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Chapter Text

Joffrey Velaryon had never been anyone’s favorite in his family

Being the middle one of five sons, he was never anyone’s heir. Never expected to inherit anything above his two elder and more capable siblings.

A third son must prove himself; must be the sword for and the shield for his brothers. But what use was Joffrey when he had already failed thrice?

So when unrest exploded in Flea Bottom, and they heard that the smallfolk tried storming the dragonpit, Joffrey jumped at the opportunity to ride Syrax to then get to his dragon to ultimately protect his mother and the only brother he had left.

But fate is a fickle thing and as he was readying himself to climb the she-dragon, someone pulled him by the collar and dragged him to the floor.

“I don’t think this is a good idea my prince,” said Ser Yronwood, his black eyes as hard as stone.

Joffrey pouted at being foiled and held his tears until they reached his rooms. There, he finally let his despair win as Tyraxes cried for him in the distance.

...

After his blotched attempt at action, the queen confined Joffrey to his rooms. Newly appointed as a member of the Queensguard as a reward for his services, Ser Gyles Yronwood was both his faithful shadow and his jailer.

He had been there for less than a day, and already he was boiling over with both frustration and the agony that Tyraxes death left inside of him. His mother had come to him then, eager to tell him all he did not know. Dragons only accepted one rider for their lifetime and that Syrax would have likely thrown him. Joffrey thought that death was preferable to the inaction he was punished into.

“Are you daft, boy? I fear that another dead son will push the queen to the point of no return. If not for your mother, then you have to live for the good of the realm. You are the heir now and that comes with responsibilities.”

Joffrey scoffs at that. “I shouldn’t be the heir. This was Jace’s role; I am no good at it.”

Ser Yronwood gives him another of his hard stares. “Well shit luck to you because unless you die you are stuck with it. And you won’t die on my watch.”

And he made good of his promise on the road to Dragonstone, valiantly defending Joffrey against the broken men that attacked them. Joffrey had his first kill on that fight and instead of the feeling of triumph he only had bile that he could not keep in.

“Please excuse my unseemly behavior Ser Yronwood. I assure you I am a fearsome warrior and will in short time be a dexterous knight,” he said once he stopped heaving. He had gone a bit further away from his mother and her guards in hopes that his retching would go unnoticed but the Dornish knight, ever his constant shield, had seen all the humiliating spectacle.

Ser Yronwood rolled his eyes. “You have done well. In these turbulent times, you ought to have knowledge of the sword, my prince, but I would rather you were a cautious and clever leader.”

When he heard that, Joffrey could not help the bitterness that crept on him. Ser Yronwood spoke too freely for it was Jace the one that was wise and diplomatic and Luke who was smart and charming. Joffrey in comparison was always third best, the only thing he had going for him was his bravery and forwardness that would serve him in battles but not in court. “I am afraid good Ser that you are describing my brothers. I have not been so lucky to have been blessed with said qualities.”

“Well. If so, my prince, then it is just as easy as thinking about what your esteemed brothers would do and act as such.”

It was easier said by Ser Yronwood than actually done. Joffrey had no clever retort so he sullenly muttered an: “I shall try.”

...

They arrived to Dragonstone to an ambush.

The scene that followed would forever be craved in Joffrey’s memory and would haunt him for years to come:

A battle raging around them as their entourage realizes the situation too late.

The Queensguard and the rest of his mother’s swords, dead or scattered, fighting the usurper’s men.

His family is dragged before the usurper.

His mother, stabbed by Ser Alfred Broome, laying on a pool of her blood.

Sunfyre opening his maws to breathe dragonfire onto his mother.

And suddenly Syrax, descending like a falcon and biting on the already mauled neck of the golden dragon; finishing what Joffrey would later learn was Moondancer’s work.

Syrax stood guard over Joffrey’s mother as he and Aegon rushed to her side. Despite his mother’s warning in King’s Landing, and the protective stance the dragon took against anyone else, the dragon allowed the two of them to get close. He took his cape and used it to press on his mother’s wound while Aegon cried and begged her to hold on and to remain with them.

What happened afterwards was a blur and in his anguish Joffrey was unaware of the events that transpired in the island, too busy holding onto his mother and trying to save her life as Syrax roared, breathed fire and ate a few men brave enough to come near to them.

After what seemed an eternity, the battle finally died around them. Lord Commander Goode approached them with a young Maester and some wounded but walking knights. Aegon was too distraught to do anything else but follow their mother as they carried her inside, so Joffrey had to calm Syrax and move her so that others could come tend to the Queen.

“My prince, we have secured the island. However, I am afraid that the usurper and his allies managed to escape and have taken the Lady Baela as a prisoner with them.”

Joffrey closed his eyes as hard as he could and counted to twenty. Once he was sure no tears were to fall, he opened them and tried to dismiss the Lord Commander to go to his mother’s side.

The Lord Commander, however, did not move. “I believe, my prince, that we should go together and do a round through the island so that I may better inform you of the situation.”

“Ser Goode, I am sure this can wait until the morrow. My mother lays on her deathbed and I must tend to her side.”

Ser Goode opened his mouth but Ser Yronwood was faster in replying. “And if she dies then the crown falls on you, boy! You may be our king soon enough and you must be aware of all the dangers that may arise and of the resources you may count on!” He could see his knight protector was drenched in blood and a whine escaped him each time he inhaled. “You may be a young lad of three-and-ten, but that brother of yours has barely ten namedays. Someone must take charge.”

Joffrey shuddered and felt his hands trembling at the thought of his mother dying and the bleak future that would follow if that came to pass.

He took a deep breath and thought of Jace; his face red and upset but finishing telling his queen his report on his achievements in the north before letting the grief of Luke’s passing overwhelm him.

Just thinking of his two brothers made the trembling in his hands stronger. However, with Jace still in his mind, he nodded to the Lord Commander and followed him with an uneven step as they surveyed the state of Dragonstone’s depleted garrison.

His brother Aegon would still be nine for two moons yet, but otherwise all he heard was correct and he needed to step up.

...

His grandsire Corlys Velaryon had betrayed them and sworn for the usurper. He sent Joffrey a letter urging him to go to King’s Landing and bend the knee.

His mother was still in bed in and out of a fever that refused to let her recover. Aegon had become a shadow of himself, more quiet than before and thin from refusing to eat.

Joffrey too had grown thinner as had all the Queensguard and Dragonstone’s garrison, not only for lack of food but from the stress of the situation.

It was in the moons of his mother’s convalescence that Joffrey learnt from the second battle of Tumbleton and the death of Addam and of most of the remaining dragons. Joffrey had been kept in the dark by his mother before, but Ser Goode had thought important he knew about his stepfather’s end above the God’s Eye. Another family member lost.

Still, that meant that Dragonstone was now in possession of the last tamed dragon; Sheepstealer nonwhistanding.

Not for the first time he longed for Tyraxes. For the security that having the dragon gave him, and for the companionship and the bond that they shared.

And sometimes, even slightly more than he yearned for his dragon, he yearned for the Lady Misery and her whispers. He felt so lost and adrift and wished for news and details on the capital and on the state of the armies.

A letter told them that the Stormlanders were marching to confront the Rivermen army lead by the new Lord Tully. Another letter from the north told them that Lord Stark had started his march south.

The year was about to turn and they could do nothing more than remain holed in Dragonstone while other lords fought their battles.

And now his grandsire requested his presence to bend the knee. Joffrey felt his blood boil over. Not only had his grandsire rushed to legitimize his bastards hereby replacing Joffrey on the Driftwood Throne; but he had also completely betrayed them two times over.

He raged into the training yard that Ser Yronwood insisted he attended on a daily basis. He raged as he helped the few men they had with fishing. He raged as he ordered around the servants of the keep until his mother was well enough to appoint a new castellan.

The only moments where he controlled himself was on the meals he insisted on taking with his brother to ensure that Aegon ate something, and when he kept vigil next to his mother’s bed.

Despite the isolation of the island and the fact that the rest of Westeros seemingly had forgotten them, every day was full of anxiety for an upcoming attack and any bird that flew close was a raven bringing somber news. Little by little, all the happy memories he had of the island started to turn bitter and the ghosts of his family haunted him on the places they use to spend time together.

Despite having not frequently visited it, not even the chapel to the fourteen flames offered a reprieve from the memories of his long gone family. Still he tried to go at least once every two days to light a fire on the altar of the goddess Syrax, so that she would protect his mother and let her live. He had never believed much on any deity, but his mother had chosen to honor the goddess so if any deity was to answer his prayer it ought to be Syrax.

The she-dragon herself flew around the castle for hours at a time while giving a pitiful wailing song, calling for her rider.

When he looked back on the moons that encompassed their abscond to Dragonstone, the most vivid memory he had was of the feeling of dread as he watched his mother struggle to live while they feared for their future.

It was one of the last days of the year when they finally got a raven.

Joffrey had been on the port, helping the men bring in their haul, separating the usable from the waste to be given to the dogs. It was not a job that Joffrey had enjoyed, but Luke had told him that their grandsire, the traitor he was, had put him to work through all the industries of Driftmark to better familiarize the people with Luke, their future Lord. And, if Luke could do it, if the job was not beneath his brother, then he would do it too.

He was helping gutting some of the fishes that were to be salted when a squire came running to fetch him.

“My lord,” he panted and heaved. His face was pale with red blotches and he had a panicked look to him that in turn set Joffrey on alarm. “There has been a letter for the queen. Lord Commander Goode has it.”

Joffrey jumped from where he was sitting, not caring that the fish he was holding fell to the floor as did the ones on the table he had been working on. “What does it say? Is it about Baela? News from the Eyrie?” had anything happened to any of his sisters?

“I would not know, my Lord. The Lord Commander waits for you.”

The three of them, the squire, Ser Yronwood and him rushed back.

The trek back to the castle was one of the most anguishing events in his life. More and more images appeared as he climbed the more than two hundred steps that led him to the letter. Baela being executed, was the most prominent image on his mind but there was also Rhaena getting taken as a hostage; Rhaena perishing in a fire in the Eyrie, and Rhaena getting stabbed by an assassin. And then like a fire that exploded in his mind, he also saw his grandsire Corlys tortured for failing to get him to go to King’s Landing. He saw the Stark and Tully armies defeated and their leaders hung from the walls of the Red Keep.

When they arrived to the room that Ser Goode had taken as his office, Joffrey did not wait to be announced by the squire and simply barged in.

“What is it?! Did something happen?!” he yelled as soon as he got in.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Ser Yronwood giving him a chastening stare.

“Here my prince,” said Ser Goode giving him a sealed scroll. “Since it was for the queen, I dared not open it.”

Joffrey took only a moment to examine the seal, a jumping fish, before quickly breaking it. He read the message as fast as he could, a missive from the young Lord Kermit Tully, and then gave it back to Ser Goode who in turn passed it to Ser Yronwood.

“Good news then. The crownlands campaign goes well it would seem.”

Joffrey was not as sure as Ser Goode. “They said that they couldn’t retake Tumbleton.” He was worried, because he had no idea how much of the Hightower host remained.

Good riddance for Lord Grover’s death, however. Daemon had said that he hadn’t wanted to declare for his mother and, at least according to Lord Kermit, his great-grandson, the Riverlands had joined the fight at the behest of Addam.

His mother had really not been fair to poor Ser Addam who had not only lost his life in her name, but also rallied an army anew for her.

“I don’t think Tumbleton is of much importance, my prince. What I find most reassuring is that they will march to the capital after regrouping in Riverrun. We should join them, or send as many men as we can!” said Ser Goode.

He did not have to turn to Ser Yronwood to know there was disapproval in his face and for once he agreed with the good Ser. “No, we shan’t. The queen is in no condition to travel anywhere and I too must remain here by her side until she recovers enough for me to take my leave. We don’t have enough knights to even rescind of one.”

Deep inside of him, he knew it to be the best of choices even though he longed to fight and to be useful for once.

What would the men say of him after the war ended? If his mother’s forces managed to win, they would call him ‘The hidden prince’ or ‘The scared boy’. And yet, he could not in good conscience leave his mother to die far away from her. He could imagine the heartbreak he would inflict of her if she was to wake up and find him long taken by the Stanger.

Besides, he had no illusions any more on his probable contributions to any fight. Could he ride a dragon to battle, he would have been long gone to burn the Hightower army. He could even have helped Addam and mayhaps avoided his death. Alas, it was not to be, so remain hidden like a craven he would.

“Is there anything else we can do to help? Could I try to convince someone like Addam did?” he wondered out loud.

The two queensguards hesitated but seemed eager to offer advice and so they moved to the chamber of the painted table and called the rest of their brothers and the late Maester Gerardys’ two aides. With all the men around the table, Joffrey felt a pang of nostalgia as it was so similar to his mother’s council meetings only none of his family members were at his side, and, instead of the rightful queen, it was him having to preside over the table.

“We should write to the Eyrie and tell Lady Jeyne what Lord Tully just communicated,” said ser Goode breaking the silence. “Mayhaps, letters to all the high lords telling them of the Queen’s survival may be a boost in morale for them.”

“Lady Jeyne will surely be happy to hear of her cousin’s survival. The Vale will always back the rightful queen,” said Ser Redfort a true and leal valeman to the end.

Joffrey nodded. “A great suggestion,” he said because his granddame would say that when she was pleased by someone’s words. “We do not know what sayings the greens have been spreading around. I could even send a raven to King’s Landing as a reply to my grandsire…”

“We should also write to Stockenworth, Rosby, Hayford and Duskendale. Their relationship with the crown is tepid at best and sour at worst but they are close to the capital and can join the Tully host on their march,” said Ser Darke, the only other Queensguard that had survived. “Same with Stonedance, Sharp Point and Claw Isle. The crownlands have from the beginning risen for our queen,” he hesitated and cleared his throat; Joffrey signaled him to continue. “Mayhaps… mayhaps a letter to Maidenpool with a promise to erase the decree of attainder would help us get back their men…”

Joffrey clenched his jaw but otherwise stopped himself from reacting. He had thought that the decree was sent because Lord Mooton had betrayed his mother, but everyone in the room was nodding their agreements with Ser Darke. Joffrey had seen how he had gotten them shelter at Duskendale and how knowledgeable he was of the politics in the Crownlands, so against his desires he too nodded.

“Indeed. Ser Drake, I shall require your counsel when writing to each house.”

The aides spoke about the need for sustenance on the road for the Tullys and the Starks so he was to ask about provisions on his letter to Lady Arryn.

They discussed at large what to do with the Velaryon fleet but arrived at no conclusion. No one else had a fleet as large, besides the Redwynes who were deep in the Hightowers pockets. He could ask for the ships of his vassal houses, the Celtigars, Masseys, Brunes, Darklyns and Bar Emmons had a few to their name, but not even together they had enough not to get annihilated by the Velaryons. Mayhaps a letter to Alyn, but he did not have high hopes for Lord Corlys and Baela were still in King’s Landing. Still he would ask for the available vessels they had and speak to Lady Arryn about her Gulltown fleet.

If only they had a dragon at their disposal… He let his mind wander about how he would fly with Tyraxes and end the Velaryon blockade, recently turned against them, if he had a dragon. Unless…

Unless…

Ser Yronwood cleared his throat and gave him a look that meant he was going to say something Joffrey was not going to like. The rest of the Queensguard was looking at Ser Yronwood expectantly, so he obviously had been chosen as the spokesperson. “My prince should write to your future good family. They have a lot of coin and ships in White Harbor and I would bet my hand that they are the most eager to see you sit on the throne at the end of this.”

He couldn’t stop the grimace in his face from telling all people present how much he was not looking forward to that event, but still he asked the servants to bring ink and parchment and sat to write.

Once he had finished his ‘official’ letters he absconded to his room and started to think on how to best accomplish the little project he had in mind.

He might be way over his head in this quest of his. And that was truly saying something because ever since he was put in charge, Jofrey was most unqualified to deal with anything that came his way.

He summoned Aegon.

“Brother, I need you to write a letter in High Valyrian to Rhaena.”

His brother frowned. “Why. You should just write her in common.”

What a terrible moment to start being a petulant child. “I don’t want other people to read it, obviously. I could write it phonetically but written Valyrian is much harder to decipher than spoken, in case it falls on the wrong hands. I am shit at glyphs.” He got closer and dragged his brother towards his desk. “Write,” he commanded.

With a huff, Aegon took a quill and a parchment and looked at Joffrey expectantly. He deflated a little when he saw Ser Yronwood behind Joffrey.

“Dear Rhaena,” he started dictating in Valyrian. “Mother fucked up…”

Aegon turned to him scandalized. “I cannot write that!”

He counted to ten and held in the impulse to smack his brother. “Yes, you can. Now continue: We need all the valemen we can muster to take King’s Landing again. The North and the Riverlands will march there soon and they shall confront what is left of the usurper’s army. Most of the Reach forces were defeated already….”

“How do I write Reach? Do you know the glyph?”

Joffrey did not. “No. How did you write the rest of the names then?”

His brother rolled his eyes and sighed. How cheeky he had become! “I did a literal translation, North and Riverlands is self-explanatory. But… I don’t know what a Reach is?”

Joffrey pondered it for a moment and cursed himself for not being more diligent in his Valyrian studies. Jace had tried to drag him to have their lessons together, but Joffrey had thought it a useless endeavor for him; he was fluent and had a good pronunciation, though never as good as Luke who could roll his r’s like a champion nor as good as Baela who cursed in it as if it was her first language. His level was more than adequate but he could not form complex sentences and always had trouble with genitives.

“It is the straight part of a river.” Something occurred to him at that moment. “I guess if you just put ‘straight river’, Rhaena will get it through context? The little ‘h’ and ‘w’ glyphs.”

Aegon gave him an absolutely scathing look but complied with his request.

He continued dictating the letter and lowered his voice at the end. “I have a personal favor to ask of you…”

...

And then as if all the gods had answered his prayers, on the last day of the year, his mother was lucid for the whole day.

Chapter Text

It was past the middle of the year that found Joffrey once more in his grandsire’s rooms for luncheon. Winter had been raging for a year but they had had two mild weathered moons that allowed them to freely enjoy the outdoors with the appropriate clothing.

His grandsire was doubtlessly one of the more fearsome men in the seven kingdoms. Certainly, the only one that participated in the council of both sides of the war and the only one daring enough to have changed sides, at least twice, and in spite of all the betraying, he had still managed to keep his life. But, despite his superlative (and treasonous) achievements, he was getting older and his knees did not enjoy the cold outside to let him venture out every day.

His grandsire and his mother had reached a tentative peace, brokered by the dragon twins who were fond of the two adults and did not want their family to become even smaller.

If it was up to Joffrey, the old man would have lost his head alongside the rest of the traitors. However, his mother had asked him to play nice and to be as conciliatory as he could, whatever that meant. He was also made aware by Ser Yronwood that: One, his mother possession of the throne was tenuous at best as the people in King’s Landing still remembered the riots; two, the Velaryons still controlled the realm’s biggest fleet; and lastly and most importantly if his grandsire decided to disinherit him or denounce him, he would be dragging his mother down to the gallows or at least to another war.

And so, he shared a meal with his grandsire at least once per week by himself and another two times with the twins in attendance.

Despite the bad blood between them, the slights bestowed on Joffrey when Alyn was named heir, and the knowledge that he was by far the least favorite grandchild blood related or not, his grandsire was intent on molding him into an acceptable prince. He would often give advice and share his thoughts not dissimilarly on what Ser Yronwood did, only with infinitely more tact.

That day in particular they had been going around the topic of governance and the future of the crown. It was one of the days where Joffrey had to count until one hundred in Valyrian to stop himself from being violent.

After a cutting comment from Joffrey, Lord Corlys sighed reaching for his cup. Joffrey did not remember him drinking as much before the war. And yet, those days he rarely saw his grandsire without a cup on his hand.

“She won’t like to hear this, and least of all if it comes from me. But she needs to remarry.”

He felt anger creep through his chest. How dare he! How dare he! Trying to sell his mother as if she was a mere bargaining chip and not the Queen. The fucking Queen!

He must not have been as successful in hiding his thoughts because his grandsire sighed.

“A rich man, and ideally one with no need for children and nothing to gain from this union.”

Joffrey could not help the sneer on his face. “Is this your way of volunteering, grandsire?

His grandsire gave him a look and then barked a laugh, amused. “Nothing further from the truth, I would be hanged before any wedding could take place. No my sweet child, I am the kind of man who only needs one wife in his life.”

Corlys had said that in earnest, so Joffrey had to move his eyes to the turquoise curtains that decorated his grandsire’s chambers to avoid rolling them in condescension. What a joke! As if he hadn’t quite publicly sired two children during his marriage to his granddame Rhaenys.

Once again he was not successful in masking his thoughts for Lord Corlys gave him a look . He wondered when he would stop needing to wear a mask; when he would become a man intimidating enough like his grandsire, one that could afford to wear his displeasure on his sleeve and who would always come on top despite his shifting loyalties. Was it the wealth that gave him that prerogative? Or perhaps was it the age and the wisdom accumulated from it. Joffrey did not find his grandsire a particularly wise man, but there must have been something as he still had his head on his shoulders and his mother still heeded his advice.

He was shortly dismissed afterwards. However, after that terrible conversation, his grandsire requested his presence almost daily for walks along the gardens and inner courtyards, murmuring softly his thoughts and assuring him again and again that he only had Joffrey’s best interests at heart for Joffrey was his last remaining grandson and he would need all the help in the midst of the court of vipers.

As was expected of the crown prince, he had become better at biting his tongue, and his grandsire gave him plenty of opportunities to practice that skill on each of their talks. Whenever the old man mentioned his love for Joffrey, he could not help but to think how the same man had not even waited for Luke’s mourning period to be over before rushing to legitimize his bastard sons with the express purpose of disinheriting Joffrey.

Despite this, the old man had the gall to say that he cared about legacies and names instead of blood. And yet, Joffrey did not even carry his name any longer; he had been anointed as a Targaryen in the same ceremony where he was named Heir.

Still, when he ascended the throne… If he ascended the throne , a small voice in his head told him as the future was still uncertain and enemies were aplenty. If that happened, he would be recorded in history as Leanor Velaryon’s son. He guessed that that was the only feasible thing for his grandsire right now; to be remembered as the grandfather of the king.

Despite all of that weighting on Joffrey’s heart, he still did his best to absorb any knowledge the old Sea Snake had deemed fit to impart to him. He had mentored Luke through his formative years and if Joffrey could be half as smart as his brother he would make half a decent king.

The topic most touched upon on their walks and meals, besides how Joffrey should comport himself as the Prince of Dragonstone and the knowledge he needed to gain for the position, was his mother’s need of a new marriage. Joffrey bristled whenever that was mentioned, so Lord Corlys always found ways to circumvent it and then return to it with pleasant talk interlaced with not so subtle jabs at the necessity of the endeavour.

On that first discussion they had had, his grandsire had explained that while the Realm might begrudgingly accept a woman on the Iron Throne, she needed a man ruling at her side as a tempering influence to be truly respected. After much thought, on a later day, Joffrey argued that his mother was a good ruler and that it had been her the tempering voice in her marriage to Daemon.

“Indeed that is so, my boy. But the Lords do not know that and they are mistrustful of change and need to be fed it in small bites. You and your brother are a boon to your Queen mother, a male heir to ensure that tradition is not completely overruled,” they were walking through the gardens and his grandsire made a stop to admire lilac flowers that were wilting as the days became colder. “However a boon you may be, you are only four-and-ten, and there must be a man-grown at your queen mother’s side.”

Their walk and several subsequent others went on with Lord Corlys naming every possible bachelor in the realm, and the advantages and inconveniences a match with them would entail. Despite the mummer show that his grandsire was playing for his sake, Joffrey knew he had a favorite candidate in mind and that his choice would upset his mother twice as much as it enraged Joffrey.

How dare he.

Still, he was eventually worn down; his defenses falling to a siege from a more experienced combatant on the verbal battlefield. He made a note to himself, to be more mindful of his endurance as people whispered that his other grandsire was weak to insidious talks, and that with enough and continued insistence he could be convinced to do almost anything. That made him a weak king.

His grandsire Corlys had long advised him against becoming a feeble king and had thoroughly lectured on the dangers of it.

“However the contrary is also dangerous as well, as an inflexible king can be nothing more than a tyrant and a zealot. The key lies in the balance between the two. Knowing when to cede to wise advice and where to remain firm against flatterers and easy solutions. And knowing when to compromise in imperfect solutions that give nonetheless the lesser losses.”

When he asked how he would know it he only got an enigmatic and useless: “You’ll learn through experience.”

He was only brave enough to ask once, his heart beating madly on his chest and his hands trembling slightly; a feeling he was more than familiar with at that point. “And what about my marriage? Would you not have me joined with Baela or Rhaena as it was our family’s wish to see our lines united?”

His grandsire gave him a long and searching look. Joffrey did not know what he was trying to find in his face, but he did his best to smooth his expression and clenched his teeth to avoid a frown. After seconds that felt like hours his grandsire sighed, another increasingly common event in their interactions, and continued walking.

“You shall marry the Manderly girl,” he answered with finality. “Her family has rushed to aid your mother time and again, going even above their liege Lord’s commands. Their people have bled for your cause and you cannot be seen as an oathbreaker so soon into your appointment as crown prince. Furthermore, the Queen is still in need of their coin and I am sure that they can be convinced to fund the reparations that are yet to come.”

“And yours? Is the Queen not in need of your coin as well?”

“The Queen shall always have mine as long as my heir is safe and you remain hers.”

...

Their family dinners had become a pale shadow of the ones they had once had in Drangonstone, boisterous and full of cheer; both harmonious and chaotic in a way only a loving family could be.

Nowadays the participants were only the Queen and her four surviving children. Sometimes Lord Corlys and Princess Jaehaera joined them, but it was always a tenser affair whenever they did.

His mother had not fully recovered her health. She needed more rest than before the ambush and could end up in a fever if a situation upset her enough. Being the Queen of a broken realm, upsetting situations arose with concerning assiduity.

Her children had similar uncheer to them. The only one who made any effort to keep conversations alive and to insert the rare joke was Rhaena, the one most untouched from the war’s cruelty.

Her twin on the other hand was all fire and rage and indignation, something Joffrey shared with her but, unlike Baela, he struggled to keep it inside and not let it show. Jace had once said that he and Baela were the ones most like their father Daemon, and Joffrey had scoffed at the time because he could not see it himself. Now he could agree on how true the statement was, as whenever Joffrey was affronted by an issue or a comment someone made in court, Baela was sure to feel the same and make sure everyone knew she was feeling so.

He could see the contrasting opinions of the courtiers regarding his two sisters and tried his best to emulate Rhaena all while keeping the fire tightly jailed in his chest.

Lastly, Aegon had always been a solemn boy but had turned even more sullen with the moons that had passed. He misliked his engagement to Jaehaera and didn’t hesitate to tell his mother his thoughts on marrying the usurper’s sole remaining child, the peace of the realm be damned. He had also acquired a fear of dragons after the consecutive death of his and the incident with Sunfyre and Syrax so he constantly clashed with Rhaena whenever she carried hers.

He felt for all three of his siblings.

He too had nightmares of Dragonstone’s beach. On some of them his mother bled to death as he could only watch. On others Sunfyre burned his mother and then proceeded to eat her in front of them. And on the worst ones, Syrax defeated the other dragon but their mother still died so in her grief the she-dragon attacked Aegon in front of him and he could never save his little brother.

However mistrustful he had become of his mother’s dragon, he still pitied Rhaena. She had waited so long to get one, had seen everyone be celebrated for their bonds and play a part in the conflict while she remained banished in the Vale. And by the time she managed to hatch one it was too late because the war was over and most of their family was dead and the living ones were too busy mourning their dragons to truly partake in her joy.

...

The evening Lord Corlys had chosen to share his thoughts on the need of a king consort to the Queen, was the worst dinner in his life, and that was including that fateful first-day-of-the-year family dinner that ended up in a brawl. [A3]  It was strange to think that only four years had passed since then when so much had changed.

When his mother, the Queen, heard the name Lord Corlys had put forward, she exploded in rage and threw her golden cup at his grandsire. While she didn’t hit him, she only narrowly missed him, making the cup bounce on the wall and clatter loudly making all his siblings flinch at the sound.

Baela was the first to react immediately jumping from her seat. “A traitor that would have my brothers gelded and then killed!” she yelled at their grandsire; his mother’s irate face became one of horror.

“And with such a monstrous visage!” added Rhaena scandalised.

“You would have all the power given back to the usurper’s people!” said Aegon, his face as sour as when he was told of his own engagement.

Lord Corlys face was set on stone as it usually was these days when dealing with courtly matters. Still Joffrey could read the disdain he had for his mother, one that his grandsire did not even bother to hide.

“Have we managed to recover the treasury from the Iron Bank then? Because if not, unless someone lays siege to Oldtown on dragonback I don’t see us getting through the winter.”

His mother’s face became a mirror of Aegon’s. “A pardon will suffice to get the crown’s coin back.”

His grandsire had spoken at length about the issue with the coffers and how it had exploded into revolts. The truth was, the coffers were as empty as they were when they had fled to Dragonstone; his uncle the usurper had not had the time to recall it before the city was besieged by the Rivermen and Lord Stark’s host. And now his mother couldn’t even count on the dead Lord Celtigar for a loan. The Velaryons had been paying for everything so far, but his grandsire’s pockets and patience were both less plentiful than before the war.

His mother knew all of this and a shadow passed on her face before she sat down.

“Shall I be sold like a broodmare then,” she said bitterly.

“Hardly one, for he was gelded on your command!”

His mother gasped and denied it. “I never gave such an order…”

“A word from the prince consort might as well be the word of the queen!”

Their voices kept on increasing their volume so Joffrey intervened before it escalated any further.

“Which is why we must choose carefully the new royal consort.”

His mother and three siblings turned to him, betrayal on their faces.

“My dear boy you cannot possibly mean for me to marry that… that man!” said his mother with a tint of desperation.

He lowered his eyes to his mostly untouched food and mulled his words before answering. “The realm is divided, mother. As grandsire pointed out, our coffers are empty. Discontent runs rampant in the city. The Riverlands are in disarray at best and burnt at their worst. The army of the Reach, however, is mostly intact, and while we have Lord Stark and his men still here they are more than eager to return home as winter is already upon us.” He took a deep breath and braved his mother’s eyes. “You told me before that we all have our part to play in maintaining the stability of the realm and I mislike as much as you that it comes at the cost of a marriage.”

He could see her eyes becoming damp and her fingers fretted with the ring that Joffrey’s step-father had given her. “Is this about your engagement? If you are truly displeased with it…”

“I am not displeased with my choice of bride, though I have yet to see her. I will fulfill my duty and I will play my part in helping your reign, mother. As it is my duty.”

He held her gaze unblinkingly for a moment that stretched for too long. Finally, his mother shuddered, closing her eyes and falling back onto her seat. The fight left her entirely and she just murmured in defeat: “very well.”

With his mother’s assent it was Aegon who in turn got up from his seat making a scraping noise and attracting his family’s looks. He fulminated them with his regard, something that would be more intimidating had Aegon not been still the shortest still from all the siblings despite being tall for his age. Without any other word, he stormed out of the chamber.

Not long after, Baela too was escorted out like a misbehaving child when she raged that the mourning period for her father was far from over. Only he and Rhaena remained in a twisted rehash of their time in the Vale where they only had each other for support against the blows that were being dealt to their family.

Once the commotion died down his grandsire cleared his throat and asked a serving girl to refill his cup and to serve a new one to the Queen, who instantly drank it as soon as it was placed in front of her.

“We would of course be asking for a royal dowry as it is appropriate for a future king consort,” said Lord Corlys, resuming the conversation.

Rhaena perked at that. “So, of course the Lannisters would give back the crown’s share as well? Would he bring with himself the part stored in the Iron Bank? Oldtown would be pressured to return theirs too, once the Reach remains the only region with green influence.”

Their grandsire assented at her.

 “And no consummation would be needed,” said Rhaena perkily listing all the good things she could think of the union.

“No consummation needed,” repeated their grandsire.

While they conversed his mother and Joffrey held their sights together. His mother's eyes were red, and he could feel his own becoming moist too. His mother sniffled and put a hand on top of his trembling one.

“We would also need to enact certain… provisions,” she said, regaining her queenly tone.

Both Rhaena and their grandsire gave her their full attention.

“The consort cannot have more say than the Heir to the Throne. In case of disagreement and indisposition of the monarch, the Heir’s will must prevail.” She asked for her cup to be refilled once again and drank for it before continuing. “In case of the monarch’s indisposition, the Hand shall not make any ruling without the Heir’s approval. And, in the same vein, the hand cannot change the Heir without the monarch’s approval. We will not have another Otto play at kingmaker.”

He could feel his mother squeezing his hand and a stray tear finally escaped him.

Rhaena hummed. “Then a rule ought to be put in place that the hand and the consort cannot hail from the same house nor have blood or marriage relations.”

“You are right, my clever girl.” Said his mother, her red eyes full of pride while motioning her to continue.

“And to be most thorough, then the same ought to apply to the captain of the Queensguard. Could you imagine what would have happened had Ser Gwayne held that position?”

Joffrey could, he banished the dark thought from his mind. “Not so different from having Cole.”

His grandsire turned to look at him. “Anything you would wish to add, my prince?”

He hadn’t thought of anything clever to say. All he could come up with was silly things like ‘No Hightowers in positions of power again’ or ‘the lords who betray the true monarch should die’. He scrambled for a moment, trying to come with something useful but turned out empty. “I think Rhaena has most points covered.” He tried to smile at her, but ended up with something closer to a grimace.

“Very well. My queen, I shall redact your wishes and present them to the small council in the morrow along with the marriage proposal we’ve agreed upon.”

Once Lord Corlys and Rhaena had excused themselves Joffrey followed his mother to her chambers only to find a crying Aegon already there. He kissed his mother’s hand and left her to console his little brother, not only had he had less time than Joffrey to get used to the idea of a new man thrust into their lives, but was to have his father unceremoniously replaced.

He closed the door to his mother’s rooms and fought against the impulse to hit the wood until he arrived into his chambers and did so till his knuckles were bloody.

...

The Lady Lannister agreed to both dowry and the marriage proposal stipulated by the crown, requesting in turn the crown’s aid against the raids from Ironborn.

And so, the remaining members of the royal family found themselves standing in the courtyard, waiting for the new King Consort to arrive from Essos. All of them were wearing the colors of House Targaryen in a rare display of color coordination. Even Jaehaera, standing to Aegon’s right, had been draped with a red gown foregoing her usual black. 

When Lord Tyland descended from the carriage, dressed in resplendent golden and red, both Rhaena and Aegon gasped. Joffrey too felt himself inhaling sharply because while he knew the Lord had been maimed, he did not know the extent of the damage. He was missing one ear, and his face was full of scars from lacerations, with half of it sporting burns. But, most importantly, he was blinded and relied on a page and a cane to walk.

His mother’s face was stony, so she at least must have known.

The Lord bowed to the Queen and then to Joffrey and one last time to the whole family.

“It gladdens my heart to see you fare well Lord Tyland,” said his mother as a greeting both her face and her tone betraying no emotion.

Lord Tyland gave her a wry smile. “I wish I could say the same, your Grace. Sadly, I am no longer able to bask in your lovely countenance.”

Her mother did not reply but offered her arm to escort her future groom to his chambers.

They, that is Lord Corlys and Lady Johanna, had agreed on a moon of courtship. There was no need to pretend it was anything but a marriage of convenience and they needed to rush for Joffrey’s own union, which would be celebrated a moon afterwards.

It was agreed, this time by the Queen and her future consort, that theirs was to be a small affair and most of the budget would be allocated to the Prince of Dragonstone and his bride. This was done to the displeasure of the Lady Johanna who wished for a grand event for her house.

The days that preceded his mother’s union were a flurry of activity and flew by in the blink of an eye.

He spent the first sennight trailing after Baela and Rhaena as they helped his mother with the preparations. Baela was not good at it and Joffrey was even worse, neither seeing any difference in the texture of the fabrics Rhaena kept showing them for the decoration. And, after he accidentally spilled some wine on a tablecloth, Rhaena banished him to be a food taster with Aegon and his little companion, Gaemon. The two children were simply gobbling deserts and then communicating their verdict to the pastry chef. Joffrey resigned himself to his new task and set to try the blood orange cake in front of him, content to see his brother act like a child for once.

When he was not indulging in sweets, he spent most of his time in the training yard trying his best to avoid Torrhen Manderly who had returned to King’s Landing as soon as the queen had been given the city by the wolf from the north. While Joffrey would have in any other circumstances appreciated the man’s direct manner of speech, Torrhen and Alyn had both acquired an enmity for each other and Joffrey would not be made to choose between his future good-brother and his legal half-brother and heir to the house of his Lord father.

While clever, Lord Manderly was not a physically inclined person, so Joffrey was content enough to spend his afternoon beating straw dummies, sparring with the young Lords from the Riverlands or even being beaten down by members of the Queensguard who seemed happy enough to teach a lesson to their prince. The one happiest to do so was Ser Gyles who, not only delighted in trashing Joffrey again and again in the excuse of training, but did so while running his mouth with the most candid commentary on Joffrey’s abilities.

He ought to have achieved some satisfaction from managing to pour his frustration and aggression on either the dummies of the Queensguard, but nothing quite seemed to quell his heart for he often had restless nights where dread overtook him.

It all came to a peak a few days later where the entirety of the royal family with Lord Lannister included, despite not yet being officially married into it, and half of the court stood in welcome at the harbor for Joffrey’s Manderly bride. For that reception they had once again donned the Targaryen black and red, but all three of Lord Corlys’ grandchildren wore a piece of blue clothing and penannular seahorse brooches holding their Targaryen emblazoned capes. Another difference from the previous reception, was their positioning, with Joffrey at his mother’s right and a brooding Aegon to her left. Next to each of them was one of the twins, Jaehaera having been excused from the event. Lord Corlys and Lord Lannister closed the group on each side.

His Manderly bride and her family had wanted to be present for the Queen’s wedding, or so had Lord Corlys said. Mushroom had been less kind and claimed that they were in a rush to tie Joffrey down lest his mother decided on a more profitable engagement for her heir. As such, the ship that would bring his bride to be had been hastily re-christened as ‘The Black Queen’ in a further attempt to both honor his mother and get on her good graces.

The Manderly party arrived on a war galley, one of the biggest Joffrey had seen, and Mushroom did a lewd joke on the size of a ship and what the Lord who commissioned might be compensating for. Rhaena shushed him quickly, signaling to Torrhen Manderly, standing just beside the royal family. Mushroom, however, had that face that promised mischief and started a story on his Manderly-bride-to-be, before the Queen herself stopped him with a sharp: “Enough!”

Once the galley had fully docked, and some twenty guards armed with tridents had descended, his good-father to be, Lord Desmond Manderly, descended from the boat. He was a corpulent man, his hair light-brown peppered with white. He wore a heavy blue-green cape over his blue-green tunic. On his arm was a young girl, almost as tall as he was with long honey colored hair and big frightened eyes of the same color; her dress was the same shade of blue-green as her father’s. The only green on their clothes was in the hair and beard of their house blazon, engraved in both of their chests. A few steps behind them was another big man, younger than the lord and he too wore the merman on his chest. He could be no one but the eldest son of house Manderly. Six other ladies, dressed in sea green, closed the newcomers’ party.

As they approached the royal committee, more and more people kept on descending from the ship. Joffrey could see the blazons for houses Cerwyn, Glover and Locke. There were two women wearing Stark colors and a few lords in orange but he could not tell whether they were from House Hornwood or Umber. He saw a yellow blazon with green figures and he thought he had also seen a bear in a lady’s cape but his sister interrupted his gazing with an elbow to his ribs.

“I heard that half of the northern nobles that have arrived with your good-family did so in a rush and could not pack appropriately for their stay. Still, better than a month on horseback through the Kingsroad,” said Baela in a mock whisper.

Their grandsire chastised her with a look and then his eyes passed onto Joffrey, expectant. “Their coin will certainly be welcomed by Kingslanding’s seamstresses. A boon for us all in these trying times,” he managed and his grandsire seemed satisfied with his reply.

The Lord of White Harbor and his children approached the royal party and bowed deeply to the Queen.

“Lord Manderly, it gladdens my heart to see you arrive safely from your voyage,” said his mother offering her hand to the Lord who proceeded to kiss one of her rings.

“My queen. It is my deepest pleasure to finally be in your presence. You already know my son Medrick. May I introduce my youngest daughter, the pearl of White Harbor and the dearest thing to my heart,” his daughter bowed awkwardly at the introduction. “Willemina, please extend your regards to her grace.”

“My queen, it is my blessing to meet you,” she said in a small voice.

Joffrey’s mother smiled her kindest smile and gestured for them to rise. “Ser Medrick has been a most loyal knight in my service and I hold nothing but the highest regard for his accomplishments.” Her eyes passed the knight and turned to her future good-daughter. “My dear, you are the loveliest lady I have ever come upon and I rejoice that you and your kin have managed to arrive in time for my nuptials.” She turned to Joffrey and put her palm up so he could rest his own on top of hers. They had practiced that moment so Joffrey took a step forward and, with his hand on his mother’s he inclined his head to Lord Manderly and bowed deeply for his future bride. “I am pleased to introduce my son and heir, the Prince of Dragonstone, Joffrey Targaryen.”

Lord Manderly and his children bowed to him.

“It is my pleasure to set my sight on you, my prince. You are the vivid image of her grace, our queen.”

Joffrey struggled to keep his face devoid of a reaction and went forward with the reply that his mother and Lord Corlys had scripted for him. “The pleasure is all mine, my Lord. I offer you my utmost thanks for bringing my beautiful betrothed.”

Before the Lord could reply, his mother reclaimed his attention. “I am sure you all must be tired, let us go inside so you can properly rest before tonight’s welcoming feast.”

His mother linked her arm with Lord Manderly’s offered one and Joffrey did the same for his Manderly bride, who took it after a few seconds of hesitation. Up close he realized that her eyes were not quite the same shade as her hair; her eyes were rich honey with some tints of green in them.

He could hear Baela and Rhaena whispering furiously through the whole way back into the keep but decided to ignore them as he continued his solemn and silent march with his bride-to-be. His mother had left half ways to let the Lord go with his sons, but Joffrey was expected to escort his bride-to-be until the end. When he finally made it to his rooms, his sisters were already there, waiting for him with matching grins on their faces. Aegon was also present, but he looked most miserable and Joffrey would bet a golden dragon that he had been dragged against his will.

...

The following days before the Queen’s wedding, were the most tiring of his life. He had daily walks with his betrothed, most of them silent or focused on safe topics like the weather or the upcoming celebrations. 

Rhaena had become his mother’s shadow whenever she was out of her official duties, while he himself had the same role the rest of the time. Until he was officially appointed Prince of Dragonstone in front of the Lords of the Realm, one day before his own wedding, he was not to partake in the Small Council meetings. The fact that it was not official, did not stop his mother referring to him as such or dissuade her from asking his opinion and whenever she heard petitions in the throne room.

His mother had also commissioned new clothes for both him and for herself, which they were to wear to her wedding, and another set for his own union.

Joffrey thought, not for the first time, how unsuited he was to the role he was playing and how tiring he found all the arrangements for any event. He had less and less patience as the days went by and had snapped at Baela, who snapped back at him; at Rhaena, who was helping him practice dancing and who answered with an annoyed command to start over from the middle; at Aegon, who had sulked away and not spoken to him in days and, most terribly, at Lady Manderly who had asked about the state of his outfit and who then had run away in tears instantly followed by one of her sisters who had the thankless task of chaperoning them on their dull walks.

He thought of Jace and how easily he would have dealt with everything that was running Joffrey over. He had been the perfect prince. Always regal. Always at ease. Always with a clever retort. Always ready to defend his family. Had Jace been there, he would be a reliable support to his mother and would be permitted to participate in any decision, having already reached his majority. He would have easily danced without needing extra lessons. Had he lived, Joffrey would have been free to roam about the keep and to train at his leisure; no one would expect anything but his presence at important events.

The night before the wedding, the four siblings sat to commiserate together and even let young Aegon partake in a cup of wine with his elder siblings. When Joffrey shared his thoughts and worries with them, the twins looked at each other and snorted at the same time.

“Jace held all the stress of all seven kingdoms in his princely shoulders,” said Baela taking a sip from her wine. “There was never a second where he didn’t think he was lacking in something. If there was a championship on being hard on oneself, Jace would have been crowned emperor.”

Rhaena laughed at that. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. He was also so bad at dancing! He would always step on me and then insist on spending the following sennight practicing, but he never got better!”

“Remember when he tried to translate a High Valyrian book in less than a moon and was incredibly frustrated because Luke was better than him at it?” said Baela, a fond smile on her face.

“No, oh gods! But I remember when he tried to take up archery because you were good at it, Baela,” said Rhaena, her smile mirroring her sister.

They both turned to Joffrey.

“Jace was amazing, and would have made a great king and we love him with all of our hearts, but he was also just a boy and not this perfect being who could do no wrong,” said Rhaena softly as she put her arm around Joffrey’s shoulder.

“Come on Joffs! You must have a funny Jace story, he ought to have messed up more than once in front of you!” said Baela.

Joffrey thought hard about it, trying to think of his brother as the boy who had inhabited his childhood and not as he remembered him; the perfect Prince of Dragonstone. He perked up when a memory came suddenly to him. “When you first came to Dragonstone, Jace once called Kepa ‘Demon’ to his face by mistake and then hid from him for a fortnight and couldn’t look him into his eyes for even longer. Me and Luke used to make the horn signs when Kepa’s head was turned and Jace would go red for years!”

That story got a general laugh and once they all calmed down he could hear some giggles mixed with sobs and turned to see Aegon, tears falling from his eyes while he continued to laugh at Joffrey’s story. He could see Baela holding herself back from reaching to comfort him, their younger brother had never been fond of being touched and would probably not appreciate any attempt at getting physical.

“I have another funny anecdote,” said Rhaena, taking the focus away from their youngest sibling. “There was a time where our parents were both out on dragonback and Viserys had a colic. He was so small and he was crying and he had obviously soiled himself. Luke tried taking his nappies and he ended up full of shit, the baby’s soiled clothes on the floor. I remember Jace berating Luke for not being more careful but then when he went to hold Viserys, Viserys decided it was the best moment to go at it again,” she said, holding back her laughter. “But then the best part was that Joffrey, you looked at them and went: ‘I guess this means you are both shit at it’,” said Rhaena, not managing to hold it anymore. Baela was howling.

Joffrey felt as if someone had doused cold water at him. “I don’t remember that.”

Waving a hand dismissively Rhaena said, “we were all pretty young back then; Vis was a new-born. But for the gods, Jace and Luke’s indignant faces will forever be imprinted in my mind. I think they tried to get back at you for the comment, but nothing they did was ever as good.”

Baela clapped. “Well done lil bro. You know, I have a funny Luke story that happened at Driftmark!”

And so they spend the rest of the evening remembering their siblings and obliging in alcohol.

When they were brought in front of their Queen mother the morrow after, all of them sporting alcohol induced headaches, they were all grounded and sent to their rooms until the ceremony.

The ceremony was the small affair his mother had promised. He, as the eldest of their family, walked the Queen to her groom, and stayed by her side through the ceremony. The banquet afterwards was just as moderate while still retaining the dignity expected of the royal house.

Lord Tyland had insisted that instead of a lavish meal, that they used the coin to share food and drinks with the smallfolk and to give some alms in the name of the Queen for the festivities. Despite Joffrey’s distaste for the man and the union, even he could admit that the Lord’s idea was sound and that improving his mother’s image was paramount.

For the wedding banquet, the throne room had been filled with dining tables and decorated with black, red and gold fabrics in honor of the houses being joined. There was a huge tapestry hanging up from the throne’s wall of a black dragon and a lion bowing to each other that Rhaena had mysteriously procured from somewhere, refusing to name its origin and only giving a sly smile when asked.

Both the royal family and the groom’s family were sat on the high table. Joffrey at his mother’s right, and then Aegon, Jaehaera and the twins. To balance the amount of nieces on the Lannister side, Lord Corlys and Alyn had a place of honor next to Rhaena.

The food was as good as was expected from the monarch’s marriage feast. There was boar meat, pheasant in a sweet and lemony sauce and plenty of fishes in sour cream and cumin, pepper and other spices. Joffrey had tried one with a sauce that tasted like nuts and it was simply divine. Vegetables were served aplenty and the bread was freshly baked and smelled wonderful. Wild berries, grapes and cherries were dipped in honey and scattered in small dishes through the tables.

Joffrey spent most of the feast gorging himself on food until his mother gave him a very pointed look and then signaled to his betrothed. He reluctantly stood up and asked his Lady Manderly for dance, which she obliged without meeting his eyes. They danced silently for three songs until his sister took pity on him and rescued him.

“Those dances were the most painful I have ever seen in my life,” said Rhaena, her feet light despite having been on the dance floor since the music started. “I thought you were pleased with the match?”

They separated, turned and he didn’t have a chance to reply until a crossing and another turn had taken place. “I did, and I am. Courtly matters continue to be a struggle for me, and I fear the Lady finds them as daunting as I do.”

Rhaena twirled her dress’ skirts and came closer to him for the next step in the dance where they would touch palms and move a few steps in synchrony. “I have heard that the sweet Lady Manderly was not expected to get a great match, having three elder sisters, and was allowed to be lax on her studies. It must indeed be daunting to go from not expecting to manage even a keep to having the Seven Kingdoms under thee.” She gave him a knowing smile. “I find this story familiar; mayhaps this too brings someone else to mind.”

“Oh, fuck off!” he said and returned to his seat after the song was over, not wanting to leave himself an easy target for over enthusiastic ladies and having already danced the exact amount of songs that were appropriate for a courting couple.

On his return, his mother’s seat was empty due to her having gone to speak with the Lady of the Vale in hushed tones. His head lifted involuntarily at the sight, suddenly very curious to know what his mother and her kinswoman were discussing; apple tart forgotten in his hand.

He looked for a few minutes as the conversation went back and forth, his mother looking more and more displeased as it went on, when he heard someone clearing their throats to his left. He turned slightly only to find that despite calling for him, Lord Tyland was turned away, his serene eyes looking in front towards the dance floor.

He immediately felt anger at the slight.

“Are you having a good time, my prince?” asked his new step-father without looking at him.

Joffrey’s mood soured even further. “As good as one can be on this sort of celebration, Your Grace.” If nothing else, both his mother and Lord Corlys had instilled in all six of them the importance of speaking to the new consort with the appropriate respect and by the correct title. For once it had not been Joffrey who had all the elders’ eyes on him in warning, but Aegon, who hadn’t said a word since the festivities had begun and who was looking ahead with such intensity that Joffrey could have expected the hall to spontaneously combust.

Instead of getting affronted by Joffrey’s jab, Lord Tyland smiled lopsidedly. “Indeed; it is quite a thing, is it not? I used to very much enjoy these bustling receptions, but old age has found me more and more wanting to indulge in more tranquil affairs.”

“Hardly old, Your Grace.” He winced at his own reply and cursed his own lack of eloquence. They were all under very strict orders to end a conversation with Lord Tyland only at his leave, lest the people of the Westerlands thought their Lord was being slighted.

He got another lopsided smile. “Last time I checked I was quite nearing my forty name day. I dare say that is hardly considered young. Although there are plenty of men that find themselves beginning fatherhood at this age, I suppose I could say I have them all beaten in virtue of acquiring four children in one go.”

Joffrey didn’t know whether he was being teased or mocked or another equally insulting thing that he could not read. He put a glazed pear in his mouth to stop himself from saying something he may regret; or worse, something that would get him in trouble with his mother. He couldn’t think of an appropriate reply so remained there in silence with his fists hidden under the table, even as Aegon and Jaehaera said their goodbyes bowing to the groom and then to the Queen and excused themselves from the evening.

Lord Tyland just hummed at his silence; seemingly in a good mood from the festivities. And why shouldn’t he, he had just achieved the highest possible position in the realm for a man not born in the Targaryen house. Something for which he was completely undeserving in Joffrey’s opinion.

“I was told the Queen has the loveliest dress today. Would you be kind enough to describe it to me?”

Joffrey frowned and then moved his eyes towards his mother dancing with Lord Stark. He had not paid much attention to his mother’s attire, or his own for that matter; and had no opinion of it besides the fact that they were both dressed in Targaryen colors.

“She is wearing our House colors. Her dress is black, but the front and the skirts are red. There is a golden dragon embroidered in her front, that goes from her right hip to her left shoulder,” he squinted trying to catch the details of her attire. “There seems to be a black dragon intertwined with the golden one.”

“And her jewelry?”

He shrugged and then realized that the other couldn’t see him, remembered Lord Tyland was blind, and felt stupid for feeling offended. “I cannot see well from here. She is wearing the Conqueror’s crown. Ah, she has a golden necklace with black and purple stones. And, she isn’t wearing as many rings as always, just one also with a dark stone.”

“What do you think the black dragon represents, my dear prince?”

Joffrey shrugged again and scratched his neck. “I would fathom it is our house’s sigil, only inverted due to the red of her dress...?” he ended up asking the Lord.

“Mayhaps, it is so.” Lord Tyland asked his cupbearer to pass him his wine. What an embarrassment must be to be unable to perform even the most basic of tasks unaided. Joffrey’s chest swelled with pity before he beat it down and let the anger return. “I was also aware that you had a new outfit prepared for this event. Could you indulge an old man again and describe yours?”

He looked at himself appraising his own clothing for the first time. The previous sennight, when the seamstress was making some adjustments on it, Joffrey’s mind had been elsewhere, thinking about his own betrothal and the restlessness of the realm. On that same morning, when he put on the outfit, he was dreading the wedding and paid no mind to his clothing. “My coat is black, with black pants. I have a red doublet with a purple dragon embroidered in it. He has darker eyes and horns.” He looked around himself for further detail and failed to notice anything significant. He then craned his neck to look at the collar he was wearing but it was too short for him to manage to see the details in it. He thought a bit more and then triumphantly took out his circlet. “I have a golden circlet with purple gems.”

Lord Tyland hummed. “From the sound of it, you make quite a dashing prince. Forgive my continuous questioning, I am trying to familiarize myself with Targaryen heraldry. Why is your dragon purple?”

“It represents my dragon, Tyraxes!” He said excitedly, “he was purple, and had dark horns and claws. I guess the jewelry is meant to represent him too…”

Just as he was talking he noticed that his mother’s dragon was not quite black but a darker shade from the one he had on his chest due to her dress being a deeper red.

His mother was wearing Syrax covering Tyraxes.

He could feel his eyes becoming moist against his will and closed them so that no one could see how close his tears were to falling.

...

The following day he broke his fast with his mother on her solar. She was wearing a loose chemise with an Arryn blue overcoat and looked like she had just woken up despite the sun being high up. Joffrey didn’t want to think about her wedding night, anyone’s wedding night , so he repeated in his mind that she must have been tired from the long event. He was certainly tired from it and wasn’t even the protagonist.

“The prince consort has asked me to visit him after noon for tea time,” said Joffrey between bites of his loaf of bread and butter. The table had a modest spread of cheese and some grapes but was a far cry from the luxurious meals that they had had before the war. His mother had wanted for them to live frugally as an example, at least until the worst of the winter ended. Joffrey, on whom luxuries were truly wasted and had once been compared of having the same taste for food as a pig, which was to say he ate anything indiscriminately, had no complaints on the variety.

His mother nodded, pleased about the meeting. He couldn’t help frowning slightly; she must have put him up for it, but the question was to what purpose?

He had never been good at being subtle like Luke, nor at maneuvering conversations like Jace, but thought that a direct question would probably be evaded by his mother. She had proven time and time again that she would not share vital information, that she would not trust him unless given no other choice.

“He also commented on your wedding gown, and how… honoring you were of me by wearing an embroidery of Tyraxes.” It was not his most cunning statement, but he counted progress on his quest to become a calm adult.

His mother blinked, surprised at his statement and gifted him one of her lovely smiles, the ones that light all of her face. “Just like you will be soon enough; I too was named heir at a young age after several…” She stopped herself and drank from her tea to regain her bearings. “My father however, did nothing afterwards to cement my position; to give me and mine security in our future, and that allowed all the vipers and the rats to crawl around the throne and to try to take what was mine by right. I will not do such a thing. You are my heir, and you will be king after me.” Her eyes narrowed and the fire and anger that were brought up in the war resurfaced and burnt as brightly as that morning when they got the news from Storm’s End. “I will do everything in my power to ensure that your position is set in stone. I will grant you any honor I can, any advantage that is my hand to give, any power I may bestow upon you.”

She looked at him with an intensity that was never directed his way before. “And, if necessary… If I am ever to wilt like my father did or if I become too old and bedridden like the conciliator before him, I will name you Prince Regent and abdicate in your favor to ensure the smoothest of transitions towards you.”

“Mother-” he started to say but stopped because he could not bring forward the bravery needed to tell her that he didn’t want the throne.

His mother was unaware of his inner turmoil. She took his hands and drew him closer to her. She then caressed his face and placed three kisses on his cheek.

“My fierce boy. My beautiful brave boy. You will rule after me. I will make sure of it.”

There was steel in her voice and Joffrey couldn’t say anything back

...

Lord Tyland welcomed him effusively to his solar, dressed impeccably in a thick black tunic trimmed with fur.

“Come my prince, please sit down. I am most happy that you accepted my invitation.”

He sat on the chair in front of his new stepfather.

Laenor Velaryon was a shade in his mind, made of stories more than memory. He would think of him and imagine a man alike his grandsire in looks, but with the jovial face his mother so described when prompted. Daemon on the other hand was all he had known as a father. He had taken Joffrey in, had raised him, taught him and guided him. He hadn’t always been there, but Joffrey could not remember a life before him.

He guessed Jace would have been wary when Daemon was first introduced to their family. Not unlike how he was feeling at that moment. His back was ramrod straight and he could feel the tension taut in his shoulders.

“I was told you had missed lunch due to training, so I have prepared some things for us to snack on.” The table was indeed full of plates with several sweets, some small breads and scattered cut fruits adorning two trays. “I hope these foods are to your liking.”

He did not favor sweets but remembered his mother wanted him there for a reason, so he filled his plate with pastries and fruits. The tea that was served tasted like apple and cinnamon and he drank it with a grimace.

“Thank you for your consideration, your grace. I will certainly enjoy the food. Baela always says that my tastes know no bounds as does my appetite.”

Lord Lannister chuckled. “You are a growing lad; you have to eat to regain your strength.”

The pleasantries continued while Joffrey wolfed down most of what was on top of the table. After a while he became impatient, he was never one for small talk and couldn’t help the bouncing of his leg nor his hand going to scratch at his neck.

“My apologies my prince, it seems I got carried away due to the pleasure of your presence,” he cleared his throat and raised his head to Joffrey. “As you well know, once Lady Tyrell and her son arrive, the ceremony naming you Prince of Dragonstone and the Lords swearing fealty will take place. Once you are officially named heir you will be part of the queen’s small council. The queen has expressed her worry that you have recently come into such a position and may feel ill at ease in the council chambers. To ease that, she has deemed necessary that you and I continue meeting for tea so that we can discuss the happenings of the realm and the reasoning behind any decisions taking place.”

Joffrey felt like someone was stabbing him, he felt utterly betrayed by his mother. Did she think him so incompetent that she appointed her new husband as Joffrey’s glorified nanny? Did she think he would not understand the council’s discussion without someone holding his hand afterwards?

The Lannister page that aided Lord Tyland looked worriedly at Joffrey and whined when Joffrey glared at him.

“Ah, this displeases you. I understand. This may seem like another imposition on your already full schedule. My apologies on that, but regretfully having little free time is how things will be for all of us for the foreseeable future.”

Joffrey scoffed at the diplomatic answer, held tightly to his fork and put a big piece of orange into his mouth to avoid answering.

“Hmmm, so that’s not it. Do you perhaps mislike being appointed to the council itself? No, that’s not it either. Is it your mother appointing this task onto yourself?” Joffrey flinched at that. “Or is it that it is I who will aid you?”

He banged his fist on the table, upset at being so transparent even to a blind man.

Lord Tyland waved at a point somewhere to his page’s left, but the boy got the message and quickly left the rooms taking all the other servants with him until Joffrey was alone with his new step-father.

“Your mother has led me to believe you will better enjoy a direct approach from me. I too disliked courtly round abouts when I was your age, but it is something you will have to bear with so long as you continue to live in the Red Keep. The sooner you master both your temper and your words, the more you will be able to protect your life and your mother’s,” said Lord Tyland kindly, but Joffrey was seething at his words. He stood up abruptly, throwing the chair down. “Sit down, my prince. Your mother fears for you. You have barely any allies at court but your future wife’s family, which you keep on avoiding. No one wants a new succession crisis, they want a strong heir and you must become it, whether you like it or not. If you want to protect your mother, that is.”

Breathing heavily, Joffrey picked his chair and collapsed onto it.

“Why not name Aegon then? Since I am so unsuited to it.”

Lord Tyland’s smile became kind again. “I never said unsuited, merely inexperienced. But replying to your question, you are by far the better choice. Winter is upon us and we need to rebuild what was destroyed in the war; the Realm wants peace. That is not to say that every Lord is content with how things are, and there are many looking for an opportunity, a weakness, to grab more power onto themselves. You are a man, almost grown, soon to be wedded; were something to happen to the queen then you would only need a short regency. By the time they appoint one, you would have already reached your majority. Adding to that, you have a powerful figure in your Velaryon grandsire who would be the obvious choice to help you until you are of age. Not so much with young Aegon, with five years left until adulthood to your one, and with no close adult family for either him or his bride.”

There was a moment of silence that stretched until Lord Tyland tried to drink from his empty cup. After a few seconds of hesitation, Joffrey got up and poured both cups and asked the servants outside for a new kettle.

“Thank you my prince,” said Lord Tyland as he sipped contentedly. “Your brother’s union will be a peace statement, however that is not to say that he is wanted on the throne. The shadows of the rogue prince and of your green uncles loom over the young couple, a reminder of the war, when the queen would like them out of the minds of the people.”

Joffrey had sat back down, which he regretted instantly because he longed to pace around the room like a caged animal. “And what do you get out of this?”

“I got a royal pardon. The title of prince consort. Good marriages for my five nieces and my nephew. But most importantly, the promise that your mother will not burn the Westerlands in retaliation for what happened during the war,” said the lord listing things nonchalantly. “And in return, I have promised to support her chosen heir to the best of my capabilities. Your mother and I may not be the fondest of couples, but you being the better choice of heir is something we agree on.” 

Neither of them said anything and the silence stretched into what seemed like eternity.

“Well then, with that out of the way shall we start with a brief introduction on the realm’s economy and the flow of coin?”

...

He, not for the first time, thought the throne was not worth all the ceremony it required.

What would he give to go back to being a lowly third son with nothing to inherit and with no responsibilities besides practicing with a sword and listening to droning maesters recount ancient stories. What would he not give to go back to the days in Dragonstone when he and his brothers would play games and study together and avoid responsibilities with a laugh.

He thought he had been busy before. But his mother’s wedding passed and he found himself standing tall in the throne room wherein every lord in the realm kneeled in front of him and swore obeisance to the Prince of Dragonstone. He had at least gotten Blackfyre for his troubles which had been a nice boon even if he was not yet strong enough to consistently lift the blade. His nerves had reached a peak when his mother had given him the sword and he had anxiously raised it, worried that he might drop it and that the cheers would turn into jeers. The drumming of his heart continued as his family knelt one by one, it descended to a normal level as the Lannisters knelt and died into utter boredom by the time it was the turn of the northern houses. The swearing lasted until well into the afternoon and once it ended Joffrey collapsed on his bed.

Two quick days later he was waiting on Visenya’s Hill for his Manderly bride, dressed in Targaryen regalia and, unexpectedly, Aegon the Conqueror’s crown. Someone must have explained to him why he was to wear the crown, but he had missed it, buried into all the indications and advice that precluded his wedding.

The ceremony too passed in a blur and then he was back at the Red Keep sitting in a dais with his bride on his left listening to people toasting to the realm, to his mother, and then to increasingly inappropriate things that he did his best to ignore.

While his princely manners, his dancing prowess and his practiced speech abandoned him, his ever voracious appetite did not, so Joffrey focused on the only thing he could still be good at and tried his best to enjoy the food as the rest of the celebration was a lost cause. He managed to complete a perfunctory dance with his new wife and one more with each of the twins before running away to his seat for dessert avoiding the marauding ladies.

Too soon after, his sisters got up and walked towards the dais. With all the supernatural power of an elder sister in the quest to embarrass a younger brother, they summoned the worst from all the ladies in the realm who pounced on him as if they were creatures brought from the seventh hell and he a poor innocent maiden at their complete mercy.

Between jeers and hoots they carried him towards his room. Several hands pulled at his clothing with more strength than he thought a lady ought to have; the worst and boldest of them was Baela who meticulously ripped every button and seam from his doublet and trousers.

A little behind his group was Lady Manderly looking terrified, but surrounded by her brothers and several northmen who ensured her disrobing was nowhere near as violent as Joffrey’s. And so, with one last whoop, Rhaena, the traitor, ripped his smallclothes as soon as they lowered him into his rooms.

Mostly naked and mortified and with a weeping bride dressed only in her undersilk, Joffrey woke up from his daze and looked around the leering lords and ladies which included his sisters and his Velaryon half-brother, but thankfully neither his mother nor his younger brother were in attendance. Aegon had suffered enough.

“Out,” he said while hardening his eyes towards the men who did not lift their eyes from his bride.

“But my prince, it is customary to…” started to say someone dressed in white with a purple circle on his chest; he would remember to inquire about the blazon and get even.

Joffrey did not let them finish and yelled as hard as he could: “OUT!”

All of them scurried away except for his sisters who left at a leisure pace. Rhaena gave him an encouraging smile while Baela rolled her eyes and muttered ‘ bo-ring’ in a sing-song voice.

He was still frowning when he turned back to his crying bride. He tried taking a step towards her but no sooner he started the movement, she flinched and wept even harder. Hesitating, he grabbed one of his cloaks and put it on top of her, fastening it at her neck while maintaining as much distance as he could for the task.

Under the candlelight her eyes were a pool of frightened black, her nose was as red as her puffy cheeks and she was shivering, whether from the cold or from being carried by strange men, Joffrey didn’t know.

Only once he was done covering her, he realized the state he was in and fumbled around for a shirt to wear.

Besides one very uncomfortable conversation with his mother the day before, Joffrey had no first-hand experience in marital duties. He had heard plenty about it whether from Rhaena’s indecent romance novels, from Luke’s also indecent pirate books, from gossip from the Dragonstone staff or from Daemon’s more rowdy commentary. However, there was a wide gap between theory and practice.

Daemon was supposed to take him to get some practice when he was older, as he had done to all of his elder siblings. The last ones to have been guided on such an outing, had been the twins. Daemon had waited for Baela to be visiting, to go out with his daughters to one of those mystical coming of age night outings that Joffrey was always too young to attend. He remembered when it had been Luke’s turn, his mother had not been pleased and had tried to protest saying that she had not even given her approval when Jace had been taken out, but Daemon had said with a wink: “It is a family tradition between us, my love,” and Joffrey’s mother had gotten angry but had not protested any further.

The war broke out before Joffrey’s turn came, so he remained uninitiated in the mysteries of the flesh.

When his bride had calmed slightly, with a hand between her tense shoulders, he guided her to the inner chamber where they would face their task. He sat her on one side of the bed as tenderly as he could and went about the room looking for what his mother had prepared for him. Once he found it, he climbed to the other side of the bed. Sitting on top of the feather mattress while looking at his bride, he was suddenly attacked by a memory of when he used to climb on Jace’s bed to beg for a nighttime story.

He took out the vial and showed it to his bride.

“Wha- what may that be, my prince.” Her voice was shaky but she kept looking at his hand as if hypnotized.

He opened the vial and sprinkled its contents on the sheets painting them with red spots. The day before, when she had requested his presence and shown him the vial, his mother had stressed that no matter what happened behind the room’s closed doors, preserving the Manderly’s honor was of utmost importance. Joffrey, who understood duty and how keeping up appearances was a big part of it, nodded and accepted the task given.

“This, my lady, is our reprieve for tonight. We fulfilled our part and now we ought to rest.”

She frowned and searched his face for something. “But… I thought…” she shuddered and then gave a shaky exhale, her hands fisted on the sheets and her honey hair fell into her face. “The marriage is not valid unless there is consummation.”

And yet, Joffrey did not think she wanted to consummate. He as well, did not particularly want to after such a tiring day, and even less with an unwilling partner.

“We did our duty. Everyone saw us being married by the High Septon, we exchanged vows, I gave you my cloak. The marriage is valid. I shall not go back on my word unless I were looking to bring shame to my mother and the crown, which I am not, so I shan’t. The day has been long for both of us and I would favor some rest.”

Despite him trying to convey it in his nicest, most reassuring voice, she was not convinced.

“And yet, my prince, our duty continues still…”

“As it shall for as long as we both draw breath.”

She grabbed the sheets even harder until her fists trembled. There was a silence that seemed to stretch into eternity before she spoke. “I cannot… I think… Please, we have to. Otherwise my fa-” she cut herself looking desperately at him. “Our houses, we need to tell them what happened tonight.”

He thought about it and seeing her earnest face, he took off the shirt he had just acquired.

Despite her words, she recoiled and almost fell from the bed.

Sighing, he put on back his shirt. “We will tell them what happened tonight. We disrobed, shared a bed as husband and wife and will provide the sheets as proof of our marriage. I tire of this, my lady,” he said, laying his head on a pillow. “Sleep. If it pleases you, we may try again in the morrow.”

Her eyes once again filled with tears. She lay down with her back to him and did not speak again for the rest of the night.

Joffrey spent the next few hours listening to her silently crying.

...

“I have been a husband for a day and I am already failing Rhaena,” he told his sister in despair. He rested his forehead over his crossed hands in the most dignified pose he could muster. It was either that or slinking to the floor and becoming one with the earth.

Rhaena offered him a commiserating look. “It surely cannot have been so bad.”

But it was that bad.

The morning after the fateful first night, he rose before his wife, quietly dressed, and left her with three servants who fretted over her and insisted she take a bath. Two other servants changed the bedding, another two prepared a bath and one last servant took the dirty sheets, no doubt to be presented to his mother and the small council.

Meanwhile, Joffrey paced outside his doors while he waited for his bride, so they could both go together to break their fast with their families.

Ser Gyles, ever his faithful shadow, gave him an unimpressed stare.

Despite being a member of the Queensguard and having only known Joffrey for less than two years, ser Gyles seemingly knew all of Joffrey’s lacking areas. All of his commentary was spot on and he had a deep insight on Joffrey’s psyche that sometimes surpassed even his mother.

He returned the stare. “I am waiting for my bride, so that we may arrive together.”

“Of course my prince,” he said mildly, but Joffrey could tell he was being judged.

“Waiting is the chivalrous thing to do.”

“Indeed it is, my prince.”

He didn’t like the answer so he continued his pacing while counting the stones that made the wall outside of his rooms.

When his bride finally came out, the sun had moved and was high in the sky. She arrived bathed and wearing a red dress with black embroidery in the form of dragon scales that went up her arms. Her golden hair was collected in a braid crown that he had once seen his aunt Helaena favor. She wore no cape and in Joffrey’s opinion her clothing was too light for the weather; despite being only early winter, the sky threatened to break into snow and the Red Keep was so big that warming it was a fruitless endeavor.

However, he could tell that his bride was displeased and so he swallowed down his clothing suggestions. He offered his arm and greeted her with a polite: “Well met, my lady.”

He got no response besides a short nod and so they did all the walk to the royal dining hall in silence.

They were announced as the prince and princess of Dragonstone at the door and, no sooner had they entered, his mother rose and walked to greet them. She held lady Manderly’s hands and her eyes shone when she spoke.

As soon as his mother released the lady, her sisters crowded around her and fretted about asking her questions in hushed voices, too low for Joffrey to hear what was being said.

His mother caught where his gaze was, and she sensed something amiss because she frowned. Joffrey did his best to smooth his expression and offered a bland smile and tried to convey with a look that they would discuss it later.

His mother gave an imperceptible nod and went to sit down at the head of the table with Lord Lannister at her left and Joffrey at her right, his new bride next to him. On the other side, directly in front of her, sat Lord Manderly in a place of honor and to his left and right sat his other four children, the ones not married to Joffrey.

“My dear, you look simply lovely in Targaryen colors,” his mother told his bride with a proud look on her eyes.

He could feel Baela trying her best not to roll her eyes. Their eyes met and Baela looked at his mother and then to his bride and then to the ceiling in supplication. He too had noticed that his mother was so happy that it might as well have been her who had gotten married to lady Manderly.

He disagreed with his mother’s assessment. Targaryen colors washed over his bride and she looked wan and pale. She looked her best in warm hues.

The meal was an awkward affair for Joffrey despite the buoyed mood of their families. His wife did not look at him if she could avoid it, ate little and answered as shortly as she could. He tried to overcompensate by offering her the best pieces of the fruits spread on the table and by being attentive to her, the way he remembered Daemon being with his mother. However, as the meal progressed, everyone could tell the tense mood that existed over the newlyweds. Ser Torrhen gave him a sharp look, which he then hid after Lord Manderly spoke to him.

Once the meal ended, his wife retired with her sisters and he did the same, following Rhaena to her rooms and collapsing on one of her satin upholstered armchairs.

“It is that bad. She hates me, I and don’t even know how that came about. She doesn’t enjoy my company, but gets angry when I give her leave,” he said waving his hands and getting more and more agitated as he spoke. “And her family. They all look at me and judge me. All of them, shrewd as they are big.”

His sister hummed and thought over his words while twirling a strand of silver hair on her fingers.

“They do seem like a clever bunch. Good as allies, dangerous as enemies.” She uncrossed her legs and leaned towards him. “But what about you. Are you happy with her? Does she please you?”

“She is pleasant enough, I would say. As for happiness, is it something any of us can achieve after all of our losses?”

Rhaena flinched as if slapped. But she recovered quickly. “And I would say that being candid with her and sharing your worries and thoughts may bring the two of you closer.”

He gave her his most unimpressed look. “For her to go and share my troubles with her sisters and then the entire court? More swords for our enemies? I am already a contentious prince. I have no need to feed the vipers!”

Rhaena inhaled sharply and grimaced. He felt pleasure at being able to wound her with his words. And as suddenly as the feeling came, it went away and was replaced by shame. He was so foolish. Rhaena had not known any other life but the idyllic court of Dragonstone and Pentos before that. She had never lived in the Red Keep and had never been forced to coexist with the greens in the same castle. She did not know the whispers and the treasonous plots sprouting whenever one turned their back.

He had been foolish to come to her. His sister was too kind, too trusting. She dreamed of a knightly husband, of a blissful romance. She could not suspect how vulnerable they were and how much he could not trust his bride lest he became like the previous king.

Knowing the conversation was a fruitless pursuit, he offered her his most apologetic smile. “I was too harsh. You are right dear sister; I shall try to communicate better with my wife. It shall doubtlessly bring us closer.”

Joffrey could tell he had not fooled her into thinking he would heed her advice.

With a raised eyebrow she replied. “Of course dear brother. I am always here if you need a friendly ear.” And, because Rhaena was the better person among them all, she held and squeezed his hand in silent support.