It was the seventh day after leaving that rocky shit-hole Stark called a castle, and Prince Joffrey of House Baratheon, future king of the Seven Kingdoms, was pleased the eldest Stark girl finally seemed grateful for his favour. He had ordered her presence beside him while he rode, and she had come with a sweet, obedient smile. At last. Something stimulating for his eyes beyond the monotony of the countryside.

In his life at court, Joffrey had seen many a comely face, but Sansa Stark was easily the fairest. The moment he had lain eyes on her, he had felt his heart itch, no matter that Mother had said she had the purple eyes of demons. It was a shame she had been cloistered in the freezing North all these years, but now she was coming south, as she ought. The prettiest faces should always surround him for his enjoyment.

Joffrey had seen that the Stark girl had been taken by his charm at first glance. As any maiden would be. He had seen it in the way she'd blushed so prettily for him. Oh, she had played coy soon after—no doubt that mother of hers had chided her on proper maidenly modesty—but Joffrey knew he could get her to break sooner or later. He always did with fair maidens, one way or another.

The infuriating episode with her unnatural bitch of a sister had been a setback—his shoulder still throbbed at times—though it should not have been. If Lady Sansa had been in the yard and seen the insults her sister had perpetrated against her prince, she would have come to Joffrey begging forgiveness. As it was though, she had been up in the keep with her needlework, as was proper for a girl of her station. How Ned Stark could let his second daughter become such an uncouth creature was beyond him.

Joffrey would have dearly liked to punish the little Stark bitch for her impertinence. If that…monstrosity had not attacked him, he would have doled out his justice right then and there. He wouldn't have killed her—just given her a few scars, perhaps on that pretty little face. Help her mind her tongue.

But the Starks were emboldened by the favour Father bestowed too generously on their family. The bitch had remained unscathed, and the beast had been allowed to escape.

If Joffrey had been king, he would have had the girl stripped in public and whipped for daring to insult him so. He would have burned the woods around Winterfell to the ground and cooked the direwolf alive. He would have made Ned Stark present him the head of the wolf on a platter, then made him eat it. The scar where it had savaged him was still red and blistered. He would carry that forever. One day…one day the Starks would pay.

But now though…Lady's Sansa company was not altogether unpleasant. She was a dull creature, to be sure, but Joffrey had never encountered any woman whose words were worth listening to. That was no bother. Women weren't meant for interesting conversation. When he grew tired of her speaking, her voice was soft enough that he could ignore it and simply enjoy her lovely face and form.

She covered herself most modestly with furs as they rode side by side, but he had seen the plump curves of her arse and tits beneath her gown in the evenings. He had been wishing to get his hands on her for a moon turn now, but Joffrey was not yet king. He could not do something deemed disrespectful up North. Yet now they had left the North, and soon Lady Sansa would be well within his grasp.

She would come to him once her father's watchful eye was turned, he was sure of it. The maidens always did—in the beginning, anyway.

"…wouldn't you say, Your Grace?"

Joffrey turned towards her. He had not a clue what she'd said.

"Yes, you are quite right, sweet lady," he said anyway, flashing her his approving grin. She smiled back, but bent her head meekly. Joffrey felt his chest itch again, though it was immediately replaced by indignant disgust as his horse reared, and the now-familiar head of Lady Sansa's mutt came into view.

He felt himself snarl, but he refused to be cowed by the creature, not after he'd seen his imp uncle behave so chummily with one of the beasts before they had left Winterfell. If a two-foot gremlin could bring them to heel, he, a prince, ought to do better, and so he sat gallantly atop his horse and glared down at the direwolf. Lady Sansa's beast was not so objectionable, he supposed. Certainly better than the other three, though were it up to him, they would all be dispatched post-haste.

Gods, what was his father thinking, allowing the Starks to bring four such animals to King's Landing? And Mother? How incompetent. She could not even convince Father to forbid them this. Already he could see her losing her tenuous grip on Father, who favoured Stark to absurd proportions. When he was king, he would be sure to set them back into their place. Lady Sansa in particular. He'd make sure she always remembered her place, and it wouldn't be in Dorne.

"To me, Lem. You'll startle His Grace's horse," said Lady Sansa, and Joffrey frowned as the wolf dropped back from him and drew up beside her horse.

"Nonsense," he said, though he felt himself relax as the wolf left his side. "My horse is fit for a prince. Neither he nor I can be startled by a young wolf."

"You would naturally not be startled, Your Grace, for you are brave to the bone, I am sure. But I think it is in the nature of every horse to fear. Mushroom still gets frightened, don't you girl." She leaned forward and gave her horse a few reassuring pats on the neck.

Gods help the simple creature. She named her horse Mushroom? That was worse than naming her wolf after a fruit. Were all the Stark brood simple in the head? Just yesterday he'd heard the youngest Stark chit call her horse Oatmeal. Oatmeal.

Joffrey wondered too if Lady Sansa knew that Rhaenyra, who was eaten alive by her brother's dragon, had kept a dwarf named Mushroom. He wondered what she would make of such a story, and suddenly wished to tell it to her in great detail, just to observe her face, though he refrained. Best to do so when she had no immediate means of escape. Or perhaps he would tell her amid company.

Would those enticing eyes grow glassy with horror, he wondered, or had her mother taught her to keep a cast of marble over her face as his own mother did when Father insulted her? He'd enjoy looking for the cracks in her composure just as much as he'd enjoy seeing her fear.

"And scared they should be," she was saying now. "Direwolves can do terrible, ungodly things to horses and humans alike."

"Oh?" he asked, his excitement suddenly prickling. Joffrey thought to the scar on his shoulder. In truth, he had barely felt the fang pierce his skin—so…baffled was he that the Starks would allow such a thing to attack a royal prince—but it must have been sharp indeed to rip through his leather armour. Joffrey peered down at Lady Sansa's pup. It was only the size of a large dog and seemed perfectly biddable, but he was not fooled.

The bitch who had attacked him in the yard had been taller than wolves had any right to be. Just how much damage could those teeth reek on a human body, he wondered now, feeling his eyes narrow with pleasure. He had heard of dogs being used to hunt outlaws. Surely a wolf the size of a bear…

"Ungodly, you say?"

Perhaps Sansa Stark was not so dull after all.

"Oh, Your Grace, Old Nan used to tell us the most terrifying stories about the things direwolves could do to enemies."

Her eyes had grown huge as they peered up at him, swirling with purple apprehension. Ah, the girl really was exquisite. And he had been right: she was lovelier than ever when she had fear gracing her face. Joffrey would make sure to elicit this from her more often. It became her better than the calm smiles she'd been giving him.

"It's been said that a young direwolf can tear the arm cleanly off a man, right from the socket, or crush their leg bones to shards with their bite. When the Stark kings of old took their direwolves into battle, they led their vanguards riding their wolves like horses. They won battles without any blood on their swords, for their wolves ripped out the throats of every enemy who tried to attack, then fed on their livers and hearts and tore away their flesh until they were nothing more than savaged flesh in the mud."

Joffrey had pulled his horse to a stop without realising, so transfixed was he with her words.

"Truly? Are they so…bloodthirsty?"

He rather liked hearing tales of men being torn into pulp coming from Lady Sansa's pretty mouth.

"Oh, yes, Your Grace. I do hope Lemons won't turn out this way, but it is in their nature. There may be naught I can do."

He felt himself smile, a giddy sort of satisfaction swelling.

"Ah, but who are you—who is anyone, really—to deny these creatures their nature? Tell me, my lady, what else can these awesome beasts do?"

000

That night, Joffrey dreamed that he had a pack of direwolves at his beck and call, their curved fangs dripping with crimson blood. At his feet lay his enemies—among them his various uncles—pathetically broken, their muscles torn into meaty pulp, their necks and arms bent at fascinating angles, all their throats hanging out like broken crossbow strings.

A movement caught his eye. A groan of agony filled the air, and a hand streaked with grime and blood rose from the pile of limbs and torsos, clutching a dagger. One for his wolves stalked over to the hand, but before it could attack, the dagger was cutting into black fur, spilling bright new blood. The direwolf struck then, red-stained fang agleam, and the human screams fought with the sharp whine of the wolf. Joffrey smiled.

000

"Legend has it that direwolves hold the last vestiges of old Northern magic," said Sansa Stark. "'Tis what Old Nan has been telling us all our lives."

Joffrey had summoned Lady Sansa to ride with him yet again. His mother had not liked that he allowed her company so often through the day, but the land through which they travelled was a bore of yellowing trees and low hills. As it was deemed unseemly for him to ride in the wheelhouse, thereby robbing him of the amusement of scaring Tommen with talk of hunting, Joffrey's other option was to ride with his father and Lord Stark. He'd rather not. Lord Stark was dull as chalk and had a disapproving face that made Joffrey want to snarl. His daughter was a much finer riding companion, particularly now that she talked of their Northern monsters.

"What magic could they possibly have?" Joffrey asked now. "They're just oversized wolves."

She gave him a sweet smile, her cheek dimpling, and Joffrey fought the urge to squeeze her porcelain skin until it bruised like a peach.

"They may look mundane, but it is said that my ancestors could skinchange into direwolves at will. See through their eyes. Run and strike and bite through their bodies."

Joffrey frowned. This was a child's fantasy, surely.

"You expect me to believe your ancestors could turn into direwolves? What do you take me for?"

"Oh, I do beg your pardon, I meant no offence, Your Grace." Her head was bowed in contrition, and Joffrey felt his annoyance subside, just slightly. Truly, he was finding each new expression of hers more appealing than the last.

"I did not mean they turned into wolves. Skinchangers simply sent their sentience inside another being, controlling it from afar. The skinchanger kept his body, but his mind flew into another and became that creature for a time."

Joffrey raised his brow and gave her a sideways look. She peered tentatively up at him from beneath her eyelashes.

"Skinchanging, it is called?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

For a moment, Joffrey indulged in imagining himself with the body of a giant wolf, letting his teeth sink into hot, wet flesh, hearing the screams of his victim as he slowly dug out his liver. Messy, to be sure, and blood on the hands could be sticky and hard to clean. Still…

"This is something you Northmen could all do, once?"

"Not at all. You see, only the Starks could do this, and other Northern houses bent the knee to my ancestors for fear of their abilities. The Boltons have long envied us the skill, it is said, but the best they could do was flay and wear the skins of their enemies. A poor imitation, and most gruesome."

Flaying. Now this was something Joffrey had heard of before coming North. He had hoped to see it, for all that Pycelle claimed the Starks had outlawed the practice. Folly of them. And soft. That was the problem with these Starks. They were so bound up in so-called honour and mercy that they forgot you cannot rule without fear.

When he was king, Joffrey would allow House Bolton to flay as many prisoners as they wished, so long as he could see the practice for himself. He imagined it required skill and a delicate touch with the knife to flay a man alive, and the very thought of the craft intrigued him.

"But skinchanging is only the least of it."

"Oh? Tell me more, sweet lady. These legends…they entertain me."

"Of course, Your Grace. Anything to please you."

"Hm." She was learning, it seemed. He awarded her with a smile. "Well, go on."

"It is said that there is a great spirit who lives beyond the Wall, a direwolf spirit the size of a castle. He is the protector of all wolves and guardian of the North itself. My Stark ancestor was said to have met the direwolf spirit thousands of years ago. That was when he placed it on our sigil, for it was this spirit who gave them the power to skinchange."

"This is a spectre then? How can a ghost protect anything?"

"Oh, but he is as solid as you or I. His claws are sharp as Valyrian steel and his fangs hot as molten iron. His eyes are red from the flesh of the men he has torn to pieces, though there are tales that he sinks his teeth into the neck and drains a man of lifeblood. It's said a glare from him can root a person to the spot, freezing his legs so he is helpless. He is a most fearsome guardian of legend."

Even as his mind raced to imagine such a sight, Joffrey felt an unwelcome shudder shoot down his spine, and somehow the day seemed colder than before, and the sun more distant. A guardian of the Starks? He had forgotten for a day that the Starks were said to have direwolf blood in their veins—had forgotten that the wolf's head was emblazoned on their sigil—so entangled was he in thoughts of their savagery. But now he remembered, and his shoulder throbbed once more.

"When does this…wolf spirit attack? Does it roam the frozen deserts of the North and reign terror over the barren lands?"

"Oh, no, Your Grace," she said, her voice accented with laughter, her very white teeth flashing. Exquisite. So breathtakingly lovely, yet somehow even her smile was sharper than he remembered, and no longer bathed in warmth.

"This demon can find enemies no matter where they are. Even follow them into their dreams. And once a man has been marked, there is no turning back. He will become prey, one way or another."

"And…and who are its enemies?"

"Why Your Grace, we Starks are the North incarnate, and the direwolf stands guard over us all. Stark enemies are his enemies." The smile deepened, dimpling a flawless cheek.

"And do you wish to know a secret, Your Grace?"

A shard of ice seemed to imbed itself deep into his chest, cutting through his muscle and sinew, burrowing into his heart. For a wild moment, Sansa Starks' eyes seemed to flash, red and sharp and bloody, until Joffrey shook his head, and they returned to their normal lavender blush.

"I believe there is still magic left in the world," she said, sweet voice just above a whisper. "And I believe this direwolf demon will tear apart every last enemy of the Starks—rip throats from necks, tear muscle from bone—and feast upon their lifeblood."

000

He was wandering through the night, through open darkness, when from behind Joffrey heard a soft shuffle of paws on dirt. He froze rigid. Behind him he could hear gruff pants, and as he slowly turned he came face to face with the direwolf bitch whose fang had torn open his shoulder.

Yet, here she appeared as a spectre, sharply shadowed and glowing and as large as a castle. Her eyes glowed red like hellfire, and as she circled him, all light turned to smoke. He was cold, so very cold, yet hot too, and prickling with sweat. He was frozen to the ground, unable to escape the dark form that stalked towards him.

"D…d…down! Down, you bitch!" he tried to command, but the wolf did not hear him, but instead glowed mossy green and bared her teeth.

"Don't come any closer! I am a prince! How dare you? I'll…I'll I'll I'll have your head, you hear me?"

His hand fumbled to his hip, searching for his sword, but he wore only his nightshirt, and the cold bit so hard he could not stop shaking.

"Why are you coming at me? I…I did nothing to you. I did not even touch that Stark bitch with my sword! I…I am their prince! I did nothing!"

And yet those crimson eyes burned closer and closer until he was swallowed in a red miasma that stung his lungs. He felt the scream burst from his throat, burning his flesh, and then all he felt was cold.

In the black of the night, Joffrey jerked awake in his tent, his camp bed creaking beneath him. A nightmare. Only a nightmare. Yet as he lay back down and tried to sleep once more, he could swear he heard the howling of wolves not so far from where he lay.

000

Joffrey did not command Lady Sansa's company for many days. Her direwolf padded by her side wherever she rode, and Joffrey did not wish to look so weak as to order it away from her, for the excuse that the wolf "offended him" sounded weak and false even to his own ears. As the royal party made its way through the repugnant stretch known as the Neck, Joffrey could only watch the Stark brood from afar whenever they made camp, scowling and feeling his anger simmer.

Today, the sun broke through the clouds for the first time in a sennight, and the Starks sat on the grass without so much as a bench, grooming their direwolves as if they were common servants or untamed savages. Joffrey could hardly stand to look at them, for whenever he met the gaze of one of the wolves, the loathsome fear washed over his back, sour and damp.

He wished to reach for the nearest servant and dash their head against the ground to ease his crawling anger, but even that he could not do, for his mother had insisted he not indulge himself until they were safely behind the walls of the Red Keep. Already she had nagged him about backhanding a serving girl and dislodging the knee of a page with his foot. She would never have said a word had they been back at court. Being on the road truly was a great inconvenience.

And yet, for some perverse reason, he could not tear his eyes away from the wolves, watching from afar and wallowing in the bitter excitement that still stirred when he thought of their savagery. No, those nightmares did not mean fear. They were only the imagining of his vigilant mind. Only the intelligent had visions thus. He did not fear them. He could not. He was a lion, and he was cowed by no being that walked the earth.

The only circumstance that pleased him now was the warm weather that had retired the heavy furs the women had covered themselves with. Lady Sansa wore a blush-coloured gown this day, and as she reclined upon the grass—her plush teets pressing into her dress with every breath, the outline of her small waist elusive as the fabric draped loosely over her form, her white throat delicate and begging for the mark of a hand—she made a sight so rousing that Joffrey had half a mind to stalk over and take his due right there and then.

She seemed to laugh at something her wolf was doing, her teeth gleaming in the sun. Beside her, the savage little wench and her wolf seemed to be wrestling, the wolf refusing to be brushed and instead choosing to clamber onto Arya Stark's chest and lick her face. Disgusting.

Yet even from here, Joffrey could hear her laughter, and then she was rolling over the grass with the direwolf, nuzzling her face into its neck as if kissing it. Beside her, the youngest chit was laughing, running around them with her huge wolf, unclear who was chasing whom.

Lady Sansa might be the fairest, but these two were prettier than most as well. And yet, any appeal they might have had evaporated as soon as one encountered their demeanour.

He could not keep the sneer from his face. How degrading and offensive a sight this was. How could anyone civilised show such affection at all, let alone to a beast? Were they mad, these girls? To make matters worse, of late, Arya Stark had become cronies with some smallfolk boy from one of the trade carts that followed the retinue. He was on the grass too, tentatively reaching to pat one of the wolves, and Joffrey could almost smell the grime of his work from where he sat.

For the thousandth time, he wondered how Ned Stark and Ashara Dayne could let their daughters embarrass them all this way. No man in his right mind would marry either of those abominations, and what use were daughters if they could not make good marriages?

He was so lost in thought that he had realised the Stark bitch had sensed his gaze. Slowly, she met his eye, and Joffrey let his face morph into the refined destain appropriate for looking at vermin even as her purple stare chilled his blood. He felt the cold of it slide through his veins. Besides her, her direwolf glared up at him, and again Joffrey reminded himself that lions did not fear mere dogs, no matter how fiercely they bared their teeth. No matter how their eyes stung his own.

She held his gaze, (the audacious cunt), and just when he thought his eyes would bulge out of his face from glaring, her lips stretched back, baring a sharp tooth, its point catching the hazy sun. He did not know if she smiled or snarled. At that moment, he did not know if Arya Stark was human or beast.

000

Joffrey slept little in the coming days. The servants charged with laying his bed every night were either imbeciles or treasonous scum-he was certain of it. Even after he'd applied a few strokes of the rod to each, however, none would come to confess their treachery, and there was, infuriatingly, nothing else he could do.

A camp bed could never truly be a feather bed, but one had to make do on the road. Joffrey was a reasonable prince. He could make do. Yet in the past weeks, his bed became nearly impossible to fall asleep on—lumpy and hot in the night, giving him all manner of disturbances and discomfort whenever he sought to close his eyes. What were these useless servants doing to his mattress?

When he did manage to slip into sleep, he was dogged by the nightmares of red direwolf eyes and fangs that glowed like hot iron and dripped bloody slobber. Some nights, the great direwolf demon chased after him, hissing "Arya Stark, Arya Stark" on the inside of his skull. May the gods rip their guts in two. He had not even touched Arya Stark.

On other nights, he was trapped in a room of solid night. The demon circled him, appearing behind him just as he thought he had found a means to escape, threatening to pounce. Joffrey would wake in the dark, clothes damp and muscles aching, and swear he heard the soft padding of wolf paws outside his tent.

They are only dreams, he told himself. Only the imaginings of his fatigued mind. He would have all the servants flogged bloody when he returned to the Red Keep, and once he returned to his royal chambers, the bleeding shadow would dissipate into so much smoke. And yet he could not forget Sansa Stark's words. Why, this demon can find enemies no matter where they are. Even follow them into their dreams. Each morning, when he awoke from his red-stained slumber, there were always faint imprints of paws around the exposed dirt.

No. Surely the Stark wolves were not surrounding his tent at night, summoned by some distant spectre hell-bent on revenge. It was a child's fantasy. It was nonsense.

Yet, as he tossed and turned each night, the howls of the Stark direwolves gyrated about his head, twisting and taunting him. It was not fear he felt—he could not fear, was incapable of it—but the irritation and the lumpiness of his bed kept Joffrey constantly at a simmer with nowhere to vent his indignation.

Not under Father's nose. He was the crown prince. Now he must keep his composure before his vassals. But once they returned to court…Joffrey could not wait to feel skin tear beneath the instruments in his hand and hear cleansing screams replace the haunting wolf howls.

To his vast relief, they finally reached Darry twenty days after the dreams began. For the first time in two moons, servants showed him to a chamber with a real bed and a bath, returning him to acceptable human conditions, and the humble surroundings pleased him so much that he did not even mind that the castle's size forced him to allow Tommen a bed in his chambers.

The feast was merry and the music bright, and Lord Darry seemed to understand better than many lords that, while Father was king, Joffrey would one day soon take his place and rule a very long time indeed. Even better, the Starks had been forbidden from bringing their direwolves within the castle walls, and for once, Joffrey could enjoy proximity to Lady Sansa without being reminded of the beasts who dogged his sleep.

Nevertheless, all through the festivities, all Joffrey could think of was that featherbed in his chamber, waiting for him to sleep through this night away from the lumpy discomfort of his camp mattress.

When the evening's activities began to die away and the scones burned low, Joffrey took the first opportunity he had to excuse himself from Father's presence. He was too deep in his cups to pay him any mind, and Joffrey brushed off his mother's concerns, stumbling towards his chambers as if pushed by cold wind beneath his arms. In the twitching shadows cast by candle stubs, Joffrey could make out Tommen's sleeping form in the corner, his milksop of a cat curled at his feet, yet he was in no state to torment his brother this eve. Before his head even hit his silken pillow, his eyes had shuttered, and his mind had fled.

000

He was locked in the chamber of corrupted black once again, the air so cold that his fingers and nose burned with it. The air felt like fire in his throat, and blood rammed within his ears, threatening to pour out with each pound of his heart. He was running, frantic sweat beading on his back, pounding on the rough walls to find an escape. He felt the direwolf demon behind him, its breath icy and foul on the back of his neck.

A wall was before him, unforgiving, and Joffrey pressed his back against the stone, shaking so that his teeth bit his tongue. The demon approached, blood-stained slobber dripping from its rust-crusted muzzle, its eyes the red of torn flesh. Green light undulated behind it like steam from a bog. Joffrey could not move. His legs were frozen.

The wolf pounced.

He surged from his feather bed, reeking of foul fear, a hoarse scream stuffed in his throat. His chamber was dark and still and warm. A dream. Only a dream.

A lone candle still wavered by the chest, and Joffrey blew it out with a snarl, then threw it at the wall. It must have been the flickering of this damn candle that had infected his dreams tonight.

In the soft beam of moonlight through the window, Joffrey reached for the bed once more, stumbling towards it, heart like a trapped bird. Only a fucking dream. His bed was damp where he had lain, but Joffrey would rather jump from the Tower of the Hand than order a servant in now to rectify it. In a miserable heap, he wrapped himself in his sheets, placed his head resolutely down on his pillow once more, and—

The moonlight shuddered like a drowning face. At once, what had been pure white light took on the tinge of boggy green. Paralysed, Joffrey could only jerk his eyes to the wall. Depraved green light invaded from the windows now, bright and terrifying, and as his eyes stung from the light he saw the shadow creep onto the rough stone, slithering into place and sharpening before his gaze. The demon. The direwolf. In his chamber. Before his bed.

It pounced.

Joffrey screamed as he had never done in his life, screamed with so much force it felt as if his throat and entrails were pouring forth from his gaping mouth. It was real. It was all real. The hellhound had lept from his dreams into his life, and this was this night he would surely be drained of his lifeblood.

He screamed and screamed, and then he was running away from that accursed chamber and the vengeful demon, feeling its stinking breath hot on his back. The halls danced with hungry shadows and the flagstones carved into his foot, but still he ran, on and on, for any pain was better than the blood-caked fangs of the direwolf.

He heard voices ahead. The feast. Father and the lords were still at the feast. The evening had not yet died. There was hope for him still. His chest ached and burned and his legs trembled from exertion, but praise be to all the gods, for he would make it in time to be saved. He burst through the doors of Lord Darry's Great Hall, hearing his screams echoing about the high ceilings even as salvation beckoned, hot and sweet. .

Every head turned to him.

"Father! Father, you must save me! Please!"

No one moved. In this hall filled with men, all Joffrey could hear was his own desperate panting.

"Father, the wolf demon will surely kill me! It seeks to drink my blood. Please, please, you must slay it for me! Save me!"

The silence of a tomb. The stillness of a grave. Joffrey did not know how long he passed standing there, staring into his father's frozen shock, when from behind him came the patter of shoes on stone. He turned. There stood Tommen, fat cheeks red, a stubby hand rubbing at his eye.

"Joff? What's wrong, Joff? Why'd you scream and run from our chamber?"

Another heartbeat of death, and then the hall exploded with the crashing of plates and pitchers as his father rose like a mountain and flipped the high table off the dais. He roared then, black eyes terrible, and Joffrey did not know any longer if he feared the direwolf demon or this beast who was his father.

"You...COWARD!"

His hulking finger was in Joffrey's face, and he stumbled back, the stone rasping against his skin. Suddenly, Joffrey could see every face around him, each as sharp as wolves' teeth, all sneering, all laughing. Lords and knights and smallfolk. All daring to laugh. There was that Lannister squire with the missing front tooth. There was that boy who had sat with the Stark girls in the grass. There was Lord Darry with a self-satisfied sneer.

Father's face was red now, and his chest heaved, his breath coming short.

"Tommen is...is ten, but whatever you saw cowed you and not him? Huh? Answer me! Is that it!? Are you more a coward than a child?!"

He tried to speak. Oh, how he wished to speak! But his tongue was caked in dried mud and blood, and the words would not come.

His father required no response.

"YOU. ARE. NOT. MY. SON!"

A/N:

Well, it has been a hot minute. Sorry for the long delay. In a farcical turn of events, I got appendicitis the first week of 2021 and had to get my appendix out. So. The year has been off to a great start, clearly. Anyway, you would think that hanging out in hospital all day would give me a lot of time to write, but as it turns out, being high on opiates isn't conducive to productivity. Who would have thought? Fun times.

I also started classes for my masters program, so that's been a good time. Doesn't feel like school yet, but soon, I imagine, I'll be writing essays again yikes.

Then I found out that an anime I was actually obsessed with in my childhood came out with a sequel when I wasn't paying attention. Of course I had to go and rewatch half the original anime, then watch the sequel and obsess over it.

And naturally, all this time, I've been reading fics, and it's really the fault of this fandom for having so many hidden gems. I got sucked in quite a bit.

Anyway, that's the end of my excuses and elaborating on my personal life in case anyone cared. Hope this chapter was entertaining at the very least. If it wasn't clear…Arya is the biggest troll ever, and Sansa is a surprisingly good manipulative liar if she sets her heart to it. They orchestrated this whole thing for Joffrey, and our poor lad fell head-first into their trap. (I—ahem, Sansa and Arya—completely made up vampire wolf demon story, just fyi.)

I was stuck on the chapter for quite some time, and the quality might be...idk lacking? I don't even know anymore. At this point, I'm just glad it's done, The next few chapters should be posted pretty soon, but then I might take a little more time to plan out the whole KL arc before I get into writing it.

Anyway, thanks for sticking with me everyone! Thank you in particular to my betas (Captain Fuckew McHugerage and CMedina) for helping me figure out this chapter and generally listening to my insecure rantings about my fic.

And finally, a huge thank you to all the users on Reddit that helped review this last chapter. They were so so kind and gave me a lot of motivation to continue, especially u/Kaimkre1 who did a really thorough edit of the first part of this chapter and gave me a whole bunch of fantastic suggestions to make everything better.

They're Kasamira on AO3, and they've written a really beautiful fic (The Flower that Hides the Serpent), which I read while procrastinating. The Sansa/Oberyn ship makes me a tad tentative, but the second chapter does one of the best character studies of Cersei I've ever seen in fanfic, so definitely go check that out :) Really hope they'll continue /

The subReddit is called r/TheCitadel, btw, and people are generally really helpful with recommendations and fic idea support. This fic would literally not exist if that sub didn't. Really, go have a look :)))))