Author's note: I'm gonna be honest, the reason I haven't updated in a few months is because I'm really not a fan of this chapter (This is probably my worse one yet). But before you get the urge to unfollow this story and ultimately me, I do have other chapters prewritten and ready but I do need help. I need feedback, the good and the bad (don't be a dick though). So read this chapter and tell what you think of it and what I need to work on.
It was a day of celebration. Of wine and music. After the tragedy of losing both the King and his "traitorous" hand: Eddard Stark, and the war that brewed over the borders of the city. The people of King's Landing needed a day of celebration to get their minds off of the potential peril and uncertainty and what better day to celebrate than the newly proclaimed King Joffrey's name day. However rather than throw a party or host a tourney where knights may have a chance to earn a purse of silver and gold, the day was taken by more death and fighting.
Many of the rich and highborn houses that occupied King's Landing came, in celebration of their king's day of birth. A majority of them expected more festivities and music within the grandeur that were the halls of the Red Keep. While there was wine and splendor within the arena itself, it was all rather dampened having to watch a poor unfortunate soul make their attempt to defeat the Hound in a spar. Watching as the man getting pushed to the edge by Clegane, was quite a pathetic sight to see. Even more so to watch as his shield was knocked out of his hands. Only to get forced over and fall into the pit with a bloody splat.
"Well struck," the boy king said to himself. "Well struck dog!" He shouted, thinking it to be a well-earned compliment to the burned man. Joffrey turned his attention away from the fallen man who was still bleeding out heavily on the ground, to his beloved Sansa.
"Did you like that?" He asked her. The poor girl tried her best not to seem so uncomfortable under Joffrey's gaze. It was obvious she did not enjoy the spectacle, but she cannot allow herself to make her disgust of the whole celebration known. He will know and he will try to use any to make her stay here in this wretched city any less enjoyable than before.
"It was well struck, Your Grace." She answered calmly. Swallowing down any insult she wanted to throw at him. She watches as two men drag the bloody body away, only for a small child to clean the scarlet trail of blood the dead man had left behind.
In another life, Sansa would have thought such an uncivilized display of watching another man die in a measly spar with nothing but a giant smile that could rival that of a cheerful child, were actions of the common people who behaved no better than the free folk that lived beyond the wall. Who knew that highborns could be so similar?
Any splendor and magnificent thought she had about King's Landing and becoming Joffrey's wife and queen died the day she saw her father on that chopping block for all the Seven Kingdoms could see. Beaten and broken, she saw nothing but the shell of her father die that day and she almost wished she had died with him. How she would have given anything to be back within the warm arms of her family at this moment - even Arya. The only way she was able to comfort herself in this miserable city, that was growing worse with every passing moment was to try to believe that the whole thing was nothing but a dream and that she might wake up at any moment. And as she went on, hour after hour, it had become more like a nightmare.
She was alone in the capitol, mocked and berated by those who believed her superior because of the actions taken by both her father and her brother. Stuck in a betrothal with a spoiled, sadistic boy who will make her life a living hell should he find any sort of pleasure from it. Sansa can do nothing but pray that either Robb or Stannis marches down onto the borders of the city and takes her back home to Winterfell, where she belongs. But she knows Joffrey would rather drive an arrow through her belly before either men could even think about riding south.
She believes herself to be a fool for thinking back to her dream of becoming the Queen and giving her beautiful golden-haired King, golden sons and daughters alike. All the things she said to make herself believe that Joffrey was kind and good, sounded like nothing more than lies. Beautiful, disgusting lies that led her here; In the middle of a lion's den.
"Lothor Brune, freerider in service of Lord Baelish." The announcer presented the next combatants, knocking Sansa out of her thoughts. Fantasies, would be the correct term. Going home would be nothing but a fantasy right now.
"Ser Dontos the Red of House Hollard." The announcer gestured to the opposite side of the other combatant, but no one came forward.
"Ser Dontos the Red of House Hollard!" The announcer yelled once again for the combatant to make his appearance. Was he not here? Did the prospect of fighting under the eyes of the King frightened the man so? It surely would for Sansa. Anything you do in this city seems to end in death.
As his name was going to be called again, a heavy-set man called out. "Here I am. Here I am!" As everyone watched the supposed "Dontos" clamber down the stone steps they could not help but look at the man strangely.
This is Ser Dontos the Red? This is who is going to fight? This fat man late to his own fight, his armor barely fastened on his body, dropping nearly everything in hands, and smelled of…
Wine?
"Sorry, your grace." Ser Dontos apologized profusely, as he struggled to fix his helmet atop his head. "My deepest apologies"
"Are you drunk?" Joffrey asked the man who clearly stunk of alcohol and looked as if he was going to trip over himself even as he stood still. "No. Uh, no, Your Grace. I had - I had two cups of wine," A blind and deaf man could tell that was an honest lie. Sansa could hear the other attendees laugh as the man tried to sober up for the sake of appearance in front of the King. She could not help but feel embarrassed for the man, but there was nothing she could do but pity him.
"Two cups? That's not much at all. Please have another cup." Joffrey waved his hand in the direction of the wooden barrels filled with the intoxicating scarlet liquid that had been prepared for the guests.
"Are you sure, Your Grace?"
"Yes, to celebrate my nameday."
Sansa began to tense as she watched Joffrey smile at the drunken man. It was too nice. Too friendly
"Have two, have as much as you like." Now all Sansa wanted to pray for this man's life. The possibilities of what Joffrey could do to this man were endless as her mind raced to any horrific acts that could be done. All for the sake of Joffrey's entertainment.
" I would be honored, Your Grace." As Ser Dontos bowed down, a cold-blooded smile took form on Joffrey's weasel-like face. Waving his hand towards Ser Meryn who, like the obedient dog he was, was prepared to serve his King however he wished.
"Ser Meryn, help Ser Dontos celebrate my name day. See that he drinks his fill."
With no hesitation Meryn along with two other men of the Kingsguard grabs Ser Dontos and begins dragging him towards an open area near the barrels of wine. Forcing the drunkard onto his knees. As the Kingsguard held Dontos down, they forced a funnel into his mouth only to pour the wine down the ivory funnel.
It really was quite the sight to see. To watch as a man sputter and gurgle as he slowly drowns from the sweet, dornish wine forced down his throat. The crowd that filled the arena watched with a wave of mixed reactions. Some were eager to see more, to see how long Ser Dontos would last, to what extent could a man immerse himself in that sweet, intoxicating red liquid before it fills his lungs and he finds himself dead.
Others were bored. They have traveled throughout the Seven Kingdoms, to see acts both horrific and pleasurable done on both low and highborn. Only to find themselves utterly uninterested in the doings within the kingdoms and traversed to Essos where feats of passion and torture were taken a step further. But alas work needed to be done. The coin and goods needed to be managed and the common folk needed to know their place. Finding themselves back within Westeros, watching as a fat drunkard choke on the finest wine. What a shame though, to waste fine wine on such a dull act.
And some were utterly horrified. To see as their king barely into his reign would carry out such a dreadful act against something so petty as arriving at an event drunk. But what could they do? He was king and if this was the punishment for being within his sight in such a repulsive fashion, what would he do to one who dared speak against him. Unfortunately, such a thought barely registered in Sansa's mind as she spoke out.
"You can't!" Almost immediately she held her tongue, but the damage was already done. Joffrey, with his smile quickly disappearing, lashed his head towards her as if she had struck a curse upon him.
"What did you say?" She dared challenge what he can and can't do? The daughter of a traitor wished to speak to him in such a way? The King, her husband to be. "Did you say I can't?"
Her mind raced to think of something to justify her actions. Despite her stay within this city of lions, Sansa at times would forget to cease from saying anything out of turn. She was the daughter of a traitor. Anything she says shall be seen as an insult to those she must speak to. So she chooses her words carefully.
"I only meant… it would be bad luck to kill a man on your name day." she justified, but it did not seem to persuade Joffrey not one bit.
Merely scoffing it off "What kind of stupid peasant's superstition…" Before Sansa had a chance to answer him, the Hound stepped in "The girl is right. What a man sows on his name day, he reaps all year."
Sansa would thank the man if she could. Only settling on a small smile, where Clegane answered her with indifference.
Joffrey contemplated. Despite the wise and courageous persona he wanted to believe he protrudes to the court. In reality he was an unsure coward with a large ego to match who did not want to take a chance upon superstition, even if it was a lie. But it was not like he knew that.
Feeling nothing but defeat that his fun was over, Joffrey waved his hand to his guards "Take him away. I'll have him killed tomorrow, the fool." He sighed
Watching as both the barrel of wine and the funnel was released from Ser Dontos' mouth. Joffrey did nothing but chuckle as he saw Dontos vomit a mixture of both blood and wine onto the ground, much to everyone's disgust of the entire display.
With added courage Sansa decided to take Joffrey's simple mind and ego a step further, " He is. A fool - you're so clever to see it. He'll make a much better fool than a knight. He doesn't deserve the mercy of a quick death" She could not bear in mind that she did nothing and let the man die. It had already occured before…
"Did you hear My Lady, Ser Dontos?"
The man was barely able to pick himself up off the ground, let alone nod to whatever the boy king was saying. "From this day, you'll be my new fool." Joffrey stood up in pride as he wiped away Dontos' knighthood only to replace it with that of the court fool.
Dontos did nothing but accept his fate by the order of the King. "Thank you, Your Grace." Bowing his head "And you, My Lady, thank you." It was not the best of circumstances but it was certainly better than a quick death.
As the guards took the newly minted fool away, a voice called out from the crowd. A voice Joffrey wished to have never had his ears hear from again.
"Beloved nephew."
Watching as his uncle Tyrion strolled through the crowd, with the people swiftly making way for him and his acquaintances filled Joffrey with such irritation no one would ever think possible.
"We looked for you on the battlefield."
As Tyrion made his way towards the royal tent, Joffrey could not help but allow his irritation for his imp of an uncle to grow. "But you were nowhere to be found." Sitting back down in his chair, Joffrey could not help but take note of how his uncle just simply poured himself a glass of wine from his cup.
"I've been here, ruling the kingdoms." the only answer, he could reply to his uncle. Unable to admit to anyone here that just the thought of being within the frontlines of the battlefield utterly frightens him to no end. "What a fine job you've done." Tyrion commented, taking note of watching men in iron armor beat each other senseless for the sake of entertainment was "essential" to ruling the kingdoms.
Tyrion turned to both Myrcella and Tommen, happy to see that his favored niece and nephew were content and well. Happier that neither Cersei's or Joffrey's petty and spiteful nature had yet to take root within the two of them.
"We heard you dead." Joffrey remarked bluntly, almost disappointed to hear that a sword had not been driven through his imp of an uncle yet. "I'm glad you're not dead." Sweet Myrcella, professed truthfully, genuinely happy to see Tyrion alive and well after hearing news of the capture of her uncle Jamie.
After taking a sip of wine Tyrion replied " Me, too, dear. Death is so boring, especially now with so much excitement in the world." Instantly taking note of Sansa's presence. "My Lady, I'm sorry for your loss."
Feeling insulted as Tyrion bowed his head towards her, Joffrey sat up straight within his chair
"Her loss? Her father was a confessed traitor!"
"But still her father. Surely having so recently lost your own beloved father you can sympathize." Tyrion retorted back.
Unable to reply, Joffrey turned his attention to Sansa, waiting for her to give voice to his uncle's suggestion. Testing her almost. Darting her blue eyes between both the King and Tyrion, Sansa could not help but give an answer that would satisfy Joffrey and keep him from believing that there was a possibility she was conspiring against him.
"My father was a traitor. My mother and brother are traitors, too. I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey." The words were nothing but distasteful on her tongue and brought her nothing but pain.
If her family could see her now.
Tyrion could do nothing but offer the Stark girl nothing but a small smile. He could not begin to understand the dilemma she was in. To not write back to her family, to lie in favor of the crown even if it discredits her own family name, to be seen as a disgrace on either side.
Well that part he could sympathize with. "Of course you are."
She was doing all she could do to survive. That was admirable.
Gulping down his last bit of wine "Well, enjoy your nameday, Your Grace. Wish I could stay and celebrate, but there is work to be done" Tyrion announced. Placing his cup back down on to the table Tyrion along with his new friends took their leave from the area. Confused on what his uncle meant by work, Joffrey stood up from his chair "What work?"
Irritated that his uncle ignored him and continued to walk away, he pressed further "Why are you here?" Sansa wanted to snicker in response. To see Joffrey treated as nothing more than a child.
And like the petulant child that he was, Joffrey grew red in the face after the slight of embarrassment he had once again faced from Tyrion. However as quickly as the growing anger started to spread to his face, it went away as Joffrey's eyes caught someone of interest within the crowd.
"Gareth!" Smiling in delight, he took off his crown and left it in the hand of Clegane as he raced out of his tent to greet the man. As the crowd made way for their king, at the end stood a man no less than the age of twenty. His clothes consisted of nothing but a fairly short sleeved, velvety jacket that covered him well below his waist and was barely buttoned up slightly off-center. The sleeves of his jacket are very wide and reach down to his wrists, they're decorated with several thread linings from top to bottom.
The jacket has a rectangular neckline which reveals part of the majestic shirt worn below it and is worn with a small leather belt, which is held together by an intricate knot. The leather belt is purely decorative and a sign of wealth.
His pants are simple and incredibly wide and reach down to his hide boots. The boots are made from a very rare hide, but are otherwise a simple design.
He looked like nothing more than the common highborn lad. If it was not for his clothes then it was the stranger's pretentious smirk that allowed anyone to know about his social status within the city. So why was it that Joffrey was so excited to see this boy.
Much to everyone's surprise, Joffrey greeted Gareth with a great hug. Such a hug that showed more trust and comfort that no one thought could be expressed from the Baratheon boy, and yet there it was. Releasing his dear friend, Joffrey could not help but let his smile grow even bigger.
"It's great to have you back here. Now my rule won't be so boring." Joffrey jokes, causing Gareth to laugh. "Honestly it's a shame to see how dull the city has gotten since my leave to Highgarden. How did you ever fare with these bland groups of people."
Scanning the area distastefully at the crowd of highborn locals who had seemed to make it their duty to kiss their king's balls. Joffrey could not agree more, trying to impress Gareth with their shared interests. "Vermin, the lot of them. Now that I'm king I have been trying to make them know their place."
"And what about that one?" Gareth pointed his head towards Sansa, who could not help but stare back at the pair skeptical of the newcomer's presence. If someone could possibly see Joffrey as something as close as a friend, then it would be no good for her.
"Didn't you hear? That's the Stark girl, I am to marry." Joffrey informed Gareth, who looked more than confused at the news. "Isn't her whole family known traitors to the capitol?"
Joffrey could do nothing but offer Gareth a tight-lipped smile. "Yes, but the moment I marry the wolf-bitch I'll march down to the North and have her entire family bend the knee." Pointing as Sansa as he went on.
"Then I'll see to it that they have all of their heads chopped off like her cowardly father"
Unable to entirely hear the words being spoken between the two boys. Only catching the words "The North" and "Heads chopped off" It was only right for Sansa to assume that Joffrey was making another grand boast of what he is to do to her brother and family should they cross paths with one another.
"I have no doubt you will, Your Grace." It was unsure whether or not Gareth entirely believed Joffrey's statement, as that neutral tone of his voice was almost a constant as he spoke.
"My dear friend, I have recently seen that you have a new fool at your beck and call." Gareth noted as he eyed the red stain mixture of blood and wine, drying on the ground.
"And what of that drunken fool? He's probably fallen into a ditch by now, with the way he behaved in front of me." Joffrey exasperated, still annoyed that the man had the gall to show at his nameday party drunk and late.
"Oh I care nothing for that man. I'm just saddened that it may have spoiled my present for you."
Piquing the boy king's curiosity and overall interest
"A present you say?"
"Yes. I see that you already have one fool, but I feel as though a king has a right to two." Gareth mused playing on the boy's knack of wanting more playthings to torture at his court. "Please I have no need for another idiot in my palace." The boy tried to refuse, but he could not deny that the idea of another halfwit did sound splendid to him
"My dear friend, do understand that this is not just some normal foolish idiot. I'd say he's the best of them all."
"And what makes you say that." Joffrey questioned. There were so many people who were nothing short of a simpleton, too many in King's Landing alone. But they were all the same - ill-literate, ill-educated. What could be so special about this one?
"Because the fool that I speak of, just so happens to be my little bastard brother."
"What else can he do?" Joffrey asked Gareth with a sadistic smile upon his face. The young Blackmont smiled at his friend, taking particular joy in watching his half-brother stagger and stumble upon himself in the royal gardens.
It was an understatement to say that Gareth absolutely reveled in the news that his brother was to be sent away from his home. While he does enjoy the "games'' he loved to play with Dastan daily, the truth was that Gareth hated his brother and personally found the sight of him absolutely revolting. Whether it was because Dastan was a stain on his family name or Gareth preferred to be an only child, it was unsure. However, what was sure was that - when Gareth first heard word of Dastan's departure - by the first daylight of the next morning, he took it upon himself personally to drag Dastan out of bed, kicking and hollering, through the streets of King's Landing and up to the Red Keep.
Now laying on the stone floor in nothing but his dingy nightclothes, Dastan stared at the morning sky, mumbling random nonsense.
"Well there is one game I recommend you should play with him." He had heard his brother say. In the next few moments it was nothing but silence, causing Dastan to believe that Gareth and Joffrey left him by his lonesome in the gardens. All he heard were the mutterings of the other occupants wrapped in their own personal conversations during their daily stroll through the gardens and the calls of midday birds soaring through the blue sky, but overall it was rather silent. Strangely enough, it unnerved him.
He was used to loud noises and obnoxious laughter of other people. The nonsense that came out of the mouth of drunken men, the jaunty music, and the jeers and cheers of the people as he was forced to "perform". Silence frightened him and caused his anxiety to grow with each passing second. Dastan rarely knew peace in his home, it was not what he grew up with. To him silence was foreboding danger, it allowed bad memories to resurface and take hold of his entire being. He wanted nothing of the sort.
The raven haired boy wasted no time picking himself off of the floor to go and search for his brother, not wanting to be left alone in an area that was unfamiliar to him.
Just when he stood upright on his feet, he was struck in the back of his head. Dazed from the blow, Dastan's vision slowly focused little by little just to be able to see a man covered in red and gold armor with nothing but a wooden sword in his hand.
It was a game Gareth called "Chase the Wilding," taking inspiration from what his father had called those "Northern Savages" Gareth had noted that Dastan behaved exactly like those who lived up north: animalistic, barbarous, and with wits smaller than that of a mule.
It was a sick and cruel game that gave Dastan absolutely no humor nor pleasure, whenever he was to partake in the activity. But the game at times brought the utmost joy to his brother. In his mind, Dastan thought that if his actions made his brother that happy then maybe, just maybe both Gareth and his father could…
A harsh blow came upon his face once again. This time on his left cheek, causing a bruise to quickly form on his skin.
Dastan was quick to get back up on his feet, only to launch himself onto the armored man. Surprised by the sudden attack and great force that was the foolish boy, the guard found himself tumbling onto the ground with Dastan right on top of him.
Picking himself back up, Dastan began to run through the garden. As the boy scurried away he could hear the faint "Go, go get him! The wilding is getting away!"
The paths that were constructed in the royal gardens, were ones that were too complicated for Dastan' mind. Too many times he had found himself taking the same path as before and too many times he was found and struck by the red and gold armored man. Whether he was hit in the face or anywhere on his body, it did not matter, the pain was all the same.
Bruised and sweaty, Dastan found himself exhausted as he collapsed on the ground, on his hands and knees near a line of bushes full of red roses. Catching his breath, he heard nothing but the sickening laughter of both his brother and the King.
"G-G-Gar… 'eth… It 'urts." His entire body felt sore as it was covered in discolored bruises.
"Pl… 'ease st-'' his broken words cut short with another harsh blow was placed onto his back, knocking him completely onto the ground. Lifting his head up, Dastan saw that it was not one - but three guards had surrounded him. Under the helm they were all stone-faced and solemn.
It was unsure whether the guards took pleasure in causing harm to the boy, a young, slow-witted boy who just wanted the pain to stop. The answer, however, did not matter. They were disciplined soldiers and an order from their liege needed to be followed through with the utmost obedience. For many, it had taken far too long to attain the position they were in and they were not gonna lose it just because of sympathy and pity.
"Hit him again!"
The guard to Dastan' left was quick to heave his wooden sword above his head and bring it down upon him. Rolling to the side, Dastan dodged the wooden object just so it would land just by his head. Lifting himself up on a nearby wall, Dastan found every possible route to run towards blocked as his back was against a wall and his front, right, and left side occupied by a guard. A small crowd of people began to accumulate, just to watch the strange spectacle that was occurring in the gardens.
"Quickly now. We must protect the good people of Westeros from the savage wildling." Gareth mockingly boasted. The people surrounding the display either laughed amongst themselves at Gareth's joke or were utterly horrified at the comment.
Mumbling to himself, Dastan swiped his hands at the guards who tried to get too close to his liking. Even going as far as baring his teeth at them, as would an animal in the presence of danger.
"Hit him in the eye!" Joffrey shouted, overwhelmed with nothing but joy and amusement.
Dastan yelped as he was jabbed in his right eye, by one of the guards. Many in the crowd laughed at his pain, with the laughter growing even louder as they watched Dastan begin to flail about in his corner with his vision ripple from the tears that started to escape from his eyes.
The laughter was short-lived as the guard to Dastan' left, had his wooden sword snatched out of his hand before he could even blink and was struck over his head. Despite wearing a helmet, the inhuman strength from the blow had caused the guard to lose consciousness and quickly fall to the floor. Dastan turned his sights onto the other two guards, who were quick to take a defensive position and fight the foolish boy.
Dastan hurled the wooden object at the pair. Distracted for only a short time to dodge the flying object, it was enough for Dastan to pull one of them close and land a solid punch across the man's face, knocking him out as well. The last guard rushed forward, swinging the sword down only for Dastan to grab the wooden weapon mid-swing and quickly snap it in half. Dropping the splintered weapon, the guard made an attempt to grab his steel sword that laid upon his left waist only to feel a punch land right on his stomach, then another.
With the immense pain that came from the two blows, it had caused the guard to bend down and empty out the contents that had filled his stomach earlier that morning onto the floor. Holding his hand out to stop the boy from going even further since the man could not find it in himself to speak through the pain. The silent plea was left ignored, as he quickly found himself struck across the face with the broken piece of the wooden sword that Dastan still grasped within his hand.
Dastan watched blood spray out of the guard's nose and fall onto the floor with the guard quickly following suit. Dropping the broken object, Dastan straddled the man's body and began punching him in the face repeatedly. Over and over and over…
Not caring that his nose was bent and bleeding profusely, with scarlet blood spraying everywhere. Not caring that the soldier had long since lost consciousness and his face started black and blue from the impact of the punches. Not caring that even his own hands began to bleed and bruise as well. Dastan just wanted to stop, he wanted it all to stop.
And that's what he did. He stopped…
He stopped and finally saw the destruction around him. The soldier's face; broken, bleeding, and near unrecognizable as being human. The other two soldiers: struggling to gain consciousness themselves, as they tripped over each other in a painful daze. But what Dastan cared more was for the audience. They all looked at him in nothing but disgust and horror. He watched as they all whispered amongst each other, sharing words of contempt and disdain, even a few insults were thrown in his direction.
That's when Dastan knew: he failed. He had failed once again in pleasing his family. He should have just let the guards continue, he should have let them beat him senseless. Now his brother was going to be upset at his disobedience and he was going to have to compensate dearly.
"Well brother, don't you feel tough now?" the mocking voice of Gareth spoke out. "There you have it! My bastard brother: The Foolish Wildling!"
At that moment Dastan was taken off of the unconscious man and was forced down onto the floor. Four guards wrestled him down but it wasn't until a sword kissed his back, Dasan froze completely and let the guards hold him down.
The small crowd of people began to laugh once again and started to chant Dastan' new name "The Foolish Wildling!" "The Foolish Wildling!"
Dastan felt nothing but shame and embarrassment. He was sure he had heard one of the guards next to him laugh at his pitiful state. He almost wanted to cry from both the pain and the humiliation.
"Let me have a look at him." Joffrey exclaimed, ordering his guard to get off of him.
With the pressure on his back released, Dastan crawled backwards away from everyone until his back hit the wall. His eyes darted around the area in fear, watching as each person laughed and smirked at his appearance, or made an attempt to do so in order to please their king.
He watched as the blond-haired boy kneeled down and took in the sight of him. Joffrey's emerald eyes portrayed a mix of repulsion and amusement as he drank in the grim appearance of Dastan.
"How old is he?" Joffrey turned to ask Gareth
"I believe he's ten and four or ten and six." Gareth shrugged, unsure of his brother's actual age. Both answers were wrong, as Dastan was actually ten and nine. Just one year younger than Gareth.
Ironically, like his brother, Gareth did not take in too much intellect despite the great care that both his mother and father took in preparing his education. Over the years teaching whatever Gareth did not wish to learn was a dangerous business. Intelligence did not figure largely in anything he did and was often conspicuously absent. Once when he was ten and four, the capital was struck with its many blazing summer days, Gareth thought it best to point his bow and arrow at the sun and threatened to shoot it.
Now at the age of twenty, the boy's intellect was not strong. His emotions were and they were quickly aroused and apt to get out of control, whether it was a burning rage or utter glee and he felt just that watching Dastan cower on the floor.
"He's a big lad, but my father told me that his mind hasn't progressed from that of a babe," Gareth explained to him.
"Then he's perfect." Joffrey smiled. Standing up and dusting his trousers off any dirt from kneeling. "With my father gone, I'm gonna be busy ruling the kingdom and I'll need some entertainment and your dear brother here is just perfect for the task."
"Then you should know his name is-"
"I don't care for his name." Joffrey spat at Gareth. "He's nothing but an idiot. I am the king and I hereby declare that this boy's name will be stripped away from him in the honor of a new one. One that I will choose for him."
It had taken a while for the boy king to think of a fitting title for Dastan, who was still squirming on the ground. The boy was wild and untamed, like a beast. Come to think of it Robb Stark fancied himself with a beast of his own. A direwolf, it was called, just like the one on his family banner.
In Joffrey's mind the Stark boy was nothing but a pretender. A child with a pathetic attempt to call himself king, yet the gods bless him with a beast of his own. Specifically one that decorated his family banners. But it did not matter, as he, the one true king of the seven kingdoms, still sits on the Iron Throne and as king it was only fitting for him to have a beast of his own. And just like that, under Joffrey's breath no one in that Red Keep shall call Dastan by his given name and in its place, he shall be called.
"Black Lion. I shall call you Black Lion."
As the day continued to go on, Dastan in the meanwhile was having the most disappointing time. When Gareth after a lengthy discussion with Joffrey about his travels to Highgarden, his conquest over the "Flower women" (Although, if one were to look closely at the Blackmont boy they would notice the numerous times the boy scratched the back of his neck as he boasted about his "conquests")
Gareth left the palace with the promise of returning to his and not so much as a goodbye to Dastan. Left alone in this forsaken castle, Joffrey was quick to put Dastan to work. Forcing Dastan to juggle metal goblets, that had one too many times hit him on the head. Startle the birds that were perched on a balcony. To eventually have the Dastan just follow him around and mock anyone of noble status who happens to walk by the two.
Eventually leading Dastan to where he was now. Mimicking the numerous builders that surrounded the throne room, to Joffrey's amusement. Many of the workers within the room ignored Dastan as the boy was not entirely affecting their labor, some were able to get a quick laugh at his antics. Happy to find amusement in their tedious and hard-working days.
As Dastan continued his charade, Joffrey took his eyes off of his new fool just for a moment and allowed his emerald eyes to wander around his throne room as it was in the process of rebirth as it needed to be remodeled to fit his perfect, menacing image.
Joffrey had never said it out loud or let alone tell his father, but ever since he was a small boy he had always admired the Targaryen family.
Their raw power, their dragons, the fear that would take root in the hearts of the people whenever a silver-haired babe was born. He wanted that and more.
However while he did admire the infamous Targaryen family, Joffrey would rather walk barefooted through the seven hells before he would say he would like to be a silver-haired dragonspawn. As feared as the Targaryen family was, it was a family of flaws. Flaws that shall not flourish in his dynasty.
It was common knowledge that more than half of the Targaryen family fell to madness due to centuries inbreeding. Marrying brother to sister, cousin to cousin, half-siblings to half-siblings. Such an incestuous sin that had killed nearly every single Targaryen King with only a small handful having a natural death.
In Joffrey's eyes, he was not cursed with such an imperfection that tainted the dragon family. Unlike the Kings before him he was not tainted with cursed blood nor did he usurp the throne like his father. No, he was rightfully born for the Iron Throne and like the iron chair itself, the kingdom as well was his by birthright.
With such a combination, in his eyes he shall be the greatest king who ever lived who shall have the greatest dynasty this kingdom has ever seen. A golden lion that is feared, loved, envied from the seven kingdoms and beyond. A king that the people shall tremble to speak or hear of and his throne room would just be the beginning.
Consumed with delightful fantasies of a long and glorious reign, Joffrey failed to notice the sound of the hall's great double-doors opening. Only for his mother to walk in with guards by her side.
"What is all this?" With the sound of Cersei's voice flowing into his ear, promptly throwing Joffrey out of his thoughts of magnificence.
Turning his head towards her. "Returning this room to its proper appearance. Say what you will about the Targaryens, they were conquerors." Pointing his hand to where the iron throne stood tall and proud
"That is a seat for a conqueror. It needs a room to match it, not vines and flowers."
Whilst kneeling beside a nearby worker, Dastan found himself shifting all of his attention from the builder, that he had been previously mocking, and turned his attention towards the tall, graceful figure that was Cersei Lannister.
And just like that. The bastard boy could not look away.
To call the golden-haired women beautiful, was a vast understatement. It was almost like calling the Red Keep just a home for the king, or Westeros just a piece of land. While Dastan was rather slow, he was still just a red-blooded boy just like half of the population of the city. He knew what he liked and what he didn't like. What he found attractive about women and what he did not.
As for Cersei Lannister; Dastan however, did not find her attractive in the slightest bit.
The physical features that made up the lioness were rather kind on Dastan's hazel eyes. But it was something about her that utterly unnerved him. That was why he could not take his eyes off of the golden women. Perhaps it was her posture? The way she spoke? The tone of her voice?
It was something about her presence that was too familiar to Dastan. So much so that it resurfaced memories of home, of his stepmother...
"Try not to stare at her too hard, boy" one of the builders whispered beside him
But Dastan could not help it. He continued to stare at the golden-haired duo. As he did, both mother and son continued their conversation, paying him or anyone else in the room, absolutely no mind at all.
Not wanting to entertain her son's intention of changing the throne room, Cersei went straight to important matters "We can't find Arya Stark"
At that Joffrey merely sneered at the revelation "With luck, she's dead in a ditch somewhere" Still infuriated by the memory of the youngest Stark girl setting her wolf on him, that day at the river.
As Dastan watched the two, he was rather astonished at how open the two talked in such a large setting with a rather large number of people around them. Back when he lived in his father's home, many of the servants, along with himself, were always ushered out of the room whenever his father needed to speak with his fellow acquaintances. Yet for the people in the palace, it seems that they never entirely cared for whoever was around as they would speak. They do not consider the consequences at all.
"Perhaps. But if not, we need her. They'll never give Jaime back to us for Sansa alone." Cersei informed her son hoping that he too, would share in her worry for both his uncle and her twin brother. But still he brushed it off, as if it was nothing.
"I think they might. They're weak. They put too much value on their women." Signalling for Dastan to follow. Cersei eyed Dastan as the boy was quick to follow in Joffrey's beck and call. Watching as he scrambled onto his feet, Cersei could only feel slightly repulsed seeing someone of lower-class within such close proximity of her. But she held her composure nonetheless. There were more pressing matters at hand.
Following her son towards the steps to the throne, she pressed on "We need to set our armies to the task of finding her. Send out as many men as we can. I'm sure if you asked grandfather -"
"The King does not ask; He commands." Interrupting his mothers request, feeling offended that she had the notion to believe that a king needs to ask his subjects for their approval.
"And my grandfather's stupidity in the field of battle is the reason Robb Stark has Uncle Jaime in the first place." Joffrey continued.
"His life is in danger."
At this point Dastan did not know what to do with himself. He feels as though he is not supposed to be here, but he knows that if he should leave then Joffrey would be very much angry at him. So he allowed both his eyes and mind to wander throughout the throne room as it was in the midst of remodeling. Ignoring the discussion between Cersei and Joffrey, not realizing that their conversation grew heated by the minute as Joffrey touched on the topic of Robert fathering numerous bastards within the city.
With the sound of hammers hitting both stone and metal at his ears, Dastan found himself at peace in his thoughts. Taking in every intricate detail of the room. Facing his eyes towards the workers that were persistent in their work to the numerous glass windows that allowed the afternoon sun to shine inside. Noting how each and every single one contained a star, causing the light that went through the glass to be shone in an array of different colors.
But before Dastan could properly appreciate the decor of the windows, the sound of an open-handed slap resonated throughout the room. And for a moment not a sound could be heard. Not the consistent bang of a working hammer, steps onto the stone, nor was there a sound of creaking wood. Nothing except the crackle of flames that burned under each bannister could be heard.
But the moment passed as fast as it first came. As it was settled into the minds of all of the men in the room that it was their own king that was slapped by his own mother, backhanded as if he was nothing but a spoiled child. They were all quick to get back to their labor once Joffrey eyed everyone in the room. Looking towards Dastan, who was still mindless staring at a painted window, admiring its beauty.
There was nothing but utter humiliation that coursed through the boy king's body.
"What you just did is punishable by death. You will never do it again. Never." He spoke with nothing but a simmering anger at his voice. Reminding himself:
He was a king he shall do as he pleases. And a king should be lenient towards his subjects, and that goes for his mother. For a time
Quickly turning to walk towards his throne "That will be all, Mother." Quick to dismiss the object of his embarrassment of the moment.
Watching his mother exit, Joffrey placed himself on the infernal, cold, jagged chair that was the iron throne and began to contemplate. Such a display committed by his mother would do nothing for his image. He was a king. Like his father, like the Targaryens before him. He should be feared by everyone low or highborn. Yet here he was in a room full of peasants to see him slapped like a child by his own mother.
This cannot stand. He has a reputation to uphold, especially at a time like this, where pretend kings like Robb Stark were challenging his right to the North. He must act quick to bring dread back into the hearts of the people, starting with the builders in this room. Locking his emerald eyes onto Dastan, his eyes still locked onto the window, an idea struck within his head.
Something must be done quickly.
"Black Lion, step in front of me"
This time, Dastan was slow to heed Joffrey's command, causing the golden-haired boy's anger to boil faster. Slowly taking his eyes off of the painted window. Dastan walked up towards the throne where Joffrey sat and like an obedient dog was ready to do what was asked.
Dastan remained nothing but silent as he watched Joffrey lift himself out of the chair. As Joffrey stood in front of the boy, he shifted his weight to one leg, cocking the other. Not caring that his newly acquired fool was an entire foot taller then himself or the fact that the boy's frame was larger then his own. The boy was a peasant and should he retaliate, such an action was sure to end in his death. Surely someone with a mind as slow as his could understand that.
That is why Joffrey does not fear for what he was going to do.
Standing firm in front of Dastan, Joffrey with his left hand was the most decorated with golden, elegant rings. Backhands Dastan with the force matching that of Cersei when she slapped him.
This time however not one of the builders stopped their tasks when the sound of a hand crossed one's face. While the overall force of Joffrey's slap felt like almost nothing, it was his rings that left scratches on Dastan's right cheeks.
"Any abuse I take from these people shall be repeated onto you. Do you understand?" Joffrey spoke slowly to Dastan
Watching as Dastan instinctively nodded. Joffrey felt the slightest bit if satisfaction, watching as the scratches left on Dastan's bubbled with blood
"Good. Now get out of my sight. I grow repulsed from your disgusting face"
Not bothering to wipe the blood off from his face, Dastan walked towards the double-doors and left the room. Not entirely sure where to go or who to talk to within the castle, Dastan continued to walk feeling…
Unsure.