NOTE: Here we finally get to meet a very interesting character indeed, that of Joffrey Hill (Lannister). I decided to still include Joffrey in the story, and have what is an in my opinion at least brilliant explanation for his backstory, and for how Cersei and Jaime still met and had him "made", so to speak, and then he has lived out his life as a relatively unknown Lannister bastard at Casterly Rock with Tywin instead of at the Red Keep. And obviously here we also get to look inside his head, and see the inner depths and complexities of who he is, as well as his relationship with Tywin and Tyrion, among other characters... I hope you will all enjoy this chapter. Please leave a review if you like it! =)
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JOFFREY
"The magnificent interior stairways of Casterly Rock were truly a marble to behold, though he had grown up with them, seen and walked up them close to a thousand times by now. The long, glorious torch-laden way up towards his father was as easy and yet as enormous a journey each time, and always worth it. The gold beige rock of the walls shone in bright yellow and murky greyish sulphur colors at times, then shifted towards a much brighter gold yellowish light once again, when he ascended through the Duskthread, which was the name given to the darker part of the walk where the stone in the caverns was made of a different, more matt and dimly, almost murky material.
The Duskthread was the way he had to walk through, along the Great Stairway of Casterly Rock each time to make the ascent to where Lord Tywin had his enormous personal chambers and his equally enormous work solar overlooking the entirety of Casterly Rock, where it sat overlooking the very edge of the Westerlands, of known civilisation for that matter as well, and the glorious eternally shining horizon of the Sunset Sea. Yes, here he would stand at those rare times, when Lord Tywin felt the sudden need or want to take him up there a couple of times a year, and stand on the massive balcony overlooking the Sunset Sea's gold-glimmering sunshine rays and the washing of the waves far away in the distance, standing proud yet eager to contain his astonishment before his eternal lord father, who stood towering above him in his deep dark crimson red [velvet/silk/[ ] lord's doublet and golden [cape/cloak]. It was important that he never show how excited he was; never showed any emotion greater than that of Lord Tywin's own majestic face overlooking the wealth of the entire West with merely as much as a reluctant satisfaction and deep, lion-like smile bordering on a scathing glad frown towards all his enemies.
And Joffrey Hill of Casterly Rock was one good at acting and playing the part before his father, indeed, on the few and rare occasions in between when his father was not busy and they met. He supposed that he was lucky to be grown up here, in the safey and glorious wealth at the Rock, unrivalled anywhere else in all of Westeros, compared to the filthy, squalling and dirt poor low-Lannisters of Lannisport to the south or his next of kin, his nephews and niece which he had never met, living with their mother and Northern father at cold, dreary Winterfell in the grim, dirty and rugged North. Yes, indeed, he was surely lucky despite his low birth and distance to his father, still a Lannister of the Rock just like him and chosen by the gods, and some, like the distasteful washerwomen in the lower guttural caverns of the Rock, might even scoop down their wrinkled fat hags' arms to call him vain and spoiled, like they had that one time during the incident with him spilling two different sorts of wine on the white breeches to see how they would clean it up, yet after he saw their grotesquely jovian faces decorating the wooden spikes in the dungeon, and compared their features and matt lumpy hair so close to the color of dirt, and compared it to his own golden locks, he knew with even better a certainty that this was and always had been right of him and exactly what was his birthright. The hags had looked like the faces of the demons in the Cavernous Sept, after all, and even more so after they were dead, he thought to himself.
He made his way up the steps, one at a time, and pondered whether he should tell the servants to change the torches on this particular floor, the seventh floor beneath Lord Tywin's chambers. The white wax of the candles had almost dribbled down to a feet or less in most of them. It seemed like they had not been changed for two hours or more. Their pale hot wax was dripping down along the gleaming gold of the handles, turning them all white as well, like the birdshit of so many seagulls. Joffrey stood for a long time considering the sight of it, imagining the melting hot drops falling on the screaming face of some daft coal-browed chimneysweeper's crone for her crime in neglecting her chores and taking the consequences of it. It would be a sweet sight, no doubt, one that he had been close to getting several times before, but which had ended in small swift floggings instead, by the cowards who presumed to rule over the law here. But if he were to tell his lord father this time around...
He decided against it, however, believing that his father somehow surely had the knowledge about how often the candles and torches needed to be replaced up here so close to the top, and that he would be better off for not meddling in what was not his to rule over – yet. His own chambers and floors down below were a different story, of course, where his lady mother and he still lived and ruled over, and bided their time in waiting on Lord Tywin's final acceptance and invitation to fully extend from his regal paw so high above. There, on the three large floors that were their own, they could do as they pleased. Lady Reldina Stackspear was not his true mother, as he had found out some years back ago by now, at the age of around nine; she was merely his adoptive mother, but his true mother must surely have been around somewhere at Casterly Rock earlier, Joffrey thought, for where else would Lord Tywin have found her? He seldom ventured outside of the castle. At any rate, his lady mother, Lady Reldina, had strawberry blond, strangely reddish hair which he had always found beautiful but wondered at the sight of, ever since he was little, and dressed herself in the checkered golden yellow and silver of her own house, and sometimes also on particularly rare occasions of the scarlet red of House Lannister.
They lived close by his foster sister, Joy Hill, as well, and her wetnurse Lamanda. He knew somehow that she was not his sister in truth, rather a cousin; it was just an intangible feeling that he had never been able to explain. Still, they had grown up and played together, and she was fine enough for company, even though she was younger, apart from how scared and squeamish she always got. She would cry whenever he went out of the castle to shoot after pigeons or rabbits, and when he had skinned one and left it hanging from a hook at the side of her bed. A grown woman might have thanked him for it, and commanded his sharp hunting skills, but Joy only cried her eyes out, and he had screamed at her to keep her mouth shut, then slapped her and went back to his own chambers. All in all, though, she was decent company when she was happy, he supposed. They were all happy when they were playing games together, or having dinner, or playing tiles and cards at table.
Most of the time they were more or less contentedly isolated from the rest of the castle, with their apartments entirely to themselves, the same as anywhere at Casterly Rock. It was altogether too large to fraternise with anyone outside of one's own immediate surroundings more often than perhaps twice in a fortnight, apart from when one went the long way down to go outside of course. And so they were all content to be there. The only thing at times troubling them at their floor was the state of their prickly and terribly shabby servants, who were always making a mess of things, sometimes on purpose, it seemed to him and his mother both.
"You will always have to keep a good eye and ear on them, my son", his Mother had said, many times before and still now to his youthful ear. "They are a fickle bunch, and if one does not have the strength or power to rule over them, they will soon devour us from inside out, just like the climbing roots of the wormwood trees. A creeping rot in our own castle. That is the way of the smallfolk."
The wormwood trees were mostly just a story to scare young clueless children these days, Joffrey knew, their sinewy grey-green roots having been taken away in swathes by the constant burning and hacking of five generations of determined kings of the Rock some five hundred years ago or more, but nonetheless, the similarity with the servantsfolk's grasp for power where they should have none was striking. His mother was right in this, of course, as she most often was, and she had taught him well on how to behave himself and get what he wanted and deserved here in this world.
The newest ones, Darria and Relena, the first a youngish girl with sandy grey-blonde hair, the second one her mother, a grown woman around the age of thirty with reddish, long wildly waving hair desperately pressed down into hiding beneath the confines of a long chambermaid's [haircloth/[ ] ], seemed more or less fine for the moment, though. Darria had proved herself a nice enough girl, a wonderful girl in fact, sweet and pretty to look at, with a large, pretty round pink forehead, great big greenish gleaming eyes sparkling with elation at the sight of him, and with a mouth and throat that did not quit for anything, swallowing his warm youngling's seed as soon as it left his cock and made its way into her. She had been nice enough, yes indeed, polite and grateful like they seldom had been before, and he was sure enough that he would never have to suffer her even thinking the word "bastard" in his three-storied presence, or anywhere else in the great cavernous halls of the Rock either, for that matter, much less saying it out loud. As if he couldn't hear them all talk, the scum and lowest wormwood roots of the earth indeed, the basest rumours and gossips about his origins. For every such story that had ever come up to the ears of his lord father, a servant or a dozen had hanged, or drowned in the sea. And this clear signal from the distant golden halls high above, more than anything else that he had seen so far, to Joffrey, was the sign that he was indeed the chosen one by his lord father. For who would ever suffer such insolent words from wormwood and dirt about the heir to Casterly Rock itself?
He heard two guardsmen quickly descending from above, and nodded as he saw them. They passed by him to his left in the broad stairway, with a slight bow to their heads and a short "Mylord", but nothing more. That was to be expected up here. He had left the confines where he was the young lord and ruler and now gradually ascended through the upper floors, where his uncle Kevan and all the others lived. Besides, they seemed busy to get down. Perhaps Lord Tywin had been wroth at them, or perhaps they were late for the changing of guards. But the hour was surely not so late? thought Joffrey. All of Casterly Rock held to the same hourly changing of guards, officially, although interspersed with half hours for the even and odd floors, to make it harder for potential intruders. Yet up here, close to the top, he could not be sure. Joffrey continued his walk up, putting one leg after the other, feeling his boots step against the hard stone of the stairway. Soon came the first true windows, and he saw the light of day shining down from them already from two floors below. It was a beautiful sight. He almost thought he could hear birdsong from outside.
There was white wax on the steps now suddenly, and he cursed out loud as he almost stepped on it. The steps of the stairway were broad and flat, true, but it would still not be good to fall even as little as four or five steps on the winding hard stone. He took his hand into the [handle/[ ] ] at the side and steadied himself as best he could. Suddenly he could hear another pair of steps echoing from above, though more slowly this time, and with what seemed like a third small pattering of steps in between.
Lord Tyrion came down the steps with two guardsmen flanking his sides, one to each of his arms. His relative was a dwarf, with a hideous, grotesquely squat face, freakish features, light blonde hair so pale it was amost white on one side and close to black on the other, with one green and one black eye to complete the monstrosity. He was funny to talk to sometimes, and sometimes mean and a right evil man, Joffrey thought, to the point of hatred fuming in his ears at the memory. He used to call him "Uncle", for lack of a better term, and since he himself called him by a simple "nephew". As he so duly and diligently did now, in his usual, carefree tone of voice.
"Ah, good day, nephew. Fine day for a walk up the stairway, is it not?" Lord Tyrion said.
"Uncle.", he said, making a small, reluctant yet courteous bow.
"I'm afraid my legs have started cramping as they never did before, though if it is from the journey I have just undertaken or from the sudden expectations beridden upon me by my lord father, I cannot say."
"Expectations? I thought he barely expected you to get out of your bed by yourself at morning, uncle", Joffrey smiled with a banterous sly smile.
"Well, the little man's little man can certainly stand up for itself anyway, and that is the most important thing here in life, is it not?", Lord Tyrion shot back with an even more savage smile, twisting his thick squat eyebrows together and dragging his lips back to reveal a row of large teeth in a shrinkled up grin.
Joffrey was disgusted by the sight, and by his rude words, yet said nothing, as usual. Somehow this freakish dwarf man who was double his age officially stood higher up in rank than him, though none could believe it. It was often talked and gossiped around the Rock about "Lord Tywin's abomination", and Joffrey almost would have felt sorry for his "uncle", had he not been so adamant in proving his devilishly perverse nature at every turn and chance that he got.
"Two girls this time. Both from the docksides at Lannisport, I believe. Though I could have sworn they smelled most sweetly like the flowers of Highgarden..." the dwarf mused. "Perhaps the wine."
"Take care so as not to let them get too comfortable there, uncle", he replied. "Those thorny roses are not too good for your little man, I believe!"
Tyrion laughed back, somewhat courteously as well, and did his best not to fall as his guardsmen helped him down the last couple of steps before they met eyes, with his uncle's deformed body dangling like a baby's below him, leading up to his massively malformed head, in the arms of the two guards, and Joffrey's own tall, slender youthful physique on the other hand and side of the stairway, standing like a statue of strength and perfection against it, four steps below but all the same tall enough to look the dwarf straight in the eyes as he came carried down.
"Am I an amusing sight?" the dwarf said, always so unpleasantly aware of what people around him thought of him. Though it was obvious to see, of course. He had eyes himself to see and think, though, once again, one green and one strangely black.
"Only if a horse that ran to the woods were ever lost, and shadows of men doth wear breeches", said Joffrey, remembering an old saying that one of the men-at-arms, Germyn, had taught him long ago.
Tyrion laughed. "Well, then, I shall ask Rosinta if she will return the next time I go hunting and hear her whinnying in the bushes."
The next time you go and trip and fall across some root and smack your ugly face in, more like, thought Joffrey. It was a disgrace to force a poor horse to carry the sickly shape of the dwarf, light as it may be. He even needed a special freak saddle in order to ride it. And, as he so eloquently pointed out now, the horse Rosinta had thrown him off and galloped away into the flourishing green [elm/beech/[ ]] woods to the east some half-year back. That was as obvious a sign as any that foul-mouthed freaks should not attempt such follies, thought Joffrey, but the sanguine dwarf had not any seeming sense for such of his limitations.
"I am sure she will give you a great reply, after you lose your next brave horse as well!", Joffrey called after him, as he strode past by the tugging and grasping of his guardsmen and passed by him and then continued on beneath him in the stairway.
"I might well need a good horse, if I am to make my way to King's Landing", the dwarf said.
What? King's Landing, the dwarf suddenly said, and Joffrey stopped, trying to make sense of the words having just streamed up from the white pale head of hair on his dwarf uncle's head.
"What? King's Landing?"
He could not believe it. Lord Tyrion had not gone to King's Landing for more than four years, and the last time he only stayed for little over a moon, as Joffrey recalled. What could possibly be the reason for his travelling to the capital? He knew noone there, at least not well enough to warrant a long stay. His sister Cersei was at Winterfell, married to Lord Benjen Stark, and his exiled brother Ser Jaime, the Kingslayer, was at the Wall. The North would surely be a better journey for him. Unless... The dwarf made to turn his head slightly, and Joffrey could see him doing his best in trying to look back and up, as he replied from below.
"Haven't you heard? Well, I'm sure you'll hear soon enough. My father will have thrilling news for you as well, it seems."
Joffrey felt an anger well up inside him when he heard that. He hated the way in which Tyrion said "my father", and not rather "my lord father" or "our father", as he by all rights should. It was as if he tried to diminish his role here at the Rock, simply on account of his age. If a moldy squat pumpkin had lied on the terrace at Casterly Rock's vegetable gardens for thirty years, and a nice, fresh one with gleaming pure colors and good taste had lied for only twelve, whose was it in fact the cooks should take to the kitchens with? He growled inside, and felt a dark cloud of anger come over him, yet said nothing of it. Instead his voice became dark and thick as well, stocking itself and sounding forlorn with accusation without him meaning anything by it.
"For me as well? Has he told you something about the capital? About the king?"
"All in good time, dear nephew. Go up and talk to him, and I'm sure he shall tell you, if he has summoned you."
"If he has indeed summoned you"... That was a mockery as well. Questioning if he had indeed been summoned same as him, the little freak dwarf imp, who apparently was so important for the upkeep of this, the greatest, most magnificent and enormous keep in all of Westeros, which he could not even pass through by treading two steps down without a six foot guard at each shoulder. Yes, "Imp" was what they called him, he remembered now, all over Lannisport and in some more than untidy rooms on the lower floors all around the Rock. Tyrion Lannister, the Imp of Casterly Rock. That was for his perverse ways, and his devious hijinx with whores and worse people of the inns and keeps all across the coast.
"I'm sure he has! Mayhaps I will see you being carried to King's Landing soon enough, uncle! Remember to bring your Highgarden girls!"
That was an overstep, and he knew it. He had not known what to say back. But the dwarf, his dwarf uncle, only laughed again and called back to him.
"I'll give them your warm regards!"
And at that, he smiled and turned a corner past the turning of the stairway, still with the guards holding him by each arm, and disappeared down. Joffrey breathed a sigh of relief, and tried calming himself down. Could Lord Tywin truly have summoned his uncle dwarf right now? Just before summoning him? Did he want and need two heirs with him to King's Landing at the same time? Or was this some sort of ploy to tell Joffrey that he had finally chosen to give the Rock to Tyrion?
No, that could not be true, that could never be it. Lord Tywin hated Tyrion, he was sure. He never so much as looked at him when they were in the same room together, and when he did, it was always with a scolding and disappointed look, the look that one gave a bad dog who had eaten all the meat from the table, though his uncle Tyrion only drank and did not eat particularly much for his size. He could not have chosen him over Joffrey. He could not even have chosen him to go to King's Landing with him; no, that could not be it; please, say that that was not it. If he were to turn up to King's Landing with his freak uncle at his back – or front – noone would ever see him in a glorious light again and he would be forced to bear the shame of such family ties for an eternity. Leave the freak dwarf at home, thought Joffrey. He has done enough to shame us already here. We do not need him in the capital, father.
But Lord Tywin was not one to heed words from anyone but himself. He was a king in all but name, as much as the new king in King's Landing who was a northern Stark, Joffrey was sure. The northmen were all a dirty, dry, halfwitted and superstitious bunch who were best for fighting in deep snow, crawling on their northern knees in front of their old northern trees, and not much else. So had Germyn said, and Germyn had met a northman, down from Barrowton to the markets at Lannisport, not more than two years past.
No, I must not think of that now. Forget Germyn, and forget everyone else. Only think of father, only think of Lord Tywin now, he told himself. As ever, it was important that he should be well focused when meeting with him. He walked up the last four or five flights of stairs and started feeling more and more sweaty, stopping and steadying himself before the second to last one, standing there for well over a minute or two, and then at long last taking the final stairway up to Lord Tywin's enormous solar which lead out to the even more enormous golden-beige and grey stone balcony of Casterly Rock. The [pavement/stone pavements/stone plates/[ ] [ ]]
Lord Tywin was standing straight as a clock pendulum in his dark crimson, royal red [cloak/robes/tunic/[ ]] with his magnificent dark crimson and golden cloak showcasing the Lannister lion. He was as tall as any man Joffrey had met, or at least so he seemed where he stood there, with his golden boots planted firmly on the hard grey-white marble floor of the stone balcony, leading up to his tall legs, flat stomach, majestic lion's armor-adorned chest, broad shoulders decorated with axel-pieces shaped into lion's heads of gold, the gold thread fastening of his cloak, his sharp neck collar/cravatte/[ ], his stern neck, golden whiskers, sharp Lannister nose, concentrated gold-and-green eagle lion eyes and bald head which shone like an alabaster ball in the glory of the sunlight from high above. He was the stunning image of perfection. He was every inch a lord. Shortly, if Joffrey ever aspired to be anything in this world, this was what he imagined he would become one day in his old age.
"Good day, Joffrey", said Lord Tywin. He did not move an inch with his gaze, which was still planted firmly on some invisible spot far off into the distance of the horizon above the sea.
"Good day, Lord Tywin", Joffrey said, bowing down deeply, though he wondered whether Lord Tywin saw it. He must surely have felt it, however. It was as if he had eyes in his pale neck.
"I'm told you have been practicing your swordplay almost every day in the courtyard with Ser Corlyn of late."
Joffrey did not know what to answer. It was true of course, that Ser Corlyn, the master-at-arms of Casterly Rock, had taught him, although almost every day was perhaps an overstatement. It was surely more like every three or four days, though he did not wish to correct Lord Tywin. Not ever. That was for lowborn men who had a hearty desire to be hanged from Casterly Rock's ramparts, not for Lord Tywin's own son and future heir. And so he replied, as best he could.
"Indeed I have. I believe I am getting better. Ser Corlyn is a great fighter, and an even better teacher."
"He is good enough", said Lord Tywin, with a curt finality in his tone, and that was the end of it.
"But the question is how good you are compared to the other children and young lordlings around here. Do you believe that you could best any of those older than you? Those taller than you?"
He thought about that for a second. Had he done that? Well, technically, he almost had. Well, not bested, Joffrey thought, but he had held his own against Jacemyn Swyft, "the young cock" of the courtyard at fifteen, and almost knocked down Ser Galdon that one time, though that time they had been two, he and [ ] against the tall knight, and it had been muddy in the courtyard. But still, he was a good enough swordsman. He had even put up his own against Ser Corlyn on several occasions. He had not won, of course, as not even Jacemyn could, but he had held his own ground, he had fought well, and he had not shamed himself.
"I believe so, yes", Joffrey at last replied, and waited for the reaction to come. An inaudible feeling of contentment could be felt emanating from somewhere deep within Lord Tywin's gold-enameled chest, though he was standing so far away. It was like watching a rock which one knew had soft, warm magma flowing up somewhere deep inside it, though at one mention of it, the lava would sate itself down into the earth again. So Joffrey said nothing. Presumed nothing. Not from Lord Tywin.
"Good", he said. "It is important you were a good swordsman if you are to present yourself to the knights and fighters at King's Landing. The Rock has always bred the best knights in the realm, from [ ] to my son Jaime."
The white seagulls screamed somewhere far off in the distance, and Joffrey was in shock.
Joffrey could barely comprehend what he was hearing, and yet he knew in all of his heart that it must be true of course. But why just now suddenly? Was it because he had grown up? Joffrey thought that it might be the reason, but he couldn't be sure. He was still not a man grown, not in truth, only a young man of twelve. As it so happened, his lord father sensed what he had thought, and gave him the answer at once.
"The Hand of the King, Lord Arryn, has died. His Grace has asked me to come to King's Landing and become the new Hand for him, so that he might rule with more ease."
"Died? What has he died from?"
"Old age, most like. It was a fever that took him, though a younger man might have lived through it."
Lord Tywin himself was eight-and-fifty, but barely looked it. It was as if the wrinkles in his face held themselves taut in a formation of majestic disapproval, though not wrinkles of old age, not truly, Joffrey thought. It was as if Lord Tywin had the exact number of amount of wrinkles that he wished to have, and held an iron grip over each line in his face, his pale yet somewhat weathered skin stretched out all the way from the edge of his nose and concentrated eyebrows all the way down towards his neck, deciding when each new one would at long last be allowed to let loose from the grip and form, like just so many strings fastened to a badminton racket.
Lord Tywin spoke again.
"I have a mind to legitimise you before we take leave for the capital. A Lannister of the Rock you are, by blood and upbringing, in all but name. It is high time we changed all of that nonsense. You will become Joffrey Lannister at last. No longer a Hill but a true Lannister of the Rock. Do you believe you could shoulder that ancient and proud name without sullying it?"
Joffrey suddenly stood upright, every muscle and hair in his entire body up on the alert. This was all that he had ever hoped and prayed for, and now his lord father would finally acknowledge him. He steadied himself like steel, tried his best at meeting Lord Tywin's gaze from behind, as it so were, and then spoke.
"Yes, I believe so, my lord."
The seagulls screamed from the far-off horizon once again, and Joffrey waited for a reply.
"Good."
Lord Tywin turned to him at last at that, a sudden motion, though a smooth one as well, as if though he had anticipated just such an answer for several years before. As if he felt… pride? Joffrey could not be sure, but he made sure to continue standing as tall as he was, the tallest he could, with his back upstretched, neck and chin raised, and his eyes still focused on the roughly equal position as the one Lord Tywin had focused on just moments before.
His father strode closer towards him, slowly, with a watchful yet benevolent stride, as Joffrey imagined so walked the Father Above. He could not see Lord Tywin's face that well anymore, from the corner of his eye. But he thought, for a brief moment, that he was smiling. ...Or perhaps not.
"Many great men, fools and the gods alike have made many great injustices and mistakes towards our house in the past", Lord Tywin said. "Now is the time that we at long last right those wrongs."
Joffrey nodded, though he was not entirely sure what Lord Tywin meant. His older son, Ser Jaime, had been exiled from being a Kingsguard at the court and then sent to the Wall. That much was obvious for anyone with eyes to see or ears to hear the tales of it around the Rock, but what else? The birth of Tyrion, and the death of Lord Tywin's first wife, Lady Joanna? Was that one of the gods' mistakes?
But surely, how could he ever hope to right that? By having Tyrion killed? Then why would he take him with him to the capital? Or had he only fooled the dwarf and told him that he too was invited, only to have him killed on the road? Tyrion's horses would be a perfect cover and excuse for such an ill fate, he thought. It was certainly a clever scheme if that was the case, but Joffrey could once again not be entirely sure. If Lord Tywin had wanted Tyrion dead, why hadn't he done something far earlier? Was it perhaps because he had needed an official heir, to stop the other Lannisters, like his nephews Ser Lancel and Tyrek to get their thoughts on the Rock? Was it as he had thought? Joffrey could not think on the matter much longer than that, before Lord Tywin took to word once again.
"We will have a grand ceremony in a fortnight. We will need to sort with all the traditional fanfare, music, singers, hunting, sport, and finally a great four-day tournament of all the sharpest youths from all over The Westerlands – Lannisport and Crakehall, Silver Hill and the Golden Tooth and all the like – with a price of forty thousand golden dragons and a knighthood. It is important that the people see you as the man you are to become. And the lords and people will need revelry, as they always require for such matters."
Joffrey simply nodded. He barely even knew what to say. But he knew that he would make his father proud, and try his very best to gleam like a golden lion on this final day of his destiny. He almost felt light-headed just from the thought of it. Sure, he had always expected that this day would come, of course, or at least hoped and thought that it was owed to him by his birth and blood and that it was the natural thing to be, but he could not have been prepared for all this, not when at long last now it finally came to be. Lord Tywin stood staring at him with a [uppfordrande] look.
"Now, here comes the important part. I want you to act every inch of your body, heart and mind a Lannister. Do it as you like, but never ever again shall you stoop down below your rightful status, nor accept it if someone were to call you baseborn, nor shall you shame yourself or your family's name in any way. You shall continue to have your allegiance to me, as you have before, never to raise your voice towards me or question me in any matter. You shall take to wife a suitable young noblewoman of my choosing once the time for that comes, and do your best to further the line and strength of Casterly Rock and the Westerlands against our many enemies."
Joffrey nodded enthusiastically, and his lord father continued, with greater severity than Joffrey had seldom heard from him, taking long strides with his armor-clad legs along the pavement of the balcony like some great long-legged predatory bird looking for vermin beneath him in the high yellow grass. Lord Tywin usually never spoke much, since he did not particularly feel the need to, but now he took out his entire register, and set each word down like a sacred commandment from the gods, although Lord Tywin did not particularly like those either. Nonetheless, he spoke as one, and he did so strongly, clearly, and at length.
"We are an ancient house, and a rich and proud one, and you will be the one to take over it all after I am gone from this earth. I pray that I still have some good years left, but that is never a certain matter. Remember this: A lion must always look after his pride, and not let it be swept away or challenged by the harrowing of wild wolves or base stags, nor even by the breath of dragons, should they come once again to their might. We are the power of the Rock, the power which rests in our very minds, hearts, words and actions, and you will be my chosen heir until further notice is given you. That is a thing which only a man can do, not a young boy. From now on, you will act like a man, and show no folly before our enemies in the capital. Show only the proudness and greatness of our house."
Lord Tywin stopped his strideful walk at last, and turned his gaze directly to Joffrey once more.
"Do you understand?" he said, with a tone of deep significance, that told Joffrey that if he did not answer this question right, Lord Tywin might retract the entire thing and give it all away to the dwarf instead. That would have been a bitter gift indeed. But he was Joffrey Hill of Casterly Rock, he had always been, and this was his deepest, innermost fate and destiny that he had grown up and become groomed for all his life for this particular moment. And so he met Lord Tywin's gaze directly, with certainty in his voice, and said "Yes".
Lord Tywin considered him for a moment, one final time, and then smiled. He was content. And the seagulls behind him, for ever so short a while, seemed ever so silent in their screams."