Merry Christmas, Brooke.
Joffrey is running, carelessly, arms flailing. He supposes that he might look like a stumbling ragdoll, but he really can't control his limbs at this point. His mind has lost control and his spine is taking the whip and the reins. It's a marvel that he managed to reign this long.
Leaves crunch below his feet, and with each crinkle he hears, a familiar scream echoes throughout the forest. It's his scream.
He doesn't know where he's running, but he has to keep going (he just knows it). Fuck, he's running so fast that the trees are now flying by him, and his arms are still swinging out like noodles, catching the bark at times. He tries to pull them back in.
Finally, he falls. He tumbles forward, face mushing into horse shit and dirt. When he raises his head, not out of his own accord, he sees Ned Stark, the butcher's boy, and a thousand soldiers, and Sansa Stark, and Tyrion, Oberyn Martell, Tywin, and...