Part 7 – A King Returns

Lucius (I)

The brief mid-day shower had tempered Lucius Pomponius Bassus' already faint appreciation for the beaten earth avenue taking him through the unending forest to Rex Hercules' capital. But the freshly made mud did not slow the steady beat of the near thousand caligae propelling the cohors down the ill made via publica named the 'Kingsroad.' Certainly wider than the Via Appia or Via Aurelia, it did at least have the occasional patch of crushed gravel or slight raised stone boundary to help distinguish it from the woods around it. Even a corduroy road would show more construction skill than this third rate via rustica. Still, until he saw evidence to the contrary, the martial culture of these people appeared to be horse based, so maybe earthen viae did make more sense than the stone paved ones of proud Roma. Though there was simply no excuse for the architectural monstrosity of a so called bridge that they had crossed a league earlier.

A stiff breeze blew the last of the clouds away, revealing a sun strong enough for the Mare Nostrum. He unclasped the catch on his thick, red-dyed sagum and swung the thing off his shoulders. An ironic smile broke on his face as he truthfully acknowledged to himself the barbarians weren't totally without redeeming capabilities. Thanks to the 'stirrups' he'd hardly worried, like he once would have, about keeping a balanced saddle while taking off his water-repellent woolen cloak. And he suspected the 'horse shoes' nailed to his beast's hoofs were likely more effective than the hipposandals used by the alaris of the Legio. 'By the shades of my ancestors, let these Westerosae have an urbs and an arx closer to Roma than to Eboracum,' the Tribunus prayed.

The improving weather appeared to lift the Rex's spirits too, and with an atrocious Latinum accent the stout fighter's baritone voice broke into one of the marching songs the lads had interminably repeated over the last few days. "Legatus, I had the news last night – my cohors ordered home. By ships to Portus Itius and thence by road to Roma. I've marched the centuriae aboard, the arms are stowed below; now let another take my sword …"

Lucius sighed. The cuculus could fight like his adopted name sake, no one watching him spar in each night's camp would doubt that. 'But why, by Juppiter, must we follow a loud brute with no gravitas,' he wondered.

He sniffed at the air. The wind brought new scents to his aquiline nose; salt and shit. He stared hard through the trees in front of the six wide column of marching legionaries, searching for a glimpse of azure or stone. He lifted his nose in the air again, confirming his suspicion. The smells were undeniable: the sea and a city.

He looked over at the handsome, agreeable Lord Renly riding by his side. "King's Landing?" he asked.

The young man returned the question with an easy-going smile and the word, "Soon."

The Kingswood did not end in dribs and drabs of lessening tree cover over the Kingsroad, but in a sudden revealing swoop, like walking through a doorway. When the front of the cohort staggered at the view exposed by the abrupt transition, Titus Sidonius' gravelly voice shouted out, "Are you virgins to have never seen a woman's mound before? That's only a fucking city. Act like you've been in one before!" The Centurion's challenge appropriately shamed the men and they kept on marching, doing their best to not gawk too hard at what might become their new home.

Anticipation roiled in Lucius stomach, but he guarded the emotion on his face as well as any patrician son of Rome. Relief and excitement battled within him as he passed out of the forest and his eyes soared over the miles of farmland and the sliver of a suburb between him and the Blackwater Rush, to fix on the capital of Westeros. The teeming metropolis, rising on three hills, beyond the river's dark water and behind the curtain of an immense outer wall beckoned to him, raising exotic visions of oriental splendor in his mind. King's Landing was not a dung heap; no, far from it. Yet, not Rome either, but perhaps something to rival Antioch or Alexandria.

Lord Renly smirked at him. "Happy?"

"Glad you spoke truly," he responded politely. "Your city is impressive, populous, wealthy."

Renly's smirk widened further. "Worried Robert wouldn't have the coin to pay you?" he insightfully asked.

Lucius returned a practiced smile, completely insincere. "We may have difficulties understanding each other's language, but the Legate never doubted the honesty of the King."

"Haha, that's my dear brother. Honest. Loyal. Friendly. Generous with coin, wine, and lands; but deadly to his enemies. All-in-all quite the amusing fellow."

The Tribune's brain, well trained in the school of the Imperial Senate, tingled at the possibilities Renly's words implied about both the King and Renly. However, before he could tentatively explore the insinuations made by the Lord of Storm's End, the Watch Commander rode up to share in his Subura born accent what insights to the capital he saw.

"Hail, Tribune. Hail, Lord Renly. I'd think assault of the city from this side of the river would be nigh impossible."

"A wider crossing than the Tiber, Publius Postumius. See all the docks and large ships; near as much as Ostia holds."

"And the wall behind, taller than the Servian. Those catapults beyond the gate may be the largest I've ever seen. They could range the whole river."

"Lord Renly, who mans the walls?" the Tribune asked.

"Gold cloaks." At the two Romans blank stare, he continued. "The city watch. Good enough to handle drunks and cut purses; not anyone to fight a battle out in the open," he said contemptuously.

"And that?" Lucius inquired, pointing at the structure on the tallest hill inside the city. "Is that the Red Keep?"

"Yes, Robert's quaint home. I have a modest apartment there too, which I am quite looking forward to returning to after a fortnight in the wild. I'm sure the King's Hand has already prepared accommodations there for you as well. Lord Stark is a tad gloomy, but the efficient type."

"Takes up as much space as all five of the Imperial Forums," Publius Postumius declared. "Does all the King's government function out of the Red Keep or are other parts of it housed elsewhere?"

Renly's laugh showed his obvious mirth at the question. "The Iron Throne is there, and my brother sits on it occasionally. Whether that counts as governing," he shrugged his shoulder. "The Hand, who does most of that sort of work, has his own tower in the Red Keep."

Publius Postumius now raised his own arm to point. "On the farthest hill, what is that building? It's almost as large as the King's Keep and our own Flavian Amphitheater."

"Oh, the Dragonpit." Both Romans' eyebrows raised skeptically at the word 'dragon,' causing further chuckles from the King's brother. "It's true, and I can prove it to you. The skulls of several of the Targaryens' 'little' pets are kept in some dungeon under the Keep. I'll take you there tomorrow. I'd hate it if you came to think King's Landing was filled with nothing but lies."

Polites (IV)

The volcano that was the King's impatience always boiled near the surface. The lack of adequate barges on the south side of the river to bring the whole cohort over together unleashed a royal rant which only required minimal translation to the Legion officer's gathered nearby on the river docks. So the officers standing together did as officers invariably do, and talked.

"As I suspected, they weren't ready for us." said the Watch Commander through his stone mask of a face. "We march faster than the Westerosi are used to from foot soldiers."

"The boys did fine," agreed Titus Sidonius, "and I didn't even push them hard. From what the Hercules has said about his horse charge happy bastards, we'll know more than a few tricks to help us in battle against their like." The Centurion of the Second Cohort then mimed loading a scorpio with a dart and firing it.

"Do not reveal our secrets, martial or otherwise, before we must; even to the King," cautioned the Tribune. "We will need ever advantage we can to ensure we prosper in this land."

"And keep your ears open for things of import they may reveal," added Publius Postumius, before turning to look straight at Polites. "And that goes thrice for you my Greek friend. You translate for them, yet I see several of these lords act as if you were some invisible servant. Learn their language, and quickly."

Polites swallowed hard, for he thought he'd just been the same unseen, unremarkable presence to them, but not to the all seeing Publius Postumius, scourge of every soldier, Roman or auxiliary, in the Legion. "Of course, Watch Commander. Their speech has scarce logic to it, but the tongue is no harder to my ear than that of Britannia."

"Well I have no trouble understanding the big Stag," proclaimed the Centurion with a chuckle. "No translation necessary for fucking, fighting, and drinking."

"Keep a sober head Titus Sidonius, and the rest of you too." The Tribune glared particularly hard at the junior officers in the group. "I want no brawling, no fighting; anything that might give them cause to deny us a safe haven. We are more lost than Xenophon ever was. Tread carefully," he commanded.

"Tribune, the men will act as they always do in garrison, if they have the coin for it," the Watch Commander announced.

"Which means fucking, fighting, and drinking," agreed the Centurion, grinning.

"And it is up to you officers to put the fear of the gods in them not to fight," Lucius Pomponius Bassus declared.

"Ahem," Polites interrupted. "Begging your sirs' pardon, but if some coin could be distributed among the men, it would aid them in their quest for grape and whores. I fear without those distractions, the risk of brawling only increases."

"What? Training not distracting enough? Bah, the Greek's probably not off the mark," Titus Sidonius pretended to grudgingly admitted, while an amused looking Publius Postumius nodded his head in agreement.

"We've not settled on a contract with the King yet. The money would need come out of the contingency funds the Legate gave me," the Tribune said, as his face scrunched tighter than a Vestal Virgin's snatch at the idea of handing out coin. "Oh, very well; the men have earned it. Six denarii each, a week's wages. We'll see how much good Roman silver buys. But none to leave the Keep until I grant permission, and only by squads when I do."

A man dressed identical to Ser Barristan and Ser Greenfield met the King's barge as it docked. Not far behind him, two thin, long lines of men mostly holding long spears, sporting half helms, and wearing chain under gold cloaks formed a path leading back toward the gate into the city.

Ser Barristan whispered to Polites, "The King wishes to introduce Tribune Lucius to Ser Boros Blount of his Kingsguard. He will lead our escort back to the Red Keep."

Polites assisted with the introductions of the Cohort's senior officers to the unimpressive blustering lump on a horse, while the junior officers hastily assembled the offloading legionnaires into a semblance of an organized column.

When the King's impatience led him to assess enough order existed in the mass of soldiers, he nudged his horse to start moving forward, his pretty, disagreeable son at his side. The Watch Commander and the Centurion in unison barked, "Attention!" The sudden crash of hobnailed boots and jingling of armor as near five hundred soldiers snapped too, rattled more than one horse and rider in the King's party. "Forward! Parade March!"

Once inside the wall, small crowds gathered, mostly at street junctures, to watch and cheer the King, as well as gawk at the cohort. Hercules might be a popular monarch, but the copper pieces he flung; and copper it was for one bounced off the helm of a nearby gold cloak to land in Polites' lap, certainly added volume to the cheers.

The people of King's Landing appeared not much different than those from Rhodes or Pergamon. The style of clothing was different of course, but the quality ran the same. A few dressed richly and clean in leathers or fine spun silk, while most wore dirty wool homespun or cheap linen tunics and pants. Polites paid attention to how many wore shoes, simple clogs, or went barefoot. He slapped a hand down as some urchin darted out from between the far spaced city watch to try and pluck something off his saddle. The dirty street child gained a hard cuff to the head for his efforts.

Polites turned in his saddle to stare hard at a richly dressed man sporting shockingly blue hair. Seeing his gaze, Ser Barristan laughed. "That one's a Tyroshi, from the Free Cities, across the Narrow Sea. His language is yours, or near enough to it he'd talk with you better than I."

'Not hard to do old man,' Polites thought, 'you talk like a Thracian goat herder.' And then his eyes swiveled again, catching sight of two alluring Nubians: one older, taller, and darker; the other younger, shorter, and slightly lighter colored. His groin stirred. Many years had passed since last he lay with a Nubian; hardly a one in Britannia, and those all men. He wondered if the coin promised by the Tribune would be enough to relief the stiffness now plaguing him.

"Those two are Summer Islanders, from far, far to the south. Do you not have any ebon skinned peoples in your land?" the white cloaked droned on.

"Yes, they come from far south of the island where I was born. The sun burns hotter there," he answered distractedly.

Thoughts of whores made Polites search for brothel signs above the doors of the businesses on the curving street they traversed. The paintings on the billboards seemed more elaborate than the norm, of course his most recent norm was Eboracum, not exactly a bustling metropolis with a call for artistry in its signage. But a detailed picture containing grapes or a cup or an amphora seemed a solid indicator for a tavern, he thought. He suspected a brothel might not be permitted on such a main thoroughfare, but he couldn't help speculate what such an establishment's sign might appear as: a naked lady, two legs shaped as a 'Y', rutting animals?

The street merged into another and then started winding up a hill toward the King's fortress. Liquid sewage took advantage of the drop in elevation to bring filth down to those below. Maybe too many years spent as an auxiliary to the Legion's shit discipline made him squeamish about bad sanitation, but the place was definitely smellier and dirtier than most any place he'd ever spent time in. Though to be fair, it was more populous than any city he'd visited. He doubted if Rome stunk so horribly, Pergamon hadn't and more than a hundred thousand souls called that fair polis home.

As the cohort approached the gate to the Red Keep, Polites tried to sum up his feelings of King's Landing. A proper city, and one much larger than he dared hope when first he found Hercules crushing that Erymanthian Boar with only the one hand. Different too, that would take time to adjust to. Learning the language would help. But it had wealth and skilled craftsmen. He could likely find some niche for his services when his stint to the Legion ended. 'What could go wrong?' he rhetorically asked himself.

Robert (IV)

Robert, even if he'd wanted to, couldn't keep a smug look of pride off his face as Ser Preston Greenfield escorted Centurion Titus and the front of the cohort column through the main gate and into the Red Keep. The last couple of hundred yards before the wall, Watch Commander Publius and the rest of the sergeants had yelled, threatened, and swatted the men from an already immaculate parade march into a single synchronized living beast of warlike beauty. Once into the Outer Yard, each alternating row peeled off left or right. He imagined the gold cloaks watching must be shitting their pants at the scene of it, and Ned struck dumb with amazement.

Alongside Tribune Lucius and Joffrey, he crossed the bridge over the moat and passed between the mighty bronze doors of the keep. Several score gold cloaks, red cloaks, other guards, and minor lordlings were drawn up behind either the gathered Small Council or the scowling countenance of the Queen. Without conscious thought, Robert knew which group to reign his horse to a stop in front of.

"Well Ned," he boomed in a loud voice. "Damned impressive, aren't they!" he declared in a voice that brooked no disagreement.

The unsmiling Hand hobbled a few steps forward and bowed. As Ned straightened back up, he replied through an ashen face, "They are your Grace."

Robert leaned forward in concern to loudly whisper, "Ned, you look like shit. Is the leg no better?"

"It improves," Ned responded neutrally, obviously trying to mask discomfort.

"Well … good. Now let me introduce …"

"Husband, I would speak with you," the nag interrupted, quickly stepping forward to impose herself in front of the Hand.

"Woman, can't you see I'm busy?" Robert blustered.

"I must speak with you immediately, your Grace. A matter of grave urgency," interjected Ned, all the while edging around the side of the Queen to gain an equal share of the King's view.

Robert rolled his eyes, "You too? By the Seven I've brought guests," he blurted unhappily, fearing their bickering might increase and diminish him in front of warriors whose good opinion he coveted. "I would not want it said I was an inconsiderate host."

"They will unfortunately have to wait. The news I have must not, cannot, wait. I beg you, Robert," spoke Cersei in a voice that started in her usual steely calm but ended in an almost pleading tone.

"If you would come with me, your Grace; Lord Baelish may play host and start negotiations with this company," broke in Ned.

Confused by their duel for his attention, Robert's eyes narrowed and he asked," Am I to see you both together then?"

"No!" they answered in an agitated union of voices.

"By the love you hold for our dear children …" burst Cersei.

"By your love for John Arryn, I know why he was murdered," shouted Ned even faster.

"Seven Hells, be quiet!" he yelled in his battle voice, rattling the ramparts. After taking a moment to collect himself in the ensuing silence, Robert turned in his saddle. "If you will forgive me for a moment Tribune Lucius, matters of state. Lord Baelish, the Master of the Coin, will attend you in my absence." Selmy translated to the Legion's deputy commander, as Robert dismounted. "Bloody nuisance, where's my squire. Oh never mind," he said in disgust, simply letting go of the horse reins. "Littlefinger, come here," he said, crooking a meaty finger at the slender man with a mockingbird pendant pinned to his stylish tunic.

Petyr Baelish gracefully stepped forward and bowed, "How may I be of service, your Grace?"

"You heard my message to Ned about these sellswords?" the King inquired.

"As difficult as it is staying awake when Lord Stark speaks, I vaguely recollect hearing something, yes."

"Good," Robert grumpily replied and then began gesturing all around the Outer Yard. "Go offer Tribune Lucius here, Centurion Titus over there with his men, and Watch Commander Publius, the mean looking bastard on the horse behind Lucius, wine and refreshments. Give them a tour of the Red Keep. Impress them. I want these men. Don't fuck it up Littlefinger or the Small Council might need a new member."

"As you command." Baelish replied with a lazy, sly smile and dropped another bow before moving toward the Romans.

"Ser Selmy!"

"Your Grace?"

"Find quarters for the legionnaires. Make sure they get a meal, wine, good wine, and some entertainment."

"Ser Preston and Ser Boros will see to it."

"Fine. Now Ned, where shall we talk?" asked Robert said.

"And what about me?" the nag interrupted. "Am I to be ignored, as usual, in favor of this northern lout?"

"Hold your tongue, woman," Robert snarled. "It's about Jon Arryn. I'll make time for you later. Go see your son. It's been two weeks. He's probably forgotten what it's like to be pampered to death."

The Queen of discord stood her ground, face hostile and intent. "Damn you, this Hand of yours will vomit lies to your face and you'll lap it up like a dog."

"Go on! Let the boy tell you how we were almost killed together. You'll enjoy that tale no doubt."

Cersei's face fell at those words and rushed over to her first born.

"Gods," Robert swore. "Never thought she'd leave. Now what's this you have to tell me about Jon Arryn, Ned? I loved the man like a father, but he foisted a shadowcat of a wife on me."

"I found the evidence for which Jon was murdered," Ned announced solemnly.

"Out with it then," Robert rumbled.

"Much of it must be seen to be understood. I have it safe in the Small Hall," said Ned, extending a hand in the direction of the Tower of the Hand.

Robert stared down at the table. "A book? Jon was killed over a book?" The King spun the book so he could read the title, "'The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms,' by Grand Maester Malleon," he grunted. "More like killed by boredom if he read this."

"I've heard what Jon's last words, to you, were. Do you remember?"

"Of course, I'm not daft Stark," Robert snorted. "'The seed is strong.' Your good sister Lysa was in the room with us. Jon was half out of his skull from the milk of the poppy Pycelle swilled him with. But his words were about his boy, a sniveling little runty thing I'm sorry to say."

"No, he was talking about you Robert," Ned insisted.

"Nooo! Why would he? Of course my seed is strong, I got three trueborn children and gods only know how many bastards."

"At least six, probably many more," answered Ned in an emotionless voice.

Robert laughed, "Been checking up on me?"

"On your prodigy," Ned answered, deadly serious. "As well you know. This happened," and the Hand gently slapped his injured leg, still in a plaster cast, "when I came back from that whorehouse after visiting the girl Mhaegen. Varly, send them in."

The Winterfell man led a tall, strapping youth and a slender red haired girl holding a baby into the Small Hall.

"Ned," Robert rumbled dangerously.

As they approached the King, the youth looked somewhat sullen and resentful; while the girl wept tears of joy. She bobbed a curtsey and whispered, "I am so happy to see you again milord, to bring me here. I knew you hadn't forgotten me; or the little one. I named her Barra, milord. I hope it pleases you."

"Seven Hells! I mean, yes. I am pleased to see you Mhaegen, you were always an adorable chit."

"Look at the child, your Grace," Ned commanded.

"Who's King here Stark?"

"Look at the child."

"Alright, damn you, if it will make you happy." Robert stepped right up to the girl, even though he feared she might make a scene and clutch at him. "Well, aren't you a pretty one," he said leaning forward. "Cutchee-cutchee." He tickled the babe under her chin and a strong, tiny hand grabbed his finger. "Strong too," he chuckle.

"Does she not look like the babe you sired in the Vale?" Ned questioned.

"How would … That was almost twenty years ago Ned."

"Look!" Ned order.

"Oh you stiff necked, pride full piece of shit Stark," the King complained, but he did look again. "Yes. I suppose so."

"Thank you Mhaegan. That will be all. His Grace will visit you again, soon; and I promise to find a better position for you and your child than a whorehouse," Ned promised.

The girl began to weep as the guard escorted her back to the steps leading to the Tower of the Hand.

"She's bloody well not getting a position here," Robert warned in a hiss.

"No, your Grace, certainly not. And this is Gendry. He works as an apprentice to Tobho Mott," announced Ned.

"Of course he does. With arms and shoulders like that, no other place for him than to be hammering out steel and iron. Your master does excellent work. "

"Thank you, milord Grace," the strong youth replied tentatively, though his eyes, exuding some indecipherable emotion, never stopped staring at the King's face.

"Jon Arryn and your brother Stannis visited him earlier this year at his armory. Right before Jon took ill," Ned said.

"Is this true boy?" commanded the King.

"Yes milord Grace. Well, the old Hand and a big bald man did visit the armory and ask to see me. Only the old Hand spoke. The other said nothing and just looked angry."

Robert chuckled. "Sounds like Stannis. And did the Hand die soon after he saw you."

"A few weeks, milord Grace."

"Thank you Gendry. You may return to the room prepared for you. And should you ever wish it, I can find you a journeyman position in Winterfell; or if that's too cold for you, Riverrun."

"Thank you, milord Hand," the overgrown boy responded, before backing up and leaving the Small Hall.

"Well?" asked Ned.

"Well what?" Robert answered.

"Those are two of your bastards."

"I know that! I'm not blind. And thank you very little for bringing them here to rub in Cersei's face. She knows they're here, doesn't she?" Robert asked all agitated. "She won't readily forgive this slight."

"Yes. But aren't you at all curious why Jon would visit the boy Gendry."

"Who knows or damn well cares. Jon arranged things for the girl back in the Vale. So he was doing that here."

"And why did Stannis flee to Dragonstone?" Ned responded.

"Because he's fucking Stannis and if he doesn't have some slight to brood over he's not happy. Damn it Ned, is your head full of snow. What the hells does any of this have to do with Jon's death."

The Hand returned to the table and picked up the tome, quickly flipping it open. "Here, I've marked the pages in the book. Ninety years ago Tya Lannister married Gowen Baratheon; that was the most recent union between your two houses until you married Cersei. The book says they had one child, 'a large and lusty lad born with a full head of black hair.' Then thirty years before a Baratheon woman gave birth to three Lannister children, all with black hair. Every instance in this book, Robert, every instance, when the gold of the Lion married the black of the Stag, the Stag won and a black haired child was born."

"So?"

"'The seed is strong.' Jon knew it and was about to tell you, that is why the Lannisters killed him. Where is the Stag in Joffrey or Tommen or Myrcella? Where Robert? Where?"

No answer came out of Robert's mouth, as if he did not understand what Ned had just said. But slowly his face changed as the implication of the accusation came to him. His eyes narrowed to slits and a dark flush crept up his neck. Robert pointed a finger angrily at Ned, speechless, his face purple and contorted with rage.

"I confronted Cersei six days ago with this knowledge. On my honor, and by the lives of all I hold dear, she openly admitted, and proudly, Jaime Lannister fathered all three of her children."

Robert's eyes popped wide. "No," he choked, rasping out from a throat throttled by fury and betrayal, "My boys, my beautiful boys."

"By the Old Gods, I'm so sorry Robert; truly I'm sorry. But this is why Jon died and Stannis fled. They learned the truth."

Tears running down his face, the Stag bellowed "I swear I'll have her head on a pike!"

Joffrey (II)

His mother resolutely stalked up to him as he proudly sat his steed, cutting a knightly figure in the late afternoon light of the Outer Yard. "Your father chooses to ignore me as usual, Joffrey; come, we must talk."

"Mother," he complained. "I am just returned from the hunt. I dare say a bath and a fine meal are in order first."

"Now Joffrey," she commanded in that particular harsh whisper his mother only used when especially irked. "Or must I have the Hound drag you by your ear."

He snapped a look over at his Dog and received a laugh from the wretched beast in response. "Oh very well," he conceded with resigned superiority and dismounted. "See to my horse, Dog," he ordered, causing the ugly behemoth to laugh again. Joffrey's mouth puckered in frustration. "What's so blasted important? I thought you wanted to talk with Father?" he complained, while noting the Stag and his insolent Hand slowly hobble toward the Small Hall.

His mother's hand lightly caressed his check, "Not here, my golden son," she said, sadness now overlaying the iron in her voice. "Walk with me. Tell me about these sellswords. Why is the King so interested in them?"

"Oh, if I must," he replied sourly, "They are peasants and brutes, the lot of them. I could scarcely stand to be around them. I don't know what father expects to do with them, but if he asks me I'd say send them to the Wall and let the Others take them."

"I heard rumor they come from the Free Cities," his mother queried.

"Oh that," he scoffed. "I think not. A small group of them speak a smattering of something like Valyrian, or at least it sounded so to me, no thanks to those boring lessons you made me sit through with dreadful old Pycelle."

"Then where do they come from?" she asked.

Joffrey noticed that despite the questions his mother asked she seemed distracted somehow as she guided him towards the Great Hall. "Well I believe the Greeks, those few who speak a rustic dialect of Free Cities' speech, are descendants of slaves who escaped the Doom. The Greeks are mere servants to the Romans, who make up the bulk of their pathetic army. I mean they didn't even have stirrups for their horses till we showed them. Worthless. Anyway, I think they are leading their new masters, these Romans, to some legendary Valyrian treasure their forefathers hid when they escaped the Doom. They must have come from some place far beyond the Sunset Sea and the Summer Isles. A few of them are even ebon skinned."

Mother smiled kindly at him, too kindly. It frightened him. Then she ruffled his hair and clutched at his arm. "Always so wonderfully clever, my Joff."

"Mother, what's going on? Why are here?" he asked nervously, staring up at the soaring, intricately carved columns supporting the front edifice of the Great Hall.

"Go in. Go in now Joffrey," she insisted, giving him a small shove.

He jerked his body back from her touch. "I don't want to go inside the Throne Room! I don't want to see the stupid Iron Throne! I want to rest."

"No! The time for rest is over. You will not just see the Iron Throne. You will sit on it, as is your birthright. You are a Lannister, remember that. Now go!" And his mother shoved Joffrey a second time; causing the Hound, who had followed behind at a discrete distance, to laugh at him a third time.

"Mother, you're scaring me!" he declared.

"Nothing like your father will when he's done talking with that traitor Stark. Now go in!"

Joffrey scurried forward under the Great Hall's arches to avoid being pushed yet another time.

Four gold cloaks, on duty inside the Throne Room, snapped to attention when they spotted Joffrey and the Queen marching down between the massive sixty feet high pillars inside the Great Hall.

"Out!" his mother shouted. "I wish to speak with my son alone."

"Your, Grace, ahhh …"

"Kill them if they don't start moving," she ordered. The Hound tugged at his pommel and the guards fled. Satisfied, she looked back at the scar faced bodyguard, "You too." The Dog grunted in response, but took his hand from off his sword and turned around.

Finally alone, Joffrey's mother walked up to the Iron Throne. She stood there staring at it, back turned to her son, and then started running her hands ever so softly, so lovingly, over it. Finally she started speaking, "Nearly a week ago Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, met me alone in the Godswood to tell me the lies he intended to speak to your father. The horrible lies he's telling the King right now to dishonor me, to dishonor you, to dishonor the entire Lannister house."

"I don't understand. The Stark is father's friends. I am to marry his silly headed daughter."

"You were Joff, you were. But not now. Sansa's been sent away from King's Landing, all the while making it look like I tried to kidnap her. Oh he's a sly one, Ned Stark. Always talking of honor, and acting holier than though, while inside he's dark as night."

"That bastard!"

His mother laughed. "Oh you'll find out all about bastardry, Joffrey. For that is the lie your father's dearest, noblest friend is telling him now; that you're a bastard."

Joffrey gasped at the unbelievable, titanic outrage of the accusation.

"What's worse, if you can believe it, the self righteous Stark is saying that I conceived you and your siblings by laying with my own brother, your Uncle Jaime."

"Noooooooo!" Joffrey howled. "I'll kill him. I'll see his head on a spike!" he raged.

"Someday child, but not this day," she replied sadly.

"Father will never believe these lies. He won't. He can't!" the prince wailed.

"Joffrey!" her voice snapped like a whip, jerking his teary screech to a halt. "Listen to me. LISTEN TO ME! Come here." The Queen finally stopped looking at the throne and turned to face Joffrey. "You will sit on this throne and you will rule! I promise it. But you must be brave." She slapped her son's face, the sting of the pain cutting into the shock.

"But how?"

"You must be a man, a Lannister. Come, sit on it. There isn't much time. I want for you in the dark times ahead to be able to remember what it feels like, the power. The memory will see you through until the time comes to take back your birthright and seek vengeance. And help will come for you, don't despair. From Casterly Rock. From your Uncle Jaime. From your Grandfather. Our gold and the promise of your marriage will buy us many allies to war against the traitors. Now climb. Take a seat on your destiny. Feel the power that is your birthright."

Joffrey gulped back more tears as he put a foot on the first step.

"Ascend the throne my golden prince. My king," his mother urged.

Two more steps and he pivoted to take his place at the heart of the Iron Throne. The cold of the jagged, twisted blades arcing around the Prince seeped into him, clearing his mind and covering his heart in ice. "Why is the traitor Stark doing this, mother?" he asked.

The Queen smiled. "I posed that very question to him. All he said was, 'when you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground.'"

Joffrey nodded to show his understanding. "Then how am I to survive today, so that I will have my vengeance on the morrow?"

"There has ever been little love between your father and me, that is no secret" she said while shaking her head just enough to draw attention to the last of the fading bruise on her check. "And though he drank and whored rather than spend time with you, yet he loves you … loved you. So no matter what the Lord Stark is telling him, the spark of that memory will not die right away. And I will take his anger, as I ever have."

A roar of "Whore!?" echoed down the Throne Room. "Where are ya, ya cunt?! Show me, so I can choke the life out of you!" the voice of the King thundered.

A few tears fell down his mother's face. "I will always love you Joffrey, golden sun of my flesh."

Robert (V)

Robert burst out the Small Hall, nearly knocking over Ser Barristan as he stood watch.

"Where is she?! Where is the slut?!"

"Your Grace, stop. Wait for me," came Ned's distant call.

Robert grabbed the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard by his plated shoulders, shaking him. "Where Selmy? Where?" the Stag trumpeted, face contorted in anger, spittle flying with every word.

"Who your grace?"

"That bitch Cersei! Where'd she go?!"

"To the Great Hall with Prince Joffrey, and Clegane trailing along," Ser Barristan answered, startled by the venom and madness of the King.

"She took her whoreson and her Dog with her? Ha! Like that can save her!"

"Your Grace, are you ... ?" but the King had already released him and started a lumbering trot across the Outer Yard before Ser Barristan could finish his question. The lordlings, gold cloaks, Romans, and small folk of the keep still gathered in the open space first gaped at sight of the King yelling, then tittered, gossiped, stood dumbstruck, or stepped closer at the spectacle of the Stags belly jiggling as he jogged on the Keep's grounds, followed by the hurried steps of a white cloak.

"She said to kill any who came to disturb her," announced the Hound indifferently from the gloom, surprising the King by his presence. The fire scarred, deadly man leaned casually against a column of the Great Hall, in a lea of shade from the westerly dipping sun.

"Shut up or I'll kill you," Robert responded, slowing down, but not stopping.

Sandor Clegane shrugged his shoulders, unconcerned.

Robert ignored him and continued forward with strident, forceful paces. He pushed open one of the main doors to the Throne Room, a great oaken thing, twenty feet high and bound in bands of bronze. Stepping inside, the angle of sunlight coming through the windows perched high in the walls cast long shadows, obscuring many parts of the hall. Whore!?" he yelled, moving forward remorselessly, driven to blot out the stain on his honor. "Where are ya, ya cunt?! Show me, so I can choke the life out of you!" The stain on his honor. The loss of what love he still felt for anyone.

There! He spotted them, together, through the alternating shafts of murk and light dancing with speckles of dust. "Step away from the throne, boy," he called out sternly. "Your mother's taint," and his voice choked on the contempt he layered onto the words he spoke, "curses you. Makes you an abomination. A stain on the Kingdom."

"No, Father!" the boy cried.

"Call me that again, and you die now."

"Please," the boy begged, breaking away from the Queen of Lies to run toward him. "It's all lies. All lies. You are … I am your son. I love you."

"Love died when your Uncle prodded himself in that whore's twisted, evil cunt."

"You're the expert on whores," came the bitch's icy, always so superior retort.

The boy dropped to his knees in front of Robert, sniveling and teary eyed, "All I ever wanted was to … was to … make you proud of me ..."

"Out of my way!"

"… to earn your love. Please. Don't believe the traitorous lies. I beg you. Father. Ahhhhh," the boy screamed from the backhand blow Robert walloped him with.

"I told you not to call me that, damn you!" the King swore. His boot lifted and he kicked the crumpled, bawling youth a glancing blow to his shoulder.

"Stop!" the Queen of Lies screamed. "I said if you ever hurt Joffrey again I'd kill you."

Robert stepped over the quivering, weeping mass of ugly golden hair and haughty Lannister features. "You? Kill me? By the Gods that's too funny Cersei," he chuckled maliciously. "You know who's going to die here, don't you? Ehh, you brother fucking slut!?" he howled.

"Oh I know you intend to silence the truth," she proclaimed in her voice of queenly certainty, as she stepped on to the first level of the Iron Throne. Turning back to face the King, she stood erect, looking down her arrogant Lannister nose at him with those cold green that never once gazed upon him with even the slightest hint of fondness.

"Get down," he whispered in deadly earnest, taking a step forward.

"To help you hide from all the lies your precious Ned has fed you? Like a babe at the tit? I think not."

Closing another stride toward the font of hate, of injury to his pride; his hand stabbed out at her. "You poisoned Jon."

"Of course, what an easy truth to tell you. Over half a year dead, a kindly old man who treated me better than you ever did, and not a shred of proof, I'll wager, to show from the Hand that feeds you lies, just an accusation. How convenient," she scorned.

"He knew the truth," ground out Robert, taking another pace.

"The truth manufactured by the honorable," and she made the word sound like an epithet, "Lord Stark? How droll. Here's a truth, did he speak of sending his children back to Winterfell without your consent?"

"Only the truth that you fucked your brother," he raged, reaching the foot of the Iron Throne.

The whore edged backward, up a step. "The truth from the man whose wife kidnapped my brother on the preposterous claim the Imp tried to kill his son?"

Robert followed her onto the Iron Throne. "The truth your three children have the golden hair of the Lannisters and not the coal of the Baratheons."

The Queen of Lies stepped backward again, still eyeing him with contempt. "The truth from the man whose only interest in Lannister gold is the three million dragons you indebted yourself to the generosity of Casterly Rock."

The Stag continued his slow motion pursuit of the Lioness. "The truth the spawn you tried to pass as my own was fathered by Jaime fucking Kingslayer."

The nag who destroyed his soul sat on the very seat of the Iron Throne, for there was no place left for her to retreat. "The truth from the man already working with Renly to broker your next marriage? To Margaery Tyrell, no less. They've commissioned a painting of her to show you. For her sake, I hope she only births you black haired babes."

"The truth that you tried and failed to kill me," he accused, joining her, looming over her seated form on the highest tier of the Iron Throne.

The slut bitch laughed gaily at the last indictment. "Oh if I tried to kill you, you'd already be dead. You should've realized that, but your brain always was weaker than your limp cock. I wished I had slept with Jaime, he's probably got a staff that could pleasure a woman. Oh it's a pity."

Robert's large hand wrapped around the beautiful, slender neck only used for spewing a harridan's vile. "I would not say such things if I were you," he whispered with lusty hate.

Small laughs trickled out of Cersei's lush, ruby lips as he slowly applied pressure. "Oh you were ever weak minded Robert. Led by the nose, believing everything said to you by those you trusted. First Jon. Now Ned," she squeaked through a larynx yielding to relentless pressure.

"Shut up," the Stag commanded the Lioness.

"As squires, in the night of the Eyrie, when Ned bent over you, fucking your ass; did you believe his sweet whispers in your ear? On what a pretty maiden you were?" the Harpy of Casterly Rock chirped.

Hercules' bicep rippled as he effortlessly lifted his cheating wife off the Iron Throne by her throat. "Do not utter another word," he threatened, madness clouding, narrowing his vision 'til he saw only her icy green eyes gazing at him with no fear, only superiority and amusement.

"Robert!" shouted the voice of reason. Ever honorable Ned had arrived. Ned would tell him the right thing to do. "Don't! It will mean war."

"Yes, do what Ned says. Be his bitch again." the cunt whispered.

"Shut up!" he roared, shaking her.

"No!" shouted Ned. "The Kingdom!"

"No!" cried Joffrey. "Don't father!"

"Confess your sins, and I'll give you an honorable death," the King choked out against his every instinct.

"Always pathetic. Unlike me, before she died, Lyanna felt a real cock in her," Cersei cursed him.

"DIE!" Robert screamed, plunging Cersei's body onto the sharp blades coiling, jutting at all angles out of the Iron Throne.