Part 9 – To the Dungeon Borne
Joffrey (III) – November 19.
Tears poured out Joffrey's weepy, bloodshot eyes; inundating his face and spattering onto his dirty, stained hunting tunic. Long lines of slimy snot hung from his nose, oozing from the large wads of mucus wedged in his nostrils. The secretions mercifully kept him from smelling the stench of blood, shit, and piss draining out of his mother, pooling in the nooks and crannies of the Iron Throne. But no matter how hard he blinked, there was no mercy for his eyes, no way to hide from the sight of her lifeless body, spiked through with blades.
One poked out the top of her skull, raising several long strands of golden hair aloft with the fine sheen of brain matter coating the blade's pointy tip. Another sprung out of her long, slender neck, laying bare her severed trachea and esophagus. Yet between those two razor sharp edges lay Cersei's face, more peaceful and calm than ever it were in life. Her green eyes, unmoving in death, still shone bright, a narrow beam of sunlight reflecting off the irises. A trickle of blood ran down from the edge of her hairline to where her lips curled slightly, as if sharing a private joke. His beautiful, proud mother was dead, killed by his noble, terrible father. Joffrey's mind, his entire world, reeled.
"I cut my hand," the Stag emotionlessly explained, staring at a nick through which a few drops of blood welled. "She ought not to have said that, Ned," he continued matter of factly, the burning, murderous fury within him apparently quenched with his wife's expiration. "I warned her. Warned her. Offered her better than she deserved, a clean death. She ought not have spoken of Lyanna, that way. Why,Ned? Why must she ever taunt me so?"
Joffrey's emotions finally broke through his shock and stunned horror. "Aaagggghhhhhhhhhhhhh!" he wailed in a high pitched shriek, his voice echoing the heart tearing agony torturing his body.
"Shut him up," his father called irritably.
"Ser Barristan," called the Hand. "Please come take the boy."
"Where, Lord Stark?"
"Aaagggghhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
"Away from his mother!" the Hand snapped.
"Very well, to his apartment," the Lord Commander announced.
"No! He is a bastard and a traitor!" his father declared with a hint of returning anger.
"Aaagggghhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
"Take him to the Dungeon, then; the second level," the Hand spoke resignedly. "And leave a strong guard to protect him."
"From the Lannisters, very well," Ser Barristan said, nodding his head in understanding, if not necessarily complete agreement.
"And the King," the Hand whispered.
An arm reached out from a cloud of white, gently patting Joffrey on the shoulder. The old man bent down and kindly whispered, "Come child, your mother would not want you to see her like this. I will see you are brought wine, so you may try and forget."
Joffrey's world suddenly stopped spinning, and righted itself for a moment as the words penetrated his brain. The wail died in his throat. He sniffled loudly, dislodging much of the mucus blocking his nostrils and spat a wad of phlegm on the hall's marble floor. He wiped a sleeve across his nose, soaking the cloth with smears of slime. 'No, this is exactly what she wants me to see,' the Prince thought. 'She never wants me to forget. And I shant.'
With as much pride as he could muster, the Prince shrugged off the gentle touch of Ser Barristan and rose up on wobbly legs. The old man reached out a steadying hand, which Joffrey ignored as he turned and started a slow shuffling walk out of the Throne Room.
"Come Robert, this does you no good. Leave here. I'll see to … this," called the traitor Stark.
"I hated Cersei, but she was my wife. And now I am a cuckold. A cuckold! The bitch has stained my throne, my honor, Ned. I think I would like to look longer on her in death, and see if she grows any fonder on me," he wryly chuckled.
"Robert," the Hand called plaintively.
"Go Ned, let me alone for now. That's an order. I have no fear of death," proclaimed the King.
"You should," Joffrey whispered, approaching the tall oak doors leading out of the Great Hall.
"What's this?" the Hound called, spotting Joffrey and Ser Barristan from his perch leaning against a pillar. This unexpected question launched from the dark drew the pair to a halt.
"The Queen is dead," Ser Barristan announced gravely.
"What?! The drunk Stag finally did it?!" burst the Hound. "So that was the funny squeals I heard," he chuckled as an amused smile spread across his ugly, burned face.
"Hold your tongue," Ser Barristan commanded. "You speak of the King!"
"Or what old man?" he retorted, straightening his bulk to its imposing full height of six and a half feet.
Ser Barristan's hand instinctively dropped to his blade. "You are now a dog without an owner, Clegane," Ser Barristan growled. "The boy no longer requires your … care. Flee before you are mistaken for a rabid beast and put down."
"Try Selmy. I'll be wiping my ass with that white cloak before your head hits the ground," the Hound snarled.
"Kill him Dog, quickly. Take me to Casterly Rock," Joffrey ordered in a loud, fierce whisper; dancing out of the old man's reach.
Clegane's eyes narrowed. He hunched slightly forward, weight shifting to the balls of his feet, preparing to unleash a storm of pain and death on the useless, self righteous knight.
"Stop," commanded the tired, but authoritative voice of the Hand.
"Why should I, cripple?" the Hound asked suspiciously.
"Because for the non, I still have use of you. Be glad of it. Now grab the boy, and come with me." Without waiting to see whether he was followed, the Hand hobbled slowly on his plaster bound leg from beneath the eaves of the Great Hall and into the Outer Yard. "Ser Barristan," he called. "Kindly attend me too. There is a golden knife in need of sheathing."
Like a good servant, the Lord Commander obeyed the Hand's word and scurried after his master. The Hound stayed rooted to the spot, gazing down at Joffrey with his cruel, grey eyes.
"Quickly Dog, stab them in the back. Then we ride!" the scared demanded in a nervous, husky voice.
The burn faced man did not so much as twitch at the Prince's frightened, desperate command.
"Do it. I order you, Dog. I am your Prince."
"I do what I want, boy," came the Hound's cold response. Joffrey howled in pain as his Dog grabbed him by the ear and painfully dragged him into the Outer Yard.
Groups of gold cloaks, red cloaks, lordlings, and even a few Romans still loitered about, waiting for orders from their leaders to return to barracks or make themselves useful in some way. The Hand and Ser Barristan stopped not far from the largest gathering of the Queen's household guard. The Hound jerked Joffrey to a stop right behind them. After peering back a moment at Joffrey, with a blank mask for a face, the traitor Stark called out, "Ser Janos!"
The portly butcher's son returned the shout from near the Gatehouse, "Here, my lord Hand."
"Call your men."
"Don't listen to him! Guards! Lannister men! I am betrayed, set me free!" Joffrey's voice broke and wobbled with the last words he cried. Stark turned to stare over his shoulder at the Hound, until the beast cuffed the Queen's first born into silence.
"Archers!" shouted the Captain of the Gold Cloaks. Dozens of men with bows came sprinting out of the towers on the outer wall overlooking the yard. A score of Lannister guards nervously pulled out their swords. This action caused Janos Slynt to utter another command. "Spears!" The gold cloaks in the yard lowered the points of their javelins and formed loose walls around the groups of red cloaks.
"Where is Captain Vylarr?!" the Hand demanded. "Where?" Only surprised, angry mutterings answered the question. "Lannister men, who is in charge? Who will speak for you?"
"That would be me," called out a thin, hard looking man of middle years.
"Then listen carefully, for it means your lives. The Queen is dead; executed for treason against the crown. Joffrey … Waters and his siblings are declared bastards and wards of the crown. Surrender yourselves, and you will be held peaceably until such time as you may be pardoned to return to the Westerlands. Resist, and all of you will die."
"What does the Prince say?" called the red cloaks' leader.
The Hand turned to look at Joffrey and his keeper. "Who is this?" he asked sharply.
"Nobody, a bastard!" pronounced the Hound with a smirk, shaking the newly proclaimed Joffrey Waters vigorously. "Now live or die, makes no matter to me," Clegane announced with scary indifference.
Shouts of "Yield!" erupted and weapons fell to the ground. The gold cloaks swooped in and started separating the Lannister guardsmen into small bunches to easier control them.
Janos Slynt and a score of his men marched up to the Hand. "Smartly done, Ser Janos," Stark condescended.
The jowly face broke into a smile at the compliment, revealing a collection of yellow, brown, and broken teeth. "Thank you milord, Hand," the man smarmed.
"Now take the boy and the Hound to separate cells in the dungeon."
"What!?" roared Joffrey's former bodyguard in surprise and anger, throwing Joffrey hard to the dirt in order to free his hand for a more deadly task.
"Sandor Clegane, you are accused of the murder of Mycah, the butcher's boy." A half dozen gold cloaks rushed forward to grab the Hound by the arms. Several more dropped their spear points to aim right at his chest. "Take them away!"
As the Hound and the boy were dragged off toward the dungeon, Joffrey broke out in mad giggles; causing Clegane to lash out, "Shut up ya bastard! Shut your fucking mouth, or I'll kill you myself!"
November 21.
Joffrey paced the small space of his cell, a caged lion driven mad by a world gone topsy-turvy. The flesh of his hands was nicked and cracked, his fingernails bent and torn after so many hours spent pounding on the walls and rattling the bars of his prison; interrupted only by bouts of uncontrollable crying or sheer exhaustion. The food tasted worse than what he imagined the 'Brown' did down in Flea Bottom. The bedding shabbier than the folded blankets he'd made do with on hunt in the Kingswood. The straw littering the floor smelled of vomit, and worse, it festered with tiny pinching bugs.
For the thousandth time he screamed, "AAAAHHHHHHhhhhhggggggggggg!"
"Shut up!" snarled the Hound, stuck too close to him, in the adjacent cell.
"Shut yourself, Dog!"
A huge hand reached around the edge of the cell wall, black stained fingers flailed in the air. "Come closer ya little puke. I'll show you how to shut up … forever!"
"Gods damn you, I'll tell …"
"Hahahahaha! Your mother? Hahahahahaha! The boy's pissed his pants and wants his mammie," the Hound taunted.
"Leave the boy alone," brayed the old ass. "Do not listen to him, my Prince. You still have friends, true friends."
"And you have shit for brains, Maester goat, or you wouldn't be here too," the Hound declared.
"Ignore the brute, my Prince," Pycelle said stoically.
"You two will drive me mad. What the dead bitch got is mercy compared to this torture," the burned Dog barked.
Rage flared through Joffrey. "You bastard!" he swore, adding emphasis by kicking out a leg which unfortunately caught the edge of his slop bucket, tumbling piss and shit out into the straw rushes at his feet. "Gods!" he whimpered, staggering back from the stench. "Gods, gods, gods. Why me? Why me?"
"You're worthless, boy. Two days without wine and your silks, and you piss your pants that you've no teat to suckle. Life is cruel and you're worth nothing more than a dribble of jizz oozing from a slut's mound. The bitch'd be ashamed of you, a Lannister, crying. Lucky for her she's crow bait and can't hear you, ya pitiful turd," the Hound taunted.
"She's not dead, she's not dead," he muttered in denial. "She'll never die!" he screamed. 'Precious boy,' a sweet voice whispered in his ear.
November 23.
The door to the dungeon creaked open loudly and a voice shouted out, Joffrey stirred in his uneasy slumber. He nursed at the Lioness' dugs, her milk filling the vast emptiness in his belly, his heart, his soul. Occasionally she roared a warning and lashed out with a clawed paw at the pack of ravenous stags circling around them, razor sharp antlers mercilessly lashing out and fire snorting from fierce muzzles. 'I will always love you, Joffrey,' the lioness' sweet voice promised. His head turned on a thin, scratchy pillow stuffed with straw. The stomping of guards' boots as they passed his cell roused him to wakefulness. He flipped over on the slender bedroll and wiped a line of drool from his check. He sat up. His stomach didn't rumble to tell him it must be meal time. He stood up perplexed and took two steps to press his face against the rusted iron bars of his cage, trying to see what the dim torchlight might reveal. The whisper of a dragging foot step wafted down the passage to his ears.
"Lord Hand, if I may," the useless old man called out.
"Yes, Maester Pycelle?" the beguiler Stark replied.
"Grand Maester," the puffed up blowhard countered.
"No," spoke the traitor quickly, sternly; cutting off the windbag. "You lost that title when you betrayed the Realm. Betrayed Robert. Sent ravens to start a war."
"I never," came the feeble, indignant answer. "Don't believe Varys' lies. The spider ensnare me in his web of deceit. I was trapped in my rooms, the door locked. Someone else went to the rookery. I am innocent."
"The message was in your own hand," the evil northman scorned. "Do not deny it Pycelle, you were ever a Lannister creature. Whether it was Tywin or Cersei."
His worthless tutor answered the charge with his usual pride and sense of superiority, "I serve only the realm."
"Ha!" barked the Hound from his cell. "You jiggled like a ten copper whore any time the dead bitch whistled for you!"
Anger surged through Joffrey's veins at the cruel mention of his mother. "Shut up, Dog! I'll kill you! I'll kill you for calling her that!" he raged, spittle flinging from the corner of his mouth. He clutched the bars and shook them, ineffectively, with all his might.
"Hahahahahaha," the Hound laughed, taking spiteful delight in baiting the helpless Prince, again.
"Clegane," the traitor said in a quiet, icy cold voice.
The Hound's laughter abruptly stopped. "Stark," he purred with his typical insolent amusement. "Come to free me?"
"No," the northman answered tersely.
The Hound chuckled. "Then Trial by Combat. I'd be happy if you faced me."
"I remember the butcher's boy," said his father's seducer, a spark of flint and steel in his voice.
"Good for one of us. Too bad your precious honor won't let you refuse my right."
"You have no honor Clegane. You are no Ser. So, you have no right to a Trial by Combat."
"What?" the Hound asked, quite stunned by the corrupt Hand's trickery. "I am the son of a Lord. It is my due."
"But you're not. I cast all of House Clegane down when your brother Gregor raided the Riverlands. The three dog sigil is as dead as the Targaryen's tri-headed dragon."
"You can't," the Hound growled.
"Haha, Dog!" shouted Joffrey in glee. "You're nothing, only a peasant, scum."
"Shut up, bastard!" cried the Hound, unnerved. He rattled the bars with his thick hands, causing the iron to shiver and moan from the tremendous pressure.
Stark stood quiet in face of the brute's assault, patiently waiting for the immense man's fury to ebb. "Who, Clegane?" he finally asked.
"Who, what?" the disfigured monster replied suspiciously.
"Names," the traitor demanded. "Who was beholden to Cersei Lannister's … charms."
"The Kingslayer," the Hound snickered slyly.
"Gods damn you! I'll strike you dead!" Joffrey swore.
"You can have what you want Clegane, the chance to leave King's Landing a living man. Just give me the names, I promise," the deceiver whispered sweetly.
The Hound rattled off a long list of lordlings, hanger-ons , pencil pushers, swords, office seekers, septons, septas, merchants, and mummers. When he finished, the Hand that wipes the King's shit stayed silent for several minutes, most likely comparing the provided names with the list in his own ugly, hateful skull. "What about Blount?"
"That fat toad? He doesn't ask to be bought, simply a place hide. Useless," he snapped scornfully.
"And Mandon Moore?"
"Dead eyes? Maybe," the Hound said uncertainly.
"I … believe you, Sandor Clegane," said the northman, as if unhappy to admit as much.
"When do I fight," the cur demanded fiercely.
"When the time is right, and not before then, I promise," came the unsatisfactory answer.
"Bah. I spit on your fake honor, Stark. You and all knights," disparaged the Dog.
"Good. Then we understand each other." Step, drag, step, drag, step, drag. His mother's true killer stepped in front of Joffrey, peering at him through the cell's bars. The sputtering torches barely flickered any light against the gold necklace of his office, making the Hand's grey cloak appear almost black, and turning the white cast on the traitor's leg grey. 'When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die,' the sweet voice advised him quietly.
"Killer!" Joffrey spat. "Your lies slew my mother. I hate you. I hate your stupid cunt daughter too. I'll make you pay. Your death will be long and painful," he ranted at the source of all his pain and humiliation. For a good long minute the Prince abused his captor, until the man's utter silence and indifference at the curses, threats, and accusations exasperated Joffrey beyond all bounds, reducing him to loud pants of frustration.
"Joffrey Waters, …"
"Don't call me that! I am not a bastard. You're the bastard. A bastard with a bastard son!"
"… in a week's time you will be brought before the court and charged with treason."
"What!? How dare you. I have done nothing! NOTHING!" the Prince screamed at the top of his lungs.
"For the crime of pretending to be the King's son and heir to the throne."
"I am his son! LIAR!" he screeched from foam speckled lips. 'A Lannister,' the sweet voice whispered fiercely in his ear.
"As the Hand of the King, I will sit on the Iron Throne to hear the case against you. And you will be found guilty. The punishment for treason is death."
"No, no, no, you can't kill me, you can't. It's not fair," Joffrey half pleaded and half righteously denied. The harsh gaze of reality suddenly stared him frighteningly in the face. All fight drained out of the Prince and like a punctured balloon he dropped to the rush strewn floor of the cell.
"I am not without a certain modicum of sympathy for your plight. No one can choose who their mother or father is," the Hand replied coolly. "Of course, there is precedence that even an illegitimate offspring of a Great House may ask for Trial by Combat."
"Do it, bastard!" the Hound shouted with glee. "I'd like to know you were cut in half, guts spread across the mud."
"Wha … wha … who," Joffrey worbled.
"Or, if you acted respectfully, admitting your guilt; I might feel merciful and let you take the Black."
"Nooooooooo, please. Gods, noooooooooooooo," the youth Waters begged.
"Think carefully," the northman warned. Step, drag, step, drag, step, drag, step, drag, step, drag. The door out of the dungeon creaked open and four guards returned to duty. Joffrey stayed crumpled on the ground, shivering in the muck as he contemplated his very sparse choices. 'You must be brave,' the sweet voice reassured him from the dark.
Joffrey picked up the crossbow at his feet and peered through the bars. The guards were gone. He pushed on the cell door and it swung open silently. He tiptoed into the hall. The torch light flickered, then surged brightly, revealing filth oozing out from between the very stones of the dungeon wall, dripping down, flowing together, searching for him, reaching for him, trying to mark and taint him. As he passed the Hound's cell, the mutilated turncoat's arms grabbed at him, seeking to trap him. He brought up the bow, 'Dog' he cursed. His finger caressed the trigger. Twang! The bolt flew in the ugly mouth and ended its short flight protruding from the top of his scarred skull. The Hound fell backward, swallowed backup by the darkness.
'My kind boy, brave Prince Joffrey, free me. You'll make a great King, I've always said so,' Grand Maester Pycelle groveled. The bow came up, another bolt already strung. Twang! The stubby arrow buried itself in the old fool's belly. Maggots, rodents, and ravens first began to dribble then finally spewed forth in a torrent from the wound, filling the cell so deep with corruption it hid Pycelle's corpse within its churning depths. The flood of scavenging creatures started to squeeze between the bars and merge with the filth flowing from the stone. The Prince, no the King, ran down the hall away from the evil chasing him. He pounded on the door to the stairwell, to freedom, to his destiny. He shoved with all his might, iron reinforced oak shifted. A small gap appeared and Joffrey wiggled through.
He found himself in the Throne Room, walking its length. A wolf jumped out from behind a towering column. Twang. The beast fell. Another slobbering canine jumped. Twang. Another. And another. Joffrey fired the crossbow till he walked across a field of dead wolves. Stags snorted anxiously from the sidelines, the scent of blood scaring them. Each time he pointed the bow at one, it lowered its front legs in submission to kneel before the Prince, no the King.
He now stared at the body of his beloved, beautiful mother, her corpse terribly pierced by the sharp blades of the Iron Throne. But then to Joffrey's amazement, her eyes blinked opened, revealing a dazzling green that burned right through him. The Queen's mouth moved, blood dribbling out with every word. 'I will always love you Joffrey, golden sun of my flesh.'
'Mother, what am I to do?'
'You must be brave,' the sweet voice answered.
'Be a man, not some pampered flower!' His father stood beside him, towering over his slender frame like a giant. But instead of a crown resting on his brow, a mighty rack of antlers sprung from his head. A gnarled hoof shaped hand cuffed him.
'Stop hitting me!' Joffrey cried. 'Mother!'
'Now climb. Take a seat on your destiny,' the lioness assured him.
Joffrey took a step forward.
An enormous antler smashed into him. 'Out of my way!' the stag bellowed.
'Ascend the throne my golden prince, My king,' the lioness demanded.
'Your mother's taint curses you. Makes you an abomination. A stain on the Kingdom.' His father's antlers grappled with him, impeding his progress to the throne.
'Father,' Joffrey wailed.
'I told you never to call me that damned name!' the Stag roared, right before a hoof kick crashed into his chest, breaking his heart.
'Stop hitting me! Stop it! Stop it!' the Prince, no the King, pleaded. 'I am the Stag!'
'No boy, I am the Stag,' his father proclaimed, pummeling him brutally again and again.
On the Iron Throne, his mother struggled desperately to reach him, to comfort him, to protect. But the more she struggled, the further her body slid down the spikes, tearing her ghastly wounds open even wider. Bloody tears dripped from her brilliant green eyes. 'You must be a man, a Lannister, golden sun of my flesh.'
Joffrey raised an arm, the tip of the crossbow rested against the gross belly of the bullying Stag. Twang! Robert Baratheon's face turned purple. He opened his mouth to cry or shout, but only exhaled a beating of air.
"Stop gaping! Out with it, whore lover!" King Joffrey screamed in joyous revenge with every fiber of his being.
Robert Baratheon's mouth widened impossibly and a three eyed raven erupted from the unhinged maw.
The lioness smiled at the King, her son, and said in that sweet voice, 'When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die.'
"I am the King, I am the King, I am the King," Joffrey muttered.
"You're a pathetic sack of shit. Now shut up!" spat the Hound.
Joffrey blinked his eyes open. The diffuse light revealed his cell. Joffrey Lannister felt powerless again. He rolled over on his lumpy bedroll to nurse his hatred.
November 30.
Joffrey marched slowly, pride fully, head held high, down the long venue of the Great Hall, the clank of the manacles on his ankles barely audible above the host of gossiping turncoats and cravens arrayed on either side of his approach to the Iron Throne. 'Be brave.' Loras Tyrell, wearing the white cloak of the Kingsguard, his uncle's cloak, kept a measured pace beside him. Joffrey spied the Betrayer from the North sitting atop his Lannister birthright, waiting to pass judgment on him, a true king. 'Damn you to seven hells, Stark. One day you will beg for mercy,' Joffrey thought. 'And you shan't get it.'
Soon the jangling of more manacles reached his ear. The Hound followed him into the Throne Room, purposefully swaying and jingling his chains to produce a ruckus; unbowed by the powerful symbols of the realm present beneath the soaring arched roof of the Hall. The might of the land revealed by so many gold cloaks in the room and particularly the one with an ironhand walking at the Dog's side. The High Septon gracing the occasion with the blessing of the Faith of the Seven. All the minor lordlings representing the realm's subjects. The High Council overseeing this mockery of justice, particuarly by the attendance of his weak Uncle Renly, the Master of Laws. And lastly, the symbolic presence of that fat Stag Baratheon by his tongueless Executioner leering at his new customers and by the haughty row of his Kingsguard; Selmy, Moore, Trant, and Oakheart standing ramrod straight in their pretty white finery at the feet of the Hand that wipes the shit from the King's enormous ass.
The pretty Tyrell brat pulled him to a stop a dozen yards from the throne. The Hound came to an insolent halt beside him. "Scared boy?" he cackled.
'You are a Lannister, remember that.' Joffrey swallowed hard. "No, Dog. Are you?" he answered in an even voice.
Disappointed that Joffrey didn't quiver, Clegane turned his venom elsewhere, "Hurry up old man!" At the shout, Joffrey turned his neck to see what was taking Pycelle so long. The eunuch, who had been whispering in the disgraced Grand Maester's ear the entire long walk from the dungeon, held the decrepit grey beard near upright as the man's legs near buckled with each step. But at last he too arrived before the Iron Throne to await what a northman would declare mercy.
The Stark struggled as he stood, the broken leg still not healed. 'Next time Uncle Jaime will have your head,' Joffrey savored. The first uttering of the man's voice quieted the crowd.
"Pycelle, named Maester of the Citadel, you are accused before this court for committing the crime of fomenting war against the crown. The penalty for this, should you be found guilty, is death. How do you plead?" the betrayer asked in a loud voice.
The old fool's response came in a wispy, defeated voice. "Guilty, my lord Hand. And I pray for the great mercy of which the King is properly renowned in my sentence."
The northman nodded his head sagely and pretended to weigh what justice to impose. Stark had returned not at all to the dungeon in the last week, so why else had Varys walked alongside the shriveled goat? The fix was in. 'Always so wonderfully clever, my Joff.'
At last the liar pronounced to the gathered vultures. "In memory of your many years serving the Seven Kingdoms, you will be allowed to take the Black. If you do not so choose to accept this compassionate offer, you will be executed in three days. What say thee?"
Pycelle started to feebly cry, causing Varys to jab an elbow into his side. "The Hand is just," he at last wheezed. "I choose the Black."
"Very well. Brother of the Night Watch!" the Stark called. A stooped, ugly, dark haired man dressed all in black stepped out from near the front of the crowd.
"Milord Hand?" he answered coarsely.
"Will you accept this man, absolving him of his guilt, so long as he swears the oath to become one of your brothers?"
"Aye. The Wall can use a man with letters."
The liar nodded, apparently satisfied with the icy barricade he had condemned the wretched old man to. "Sandor, named Clegane, you are accused of killing the defenseless child called Mycah. The penalty from which a guilty verdict imposes is death. How do you plead?" the northman questioned.
A beaming smile lay upon the Hound's face for all the court to see. "Innocent!"
"You may have a Trial by Inquiry or a Trial by Combat," the betrayer declared. "How do you choose?"
"Combat!" came the Dog's satisfied challenge.
"Very well. You will be returned to the dungeon, but for this day and the next two you will be allowed two hours practice in the yard at swords or any other weapon of your choice. On the third day you will meet Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard for Trial by Combat. May the Gods reveal the innocent from the wicked."
The Hound laughed loudly as the Hand's unexpected pronouncement stirred a storm of noise through the court. Joffrey watched surprise sweep across the faces of the Kingsguard, all except for Selmy who kept the same unaffected look he must have been birthed with. Despite the clamor, he heard the sweet voice tell him yet again, 'When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die.'
When the surprised roar of the crowd did not die off quickly enough, Janos Slynt shouted out "Order!" and the gold cloaks guarding the perimeter of the Throne Room pounded spear butts on the marble floor to chastise the crowd to a semblance of quiet.
"Joffrey, named Waters, you are accused before this court for the crime of treason against the crown. The penalty for which is death. How do you plead?" the liar asked in a loud voice.
Joffrey licked his lips. "Guilty, and I ask for mercy."
Again the treacherous snake of a Hand paused, the illusion of evenhanded justice. The wait stretched and stretched, pulling Joffrey's jangly nerves taut beyond all endurance, until finally … "In recognition of your youth and that your crimes were not entirely of your own making, the crown will allow you to take the Black. If you do not so choose this mercy of the King's, you will be executed in three days. What say you?"
'Live, golden sun of my flesh. Your destiny will come.' Joffrey breathed deeply. "I will accept the Black," he proclaimed.