Chapter Two: Rat Patrol

What the king liked best was to hear them squeal. There was nothing on earth as delightful as a rat's last squeal while being impaled on the royal dagger.

Some people thought Geoffrey Baratheon was a coward. Oh yes, the young king knew. The young king knew everything. Whenever he looked around the court he saw the looks of fear, but he also saw the contempt and disdain. None of these overdressed popinjays knew that he was fearless when it came to hunting down rats. When it came to hearing them squeal.

When it came to watching them die.

Geoffrey was supposed to be resting in the heat of the afternoon, on the orders of his mother and his grandfather. They said it would cool his brain. But what Geoffrey liked to do best in the hot afternoons was sneak down into the cellars. And hunt the rats. He knew secret tunnels and passageways. He knew where they bred. He even knew how to call them, crouching down as though he were one of them, and going, "chk-chk! chk-chk!" Perhaps he would find the greatest rat of all this afternoon, the one they called Willard. Or perhaps he would find Willard's son, Ben. The flea-ridden beggars in Flea Bottom told stories of Willard and of Ben. Rats who led armies of their kind. Rats who knew no fear. Perhaps someday they would tell stories of how Geoffrey proved himself in dark combat underground, against the filthy peril of the rat kingdom.

Suddenly the boy king froze, dagger at the ready. Watching from the shadows, he saw two Gold Cloaks carrying something in a sack towards the river. Perhaps some palace servant had displeased Queen Cersei. Geoffrey felt no compassion, only curiosity. And anger because someone had killed a living thing without allowing him to watch.

"You there!" Geoffrey cried, in his petulant manner. "Put down that body. I command it!"

"Orders from the queen," said the bigger one, a black-haired brute with a cruel, freckled face. "She gives the orders round here, understand?"

"Yes, I understand." Geoffrey was amused. He turned to the smaller Gold Cloak. "Kill him." The man didn't move, and the boy king felt panic. Was he really as weak and powerless as everyone said? Then he thought, "what would my slippery little worm of an uncle do?" He smiled, instead of getting angry. "I offer you a chance for advancement, my friend. KILL HIM!"

That did the trick! The smaller gold cloak actually attacked his mate. Geoffrey watched, fascinated, wondering what it would be like to be big enough and strong enough to kill someone who was actually fighting back. For himself he liked to kill smaller things, that squealed and wriggled under his knife point. But then, danger struck again, for the big black-haired brute seemed about to force the smaller gold cloak to his knees. Geoffrey struck at once, heroically, stabbing the big man in the back while he was distracted.

"Thank you, Your Grace!" The smaller gold cloak wasted no time in putting his own blade across his companion's neck. Just to be sure. "He was no good, your Grace. Jo-Ell Nad-air was just no good."

Geoffrey laughed. "Maybe I should have backed him instead of you." The smaller, blue-eyed man flashed him a look of uncertainty. And fear. The young king felt ten feet tall, but he smiled. "Kidding. Just kidding! What is your name, gallant warrior?"

"They call me Jai-Brun, Your Grace." The young swordsman straightened his shoulders, his chestnut brown hair gleaming in the faint, unhealthy light.

"Give me your sword."

The man called Jai-Brun kneeled as the young king lifted the gory blade. "Rise, Ser Jai-Brun!" Geoffrey gave him a close look as he rose. The new-fledged knight looked to be about his own age. That was good. Geoffrey knew he needed young men who could rise with him if he was ever going to seize power - true power - from his worthless grandfather. And his mother. And his uncle.

"My loyalty and my sword alike are yours, my king."

"Very well, then." Geoffrey pointed to the rough sack lying on the filthy floor of the secret tunnel. "Who is that?"

"I don't know, Your Grace. The queen told us to take the girl to the docks. She isn't dead, just unconscious."

"Really?" After a brief struggle - part of him wanted to stab his dagger into the sack, over and over, just for fun - Geoffrey bent down and slit open the sack instead.

The dagger fell from his royal hand in shock.

His bitch of a mother had gone completely mad. It wasn't some clumsy parlor-maid. It was Lady Margaery Tyrrell!