Author's Notes: Good day, my lovely readers! I hope you've all had a wonderful two weeks. As always and ever, thank you so much for your support! TDR continues to grow, both in length and popularity, and the second part could not be done without you. Thank you.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Catzrko0l, for continuing to beta this project. It's that much better for your efforts!
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Chapter 92
Joffrey II
The tinny sound of steel against steel echoed through the courtyard at Winterfell. Joffrey's brow furrowed in a mixture of frustration and focus. This was the longest he had held against Captain Brommen. He jumped around lightly on his toes, finally mindful of them after having had them stomped and likely broken more times than he could count. His hand felt like it had a mind of his own as he articulated his sword, focused only on the captain's own movements.
The captain forced his arm into an awkward position. He tried to compensate with his shield, but knocked his own sword and jarred his focus. The captain kicked out with his foot and swept one of Joffrey's legs out from underneath him and he grunted as he smacked the cold hard ground.
"This brat may amount to something after all," Captain Brommen said.
"If he ever sees battle, he'll piss himself and cry for mommy first," a nearby man said. Those in the vicinity to hear erupted into jeering laughter.
Joffrey felt his cheeks redden, but he bit his tongue to keep slicing words from leaving his lips. I swear, when I take my crown, I will hang you all, he thought viciously.
Despite his mislike of Lord Bolton, he had felt things were finally righting themselves and he could breathe easier. He couldn't help but notice that no one in Winterfell seemed pleased about the circumstances, not even Lord Bolton or his soldiers.
His noble education under Maester Luwin and his practice with the short sword did not cease. Lord Bolton arranged for his man, Captain Brommen, to take the place of Jory Cassel for his sword training. The man was brutal. The first hit he had received had split his lip.
"What is the meaning of this?" Joffrey shouted. "You would dare treat your king like this? I will have your head!"
Captain Brommen had only sneered at him. "Lord Roose Bolton is now Lord Paramount of Winterfell. But you … you still lack the crown and the throne that would make you king. He has commanded that I train you and train you I shall. No special treatment, no matter whose cunt you fell out."
He had growled and leaped forward. The captain had only grinned at his puny efforts.
Joffrey had staggered away from their first training session. Apart from his split lip, his left eye had swollen shut, there were an innumerable amount of cuts and bruises, and every part of his body was a stiff agony. He had hobbled to Lord Bolton and demanded his captain's head. Lord Bolton had looked at him with his unnerving pale eyes and nearly repeated the same thing the captain had. Joffrey then went to Maester Luwin who gave him a pitiable look and a salve to rub on his injuries. He was to stay abed and rest for the time being until his training session the next day.
To his shame, the moment his head hit the pillow, tears began flowing from his eyes. He had been miserable and alone with the Starks in Winterfell, but they and the servants had been decent to him. He'd gotten a few cuts and bruises in the course of training, but nothing like the savage beatings that Brommen liked to deliver to him.
Lord Bolton had called him king, but nothing had truly changed for either him or his sisters. Myrcella walked around a mere shadow of her former self, tensing when anyone made eye contact with her. Julianna was nearly always on the verge of tears and any words in her direction would make her squeak and shrink away. The remaining servants left alive were grim and silent as they carried out their chores, never daring to smile or laugh. Only Lord Bran and Jojen and Meera Reed maintained an optimistic confidence.
"Don't you worry. My father will have all of this sorted out."
Joffrey had wanted to raise an eyebrow at Bran. After all, if Bran's father did indeed sort it out, he was unlikely to be king, but at this rate he would settle for just coming out the other side alive.
The only one Joffrey hadn't seen was the babe, Cassian. Myrcella had made mention that he was still alive.
"Lord Bolton dislikes the babe's cries. The wet nurse doesn't dare take him from his room for fear he will be killed for a single errant sound," Myrcella whispered.
It made Joffrey wonder if Lord Bolton was even allowed to kill the babe. It was most assuredly a bastard and one born of incest at that. No one liked bastards, but despite that, they still had their place in society. He supposed he should be grateful that there was such a place lest he be summarily sacrificed. He supposed he had his uncle to thank for that. He was there when his uncle insisted that he and his sisters be spared their mother's and his ill fate.
Lord Bolton had said that his grandfather, Tywin, was the one who orchestrated the coup and was just waiting to spring the trap. He had never met his grandfather, but his mother had spoken of him with pride and nervous smiles. There was no escaping from hearing about his grandfather's brutal exploits, starting with the destruction of Houses Reyne and Tarbeck. At the time, Joffrey had been awed at the thought of destroying one's enemies so thoroughly. However, anyone who was not his mother spoke of the occasion with dark, angry looks and harsh whispers. Even he wasn't fool enough to miss the angry concern at such violence.
His own fath—the king, he harshly corrected himself—had once called his grandfather a "stone-cold prick." King Robert had grudging respect for Tywin at best. While Joffrey didn't have many conversations with his uncle, he saw the way Uncle Jaime's lip curled into a sneer at hearing Tywin's name. He couldn't decide if his grandfather was good to have among his allies or not. Considering Lord Bolton's supreme confidence, it seemed likely that he would be heading down to King's Landing to take his place on the throne.
"Your Grace." It was said in a guttural, grudging growl. "My Lord is expecting you."
Joffrey turned to glare at the soldier who kept his hard look. Those seemed to be the only looks allowed in Winterfell anymore. There was no time allowed for relaxing, only labor. He felt that way even when he had nothing to do.
He trudged toward the solar in Winterfell as if he had a death sentence hanging over his head. His heart thudded in his chest and his mouth went dry. You're being ridiculous, he told himself, you're the KING! And yet nothing had happened since Lord Bolton had taken Winterfell to convince him of that. He hesitated at the door. You are five-and-ten, one year shy of being a man. Grow some balls! With that, he puffed his chest up and knocked on the door.
"Enter," Lord Bolton's gruff, quiet voice came through the door.
Joffrey walked into the room and stood in the designated spot. He did not dare take a chair that was not offered to him. Lord Bolton was at the desk with a letter in his hands, but his pale eyes were staring up at him. The silence dragged for an interminable amount of time. Joffrey shifted his feet. Despite the persistent chill of the North, he thought he felt a bead of sweat begin to run down the side of his head.
Lord Bolton broke the silence as if it was glass. "Your studies cease henceforth. You will spend your days training as a soldier."
Joffrey stopped breathing and his eyes went wide. He finally said, "I am the king. I cannot rule my people without knowledge." A pit of dread began to form in his stomach as he thought to Captain Brommen beating him all day, every day.
Lord Bolton sneered, "You're king of shit. Lord Tywin failed. You will serve what remains of your life in my army."
The bottom fell out of Joffrey's stomach. He wavered faintly on his feet. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a pitiful croak issued forth.
"Get out of my sight," Lord Bolton barked.
Joffrey scrambled for the door. He winced at the sound of it slamming close and then ran. He stopped in the hall feeling like a frightened mouse trying to find the best place to hide. Myrcella? Where's Myrcella? She was likely sewing with the septa or serving as Maester Luwin's help. The old maester took her under his wing when Lord Bolton gave her the choice of marrying his bastard son or doing chores.
He pelted down the stairs to the godswood, ignoring the indignant stares he was getting from guards and servants alike. It was treacherous to break the silence. The guards to the godswood scowled at him as he ran straight past them, but they didn't try to stop him.
Meera started when she saw Joffrey. She put a finger to her lips and glanced around furtively. Julianna was sitting on the ground cradling her stuffed doll, rocking it gently. She gave her brother a wan smile and returned to her doll, speaking to it softly. Myrcella was sitting a few feet away looking put upon as she sewed patches into clothes. Lord Bran was lying against the weirwood tree, his face tilted toward the sky, and his eyes rolled up into his head. At Joffrey's appearance, Jojen Reed plucked at Bran's sleeve.
Bran shuddered and blinked sleepily. "I was flying … I was really flying. And I could see! What is it?" Jojen's words were inaudible, but Bran sat bolt upright and said, "Joffrey? What is it?"
Joffrey realized he was shivering, a combination from the cold and nerves. "Uhh … umm … I-I was just suh-summoned by Lord Bolton." He fought ferociously to keep his voice from trembling in the next sentence. "He said Lord Tywin's coup failed. I am to train and join his army."
Myrcella stared in shock and confusion, her sewing forgotten. "How much worse do you think he's going to be?" Her own voice wavered.
"I don't know," Joffrey replied in a small voice.
"My father will come for us. You'll see," Bran said. "He will not allow this to stand."
"How much longer?" Joffrey asked.
"I don't know."
|-The Dragon's Roar-|
Aemon XXXIII
Aemon labored in his solar as he wrote a number of routine letters, but he was having difficulty focusing as his mind drifted miles away. His thoughts were naturally on Daenerys.
Ghost and Rhaegal were both present. Rhaegal was tearing into yet another plate of meat. It seemed at times that he never stopped eating. Ghost was on the other side of Aemon's desk, away from Rhaegal, lying on his side and panting in the unending heat. The two would playfully snap at each other, but Rhaegal did not know the sharpness of his own claws or how yet to fully control his fire. Ghost had a single scratch going down the side of his nose and the fur atop his head had been lightly singed. The wolf was beginning to rival the size of a pony; it wouldn't be much longer before he was fully grown. At present, he could end Rhaegal's life with a single snap of his jaws, but his direwolf knew better. He also knew better than to try and jar Rhaegal's attention when there was food present, so he graced the young dragon with a wide berth.
His two companions were a welcome distraction in light of his anxiety. He thought he may have overcome one of Daenerys' many barriers since their meeting with the dragons. She had been standoffish when they had first met in his other life, but she was a queen, a hair's breadth from conquering Westeros, and he had been merely seeking assistance in the fight against the Long Night. Although she had been formal, she radiated confidence and self-assurance. She had been tempered steel after a clearly arduous life. Once she saw how sincere his intentions were, she had thawed and became warmer. He remembered her smiles, her concern after he returned from north of the Wall. He also remembered the way she had looked beseechingly into his eyes, full of love, when they shared their first kiss.
He shook the memory from his head. It was becoming clear that this Daenerys, while so very similar, was also different. She had the same headstrong motivation to achieve her aims, even if it meant taking up with pirates to get her army across the ocean. Yet despite the fact that she had taken the Unsullied back in the same way she had done so previously, she appeared ill-at-ease. Her smiles could be warm, but they were rarer and she deliberately kept him at arm's length. He knew it was too much to expect that she would either run into his arms or accept him immediately as family.
But he had Rhaegal! He had proved his heritage, to the world, to her. She had to know that she need not fear him. Yet she was taken aback when they had suggested integrating the Unsullied into the Gold Cloaks, but eased when she had been assured they would remain under her command. Was she concerned only with their welfare … or more?
Aemon recalled listening to her tale at her welcoming feast. It had been easy for him to spot the holes she failed to clarify since he knew the story. There was a striking similarity. It was nearly the same and yet her whole demeanor had been stiff and she was careful with her words. She had not called Khal Drogo her Sun and Stars. Granted, she had only spoken of him in private, but she had yet to mention him at all this time, even in the context of the conversation of marriage. Was she concerned about bringing up a former lover for fear of his reaction or was there something more to it?
I am being a fool, Aemon thought. She simply does not know me well. With each meeting, she thaws a little more. I must be patient. However, a dread was growing in the pit of his stomach that Daenerys would decline to marry him before her thaw could complete. He was now beginning to understand the pressure and anxiety Jaime had put on himself in regards to Brienne.
A knock at the door startled him. Rhaegal arched his back like a cat and hissed before returning to his food once more.
"Yes?"
Ser Arys announced, "Your Grace, Lord Jaime Lannister and Healer David Reeft are here to speak with you."
Speaking of. "Send them in!"
Jaime did not wait for any sort of decorum, but shoved the door in. Although Jaime had been positively bursting with energy since the day before, he wore a smug smirk now. David was … more serene than Aemon had seen of him. He at least was no longer angry and glaring; it gave him hope that perhaps David had finally worked past his anger.
"What is it?" Aemon asked, glancing between the two.
"It's done, Your Grace," David said.
"Done?"
There was a beat of silence. "The wildfire. David discovered how to neutralize it," Jaime crowed.
Aemon gasped. "Truly?"
"Yes, Your Grace. I have thoroughly tested it."
Aemon stood in his excitement and strode around his desk to clasp David's hand in a handshake. "That is such a wonder and a relief to hear. So tell me: how do you neutralize wildfire?"
"Two parts sand, one part clay. And it cannot be sand by the ocean. Salt does not mix well with wildfire," David replied, pointedly tapping the scarred portion of his face. "The sand should be poured in first so that the wildfire can be partially absorbed and diluted. The clay is then mixed in, which creates a green mud. I did this to an entire barrel and set it aflame. The fire only burned as small green flames on the top and did not touch the rest of the contents in the barrel. It is tainted, though, and should be set far from the city and water sources."
Aemon grimaced. "I hope you tested that somewhere outside the city."
David raised his eyebrows. "I tested it in the Dragonpit, if you must know. I was concerned there would be too much jostling to take it out of the city."
"About as safe of a location as possible. Very well. I will see about passing an edict so we can begin diluting all of the barrels at once. It will have to pass muster with the council and with the budget so tight as it is …."
"I will fund it," Jaime declared.
Aemon gave him an annoyed look.
"I want no delays! The sooner we neutralize it, the better. I will put my uncle Gerion in charge. Lannister guards will be posted at each of the locations of the caches to prevent meddling."
"Very well. I will see about writing the measure and introduce it to our next small council meeting. David, I trust you will oversee this task?"
"Of course," David replied, "anything to make this safer."
"Good, you're dismissed," Aemon said with a brisk nod. He returned to his letter and faltered when he saw Jaime still standing there. "Was there something else, Jaime?"
"How is Princess Daenerys' integration into King's Landing?"
"It's going well," Aemon said. He winced at the lilt his voice took. With Jaime's ability, it no doubt didn't sneak past him and he cursed himself for not being prepared.
"You don't sound confident. And when I've seen you around the Keep, you look troubled. Is something wrong?"
Aemon sighed. "She's … different … from what I expected."
"Are you that surprised?"
"She doesn't seem to trust me."
"She would be a fool to not have concerns."
Aemon glared at Jaime. "That's hardly helpful."
Jaime shrugged. "She's a young girl, with young dragons, and a mere ten thousand Unsullied. Not that Unsullied aren't formidable, but the armies in the city could easily take them. She's returned to be embraced by a family member whom she likely didn't know existed until Ser Barristan told her."
"I knew it would be tough, but as soon as I hatched Rhaegal, I thought it would be easier. His existence proves my heritage." They both looked at the dragon who had finally cleaned his plate. At his name, Rhaegal sat up and craned his neck towards Aemon. He launched himself into the air and flapped slowly through the air before settling on the perch Aemon had commissioned.
"You expect too much of her. Give her time," Jaime said. "Brienne's different too."
Aemon gave him a wry look. "You're not one to care."
"You're right. But I care about the realm and your marriage to Princess Daenerys is the strongest for the realm. She's crucial to safeguarding our future."
Aemon heaved another frustrated sigh. "Princess Daenerys is not cruel! Even should we not marry, I doubt she'll withhold her dragons. She was always concerned about the people. She would not abandon them."
Jaime's lighthearted mood darkened. "Speaking of which, when did you want to make the announcement with … you know what?"
Aemon drew his mouth into a firm line. "I was hoping to wait until Princess Daenerys had given her answer about marriage. I did not want to unduly influence her."
"If it's as you say and she will offer her dragons, whether she marries you or not, then it shouldn't matter when we reveal it. You could influence her to consider you more favorably if she had a better understanding of what was at stake," Jaime said with exasperation.
"Hmm … I'll consider it." There was a pause as Aemon did think on it, but then he asked, "Is it still … alive?"
"I nudged the box the other day and it was."
"I will let you know my decision. It has to be soon."
"Your Grace," Jaime said stiffly, gave a short bow, and walked out.
Aemon's mind was already far away as he thought about revealing the wight. Perhaps it was just the thing that would unite them. And with the wildfire on the cusp of being made inert, they would also be able to reveal the Mad King's secret plan to destroy the city. He and Jaime would finally be able to unburden themselves of a few more secrets.
But not the secret, he thought. Would there ever be a time to reveal his real past to Daenerys? His uncle knew, Ser Barristan knew, and Tyrion now knew. It seemed ludicrous not to tell his family member, whether she became his wife or not. Someday, hopefully. But not until the time is right. Maybe there would be a day in which he would be completed unburdened. He looked forward to it.
