woman could provide, I dig the bag of herbs out of my pocket and toss it on the bedside table without a word.

> “Ah, of course, your grace! Rowan, start a kettle!”
Priscilla indicates to another servant, who hurries off to gather coals. Meanwhile, her and Phoebe begin peeling away my clothes, a shamefully slower process than it had been this morning. To think I started my day lifting myself out of this bed with my own strength.

“It’s twice the usual dose. Today has been most taxing, I fear,”
I grumble as my doublet comes off.

> “Shall I start a bath as well, my lord?”
Priscilla asks, moving to my boots. I give a nod, wincing as the left one comes off.

Minutes later, I’ve a warm cup of milk of the poppy in my hand, sitting on my bed, naked as my nameday. The increased dosage is such that I can already feel the pleasing effects of the drug, though I yearn for the scalding embrace of a fresh bath. Timidly, I attempt to rise from my bed, and am pleased to experience only a single sharp pain as I do so, managing to keep my composure- and my cup- as I stand.

> “Oh, my king, please keep seated, the bath isn’t quite ready,”
Rowan says, taking the kettle out of the fireplace.

“I would stand while I wait. Is there still water in there, my lady?”

> “Aye. Would m’lord like another tincture?”

“If it please my lady, yes.”

I’ve finished the first cup a few minutes before the next one is ready, and by the time the bath has heated I’m halfway through the second. Priscilla lowers me into the bath in my privy, and the heat of the water starts its slow battle against the ache in my back. Leaning my head back against the tub, I relish the numbing haze that overtakes my being, soaking away today’s pains and worries as I look out the window at the clouds. A draught of drakesroot and a twelve hour nap and I’ll be fit to sprint down the God’s Way on the morrow. As the clouds lazily float along, I decide to make a game of finding their likenesses, though either every cloud in the sky today has taken on exclusively abstract shapes or my inebriation has stifled my mind’s eye. In my old life, I was briefly instructed at a young age of the different species of clouds, though even if I were sober and still lived as Martin Carter, I would not be like to recall that lesson. The clouds outside were the long, thin sort, that dangled in the sky leagues beneath their more shapely, interesting cousins.

Already bored, I look around the privy for a maid. There are none, and my half-full cup of poppy’s milk mocks my thirst atop a small table by the door.

“Priscilla?” I call, “Phoebe? Calla?”

Nothing. I grunt, wondering whether it’d be worth the chill of the air to climb out of my bath and retrieve my cup. Would that I had the willpower. This is the most comfortable I’ve been in either of mine own two lives…

My eyes flutter, and I sit up a bit, huffing. Don’t fall asleep, now. They’ll kill all of your lovely maids in horrible, creative ways if they find their king drowned in his own bathtub.

“Rowan?! Someone, I require my cup!”

It would serve them all right, on the other hand. Why now of all times must they not be omnipresent within my apartments?

I huff, trying to think of a humorously overwrought punishment to threaten them with when I do see them again, though all I can manage is to giggle like a lackwit at the word “flay.” Flay them. I’ll flay them, and- their skin- I spit water out of my mouth, chuckling. What a preposterous word to fixate upon. Flay.

I look outside once again. The Gods have heard my prayers, and some more robust clouds occupy the vista through my privy window, though they are mostly obscured by the smaller, thin stripes of white. Flay. Heh. Even still, I can see one that looks like a seahorse. Flay. There goes another one, further back and in the current of a stronger draft that looks like a hand, albeit a misshapen one. Perhaps I am mistaken, but at this distance it’s too small and the thin clouds obscure it more. Flay. Oh, but that one’s close- not that it’s shaped like anything interesting, just a boring clump of vapor- a huge one at that.

Soon enough Flay. it overtakes the whole vista, filling the stripes of sky its lower cousins leave visible until my window is a portal into a dreary, gray nothing. Suddenly, the grey outside my window darkens to nigh on black, and Flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay flay FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY FLAY

it comes into my privy, slithering through the sill, undulating outward from the hole in the stone wall and covering everything it touches. A horrible, sudden chill rushes through my body despite my bathwater’s effervescent temperature, and try as I might, all of my limbs are frozen still, refusing to heed my brain’s bidding to escape the black nothing as its edges ooze toward me. Suddenly, across the privy, there is a gap in the black, hellish light shining through my arched window, enveloping the whole room in a hazy red glow. I realize the cloud is parting, splitting down the middle, starting to reveal a sky seeped in blood, almost everything as scarlet as the cobbles of the red keep. Only one cloud still endures, a column as black as the night that lasted a century. Atop it, dreadfully shining with a baleful beam, an endless and suffocating contrast with the black. Red. A beaming comet of red. A sickly star that bleeds across the sky.

I'll beat this dream's ass.

Why is the red comet turning us into a Bolton?

>>6423860
lmao first thing i thought when I saw Flay

I guess X thing/evil deity didn't really like that Mr.Martin Carver got inside Joffrey body.

Though Joffrey didn't really do enough damage in his short reign for have all this attention. ......is probably for the soul stuff. Two souls in one body, one soul not even of this world. Not something a mortal man should have, nevermind the isekai'd knowledge thats even too dangerous. We have also seen very violent stuff in the previous dreams . We didn't make it a priority to check on this at all now that i think about it lmao.

Lets see....

- Corolla Murderous Drive/Incident Dream
- Escape from the black shadows(?) In the factory we worked on with the soul of Joffrey Dream
- And today Sleep Paralysis inside the water tub edition, blocked from moving, and forced to watch a red star that really likes Flaying like the Boltons, Dream

Should we write this dreams down ? Might be a good idea. We can have a private diary to keep on us.

Between our back, Stag Guards, the War, Sansa, ruling Kings Landing and the realms, and thinking on when to strike for eliminate some of our enemies/problems we have things to do.

>>6423860
Lol
Joke aside i think this might be a thing that was influencing Joffrey mind in the past ? Or maybe it was just pissed at us while we were dreaming. Or again the souls stuff with Joffrey and previous dreams we made might have annoyed it. Eitherway it seems it wants to impose the importance to flay/torture ? Remind Joffrey soul ? Tell Martin Carver soul to start flaying/torturing the world ?

Correct me if I am wrong Joffrey did torture/flay animals has a child and then kept doing it right ?

I remember he was getting more violent/cruel in general toward both animals, people and objects with the passing of time. So an evil red star/deity influencing malice on the mind of a boy king could be possible. Maybe we should check our room if there is something like a weird object/symbol in it.

A heavy hand strikes my face, and it all disappears. I sputter, sucking in precious air and filling my empty lungs. What was that?! Was I drowning? I shudder, the lukewarm water rolling towards the far end of the tub, splashing when I sit upright and look around. Nothing is amiss, I am in my privy, soaking in my bath, staring up at Priscilla, who stares back down at me with a mortified gaze. I look around, all the stones that make up this chamber are present, none swallowed by a void. The window of my privy is as plain as ever, a series of stripes blanketing the blue sky behind it. I look to Priscilla for an explanation.

> “Forgive me, m’lord! You did not answer me, and I became worried you were-“
Priscilla’s words are caught in her throat. There are beads of tears on the corners of her eyes.

“What- What happened?”

> “We were in your solar, lookin’ at the comet! But then Phoebe heard you call out, and I went to check on you, and- you were- you-“
She can hardly choke it out, the beads turning into streams that run down her cheeks. The comet? I look out the window again, but see no comet. She continues,
> “You were just starin’ at the ceilin! I was afraid you perished, my king! I-“

Priscilla starts sobbing. I reach out for her, and find my posture in the tub is quite limiting, and what’s worse- I cannot alter my position without exceptional pain. I settle for drumming my fingertips on the edge of the tub.

“Get me out of this!”
I say, somewhat worried I may yet fall again into a trance.

Priscilla obliges, not even rolling up her sleeves like she usually does before dipping her arms into the water, finding the pits of my arms, and then lifting me out of the bath, moisture dripping from my torso all the way to my toes.

Priscilla sniffles,
> “You are a- a cruel king, to frighten your chambermaid like this!”

As soon as my numb feet touch the floor, I realize how cold I am.

“My clothes- a towel- fetch me something! How long were my ladies loitering in my solar?”

Priscilla flinches, producing a rag from her dress pocket, unfolding it to resemble an adequate hand towel. I snatch it from her like a starving beggar and begin drying my face and neck and chest.

> “N-not too long, grace! Phoebe’d seen it first, and she called us out to look!”

I drag the moistening towel down to my chest and abdomen, the chill ever present.

“Well, I wanted my drugs!” I cast a forlorn look at the cup on the table by the door. As accustomed to the effects of the poppymilk I’ve become, the actual taste is something I’ve had to contend with, particularly given the enhanced dosage. Well, I’ve never been an alcoholic, but beer and spirits taste better to seasoned lips. I should take care to not grow too accustomed to this bitter taste.

> “I- There’s no excuse, your grace! I should have had Rowan or Phoebe or- I’m sorry, but it was the COMET, grace. Forgive your simple maids for taking notice!”

“You are all forgiven, Priscilla. Please just- take me to my bed, and reheat the kettle.”

My words seem to relieve Priscilla somewhat, and she hurriedly gets her broad shoulder under my own arm, nearly lifting me up off the ground as she carries me back to my bed. When we enter my bedchamber, we encounter Phoebe and Rowan, who seemed to have been hurrying into the privy.

> “What happened? Is his grace alright?”
Phoebe asks urgently, seeing Priscilla carrying me no doubt deepening her concern.

> “T’was nothing, child- his grace just gave me a small fright.
She must have screamed when she found me, it’s the only explanation for why the sum total of my apartment maids are congregating in my chamber. Strong as Priscilla is, she’s also gentle, and deftly lays me back on my mattress with all the Mother’s tender grace, not causing any new pains or aches in the effort. She leaves my bedside to start another kettle.

> “Even still, perhaps we ought to summon Maester Pycelle. Phoebe, would you fetch him?”
Priscilla muses as she starts the draught.

“I am alright. I just want my medicine,” I protest, pulling my bedsheets over my naked body up to my neck. And a bedwarmer. Gods above, it’s frigid even under these covers!

Phoebe glances between Priscilla and myself, unsure of whose bidding to execute. I shake my head lightly when she glances at me, gently affirming the hierarchy.

> “It shan’t hurt to have the Grand Maester give his grace a brief examination, surely?”
Priscilla insists, gently pressing the matter. As she watches the kettle for steam, she holds onto her hands to stop them from shaking. Poor thing. For a moment in the privy, she must have thought she’d be spending the rest of her life in a black cell.

“Give me my poppy draught and an extra blanket and I shall be just fine, I promise.” I shiver, staring off at nothing in particular, though I take care to not let my gaze linger for too long in any place, lest the oily black returns. The draught will have to wait, but Rowan appears beside my bed with a velvet quilt about her arms, unfurling it over my body and letting it fall on top of me with a single, precise movement.

> “If his grace is cold, I would be honored to lend him some of my warmth.”

Yes! Under the sheets! All of you, under the sheets!

“I should be plenty warm when I have my draught, thank you, Rowan.”

Rowan pouts playfully, batting her eyelashes and stroking my head. Of all my maidservants, Rowan is second only to Phoebe in comely features(and truly only because of the larger endowments the Maid and Mother saw fit to bestow the latter). Rowan’s smooth, olive skin and auburn hair suggest a heritage from across the Narrow Sea, or perhaps even Dorne. Truth be told, all of my maidservants torment me, having become much less restrained with their particular charms and flirtations ever since their boy king fell off of the wall and stopped treating them with such disaffected cruelty. I recall several instances of having cornered some of them, fondling them over their clothes, ogling them and making crude remarks from back when this body did not belong to me, and though they played the part of the eager maiden well enough, Joffrey seemed to be aware that they knew acting otherwise would spell a speedy dismissal- or worse.

For my part, I have made every effort to restrain myself from anything beyond gallant courtesies, remarking on their beauty in a distant, gentle manner before moving the subject along, never giving into temptation. I swear it on my mother’s life.
They have not been making it easy, though- it may be that their king’s sudden disinterest in molesting them has given them anxieties as to the security of their station, and some of them have taken to ramping up their wiles. Would that my back was not injured, I still have trepidations about engaging in any sort of illicit indulgences, although I am at a loss to explain why. Is it the imbalance of power in the arrangement? The fact that this body does not belong to me and is hardly thirteen to boot? Perhaps it is only that Martin Carter’s timidness around the fairer sex is one aspect of the old life that has kept with me.

In any case, I am in no state to tumble my maids, even if I desired to. My back aches worse than it ever had before, there is a seeping chill in my bones that refuses to be coaxed out by even this heavy quilt, and the vision in the privy still occupies my mind. These past few weeks, my nights have not only been free of maidservant sexual abuse, they have also been free of those vivid and disturbing dreams that plagued my first two nights in Westeros. At first, I had considered the tinctures I imbibed in to help my sleep might have contributed to my nightmares, but on the third night I had slept as peacefully as a babe, and on the fourth night I rested even better. By the end of my first week, I could hardly remember the dreams at all, though I still keep well away from the Godswood.

This dream, though… it was different, and not just because it was a waking dream. The sheer black against the potent red, like I was standing simultaneously within a blaze and its stark shadow makes me shudder just to recall it. Even with the shadow advancing toward me, threatening to swallow me up, the worst part was still the comet revealed, hatefully iridescent atop a column of black cloud. Tomorrow, those around me will point up and call it “Joffrey’s Comet” and say that it is a good omen for my long reign to ingratiate themselves to me. My uncle Stannis will be told by his red woman that it is a herald for the return of the legendary Azor Ahai, living in his own flesh. The Northmen will look to it as a promise from their Old Gods of vengeance for Ned Stark, and their rivals the Iron Islanders shall say that it is their Drowned God calling them to war. Across the Narrow Sea, Daenerys Targaryen shall burn everything that is precious to her and emerge from the embers with three living dragons, perhaps this very evening.

The milk of the poppy does little to ease my back, but perhaps I am only impatient. I sip it down, savoring the hot liquid, which does at least begin to thaw my chilled body from within. Priscilla, Phoebe, and Rowan offer a final temptation- merely to sit at my bedside and keep me company while I drift to sleep, but I give them their leave, not unkindly. My head swimming pleasantly, I stare up at my ceiling, my feather mattress and downy pillow threatening to swallow me up in the most comforting manner possible. Tomorrow is my name day, I remember. I’ll have to pardon Ser Dontos, or better yet, keep him from participating altogether. No need to put Lady Sansa on that nonce’s radar. The parade is of my own design, and so I have no clue what shall transpire there, but so long as I keep my dog close at hand, and my stags, I don’t anticipate any trouble. My uncle Tyrion shall be making his return as the acting Hand of the King. I do not know what I shall do about Tyrion. He would be a powerful ally, and I quite like the man, but he is dangerously clever. I’ve been anxious about his arrival for many days now and have ruminated on how I shall handle him in this very bed shortly before sleep has taken me.

I tire of plotting, though, and for the first time since I have assumed the role of King Joffrey Baratheon, I take a moment to recall my former life- to really remember. I am Martin Carver(or was it Carter?), a 32 year old accountant, now deceased. My father passed away when I was in high school, and my mother, now old in her years, never remarried. How cruel, that old life, to force such a warm and caring woman to outlive both her husband and son. My only comfort- and sadness- is knowing how few shall miss me as dearly as she will. I have had involvements with a handful women in my time, but none broached the sort of passion that overcomes the tedium and inconvenience that so many modern relationships seem to fall victim to. They will be sad, I’m sure, to hear of my passing, but only just sad. No children, no true friends, no lovers- only an old woman to mourn me, who died in the sunset of his youth. An unimpressive youth to be sure, but if I had the choice, I would surely return to my original life than linger in this new one.
Why am I here? Why Joffrey? Of all the men to be spirited away from reality and placed into this low fantasy epic, the cosmic powers could have done a far sight better than Heinz Canning Plant Accountant Martin Carver. I have never, in my old life, had any authority beyond a clerical management position, I’ve never swung a real sword with the intent to kill, and I’ve certainly never had other people truly want me killed. Admittedly, I am not unhappy, either. How exciting, to be at the head of such a complex apparatus, to live and breathe this world that has fascinated me for so long, and to have an opportunity to change its course. Until the Father, or the Red God, or Old Gods, or the Stranger-blessed Many-Faced God appear before me to tell me my purpose, I shall continue to strive to change the fate of this world and those within it. Let them tell of Joffrey the Unmad, who forgave the girl that pushed him off the wall of the Red Keep, who put his cruelest advocates to the sword and who made concord with the King in the North and his pretender uncles both and marched an army of Southerlin warriors to the wall to stay the onslaught of the true enemy of the Seven Kingdoms, the hated Others. Let the wildlings beyond the wall that forswear their raiding to occupy the gift, let the Dornishmen have their revenge against Ser Clegane, and even Lord Tywin if it please them, and have my Stags scour the Seven Kingdoms for Tysha, that she be reunited with uncle Tyrion, and let all of the children of Eddard be found and returned to their lady mother Catelyn Stark. Let Roose Bolton and his bastard hang, let the Iron Islands be subjugated once more, let the Nights Watch flourish with an invigorated manpower not seen for thousands of years. When Daenarys Targaryn should finally find her way to Westeros, let her come upon a realm of peace and prosperity that she dare not threaten with her war to reclaim her dynasty.

Silly, sweet dreams, I tell myself, my eyes closing.

When sleep finally takes me, I find my dreams become even sweeter.

>>>6424526