JOFFREY III

"The clang of steel on steel rang across the courtyard of the Red Keep as Joffrey's sword came to throes with his opponent's, Gerion Buckwell's.

Ser Aron Santagar, the master-at-arms, was watching, just as Prince Robb, Lord Tywin and several more as they went at eachother.

"No, not like that. Don't fight as if you are angry with him", Lord Tywin said, annoyed.

"But it's a fight!" Joffrey said.

"You fight like Tygg", he said, disapprovingly. "That is all fine and well, if you have the skill for it, like Jaime did. But if you do not yet possess such natural talent, however... You will need to practice harder for it first. And then, after you have finally mastered the grip of your sword, you may fight as you like."

"I possess more natural talent than anyone!" Joffrey protested, angry. "I can be just as good as him! And not get sent to the bloody Wall for it!"

"Prove it", Lord Tywin said. "When Jaime was your age, he was knocking down full grown men with his sword, beating two opponents of his own age at a time. And he would never have lost a fight to his anger as you did just now today."

Joffrey felt close to seething at the comment. But he forced it down his throat, and swallowed hard at his inner pride. His blonde lugg was dripping with sweat, as he looked through it, up at the long tall frame of Lord Tywin, and thought murderous thought. However, he only bowed down, his white teeth open in a lion's snarl, and replied.

"Of course... My lord."

"Mm-hm." Lord Tywin looked down on him with the same cool look at that, and remained in place. Then he stood waiting, as their gazes clung to each other, all the way until Joffrey at last made to go all the way back to the courtyard again, his eyes still glued to the visure of his previous lord father, and now hateful uncle, as it were.

He hated him. Seven gods, how he hated him. He would pray to the Stranger tonight, he thought, and pray that he snatched Lord Tywin away as a bolt of lightning hit an old and gnarled tree hard as rock, so that it burned up and died at last, and made way for the glowing light of youth... The vision reminded him of the sigil of House Marbrand, as he figured inside his head. It was very fitting.

And then the fight was on again.

Joffrey took his sword to the high heavens, before bearing it down towards Buckwell's head, but Buckwell parried and met it with his own sword, and his blow was strong and hard.

Joffrey tried beating it back, hacking and hacking away once again, but feeling his reach growing smaller and smaller for each time, edging closer to almost hitting himself on his own shield.

[

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And Joffrey fell.

"No, no, no! Joffrey..." Lord Tywin said again, his tone a rising one as he walked with long steps towards the courtyard's center, his boots stepping one after the other in the muck of the dirt.

He arose from the dirt, wiping the worst of it off with his cloak, as Lord Tywin lifted him up, pulling him instantaneously from the ground as roughly and hard as any man surely had handled a youth of his own blood, and then he spoke to him, his nargled and coldly held-back tone creeping into Joffrey's ear as an uninvited visitor, as Joffrey felt the unbidden unease of his Lord Father's breath and the sweat and smell of old sour man.

"Let me tell you a lesson, and let me tell it to you right now, and I pray that you will listen, and understand. I want you to listen, and listen good. … A lion does not snap around like that. He does not bark, like a dog, nor does he howl of his sorrows and anger like a wolf. A lion roars. It is a calm roar, a calm one, a deliberate one, a precise one, a pure and perfectly balanced demonstration of his power.

And he only roars when he wants to, or when he has to. Not as a quick, sudden foolhardy reaction to the blows of his fiends.

Do you understand? You are a lion. … Fight like a lion. Not like some angry pup."

Joffrey looked as though he listened, but in truth he had already zoned out, his gaze more focused on the castle walls behind Lord Tywin, where he imagined that Princess Sansa was hiding somewhere inside the windows on the third floor of her bechamber. But he heard something of Tywin's speech all the same. "Fight like a lion... Not like some angry pup."

Yes. I will, Father. I will, you rotten old tree. I'll show you who is the lion here. You tired old fool.

But this time he took careful care to be more calm and calculated in his movements, only making a move when he really felt that he knew exactly where and how his hacking would land. He took his right hand sword into a straight and clear-cut motion, right onto Buckwell's sword, and then he angled up his shield with his left hand, taking care to make it cover as much of his left and center parts as he could without it blocking his vision or strike, and then another hard hacking of his right. Gerion backed back a bit. Joffrey tried a kick.

"No, not any kicks! You don't need them. Only the sword!" Lord Tywin called.

Shut up, you old man, I'll kick my foe if I wish, he thought. But then he figured that perhaps a man who had fought in battles for forty years would have at least one clue of what to do... And Gerion did not back away particularly much from the kick either. So he did as told. He brought his sword arm forth once again, striking a third time, and a little higher up on Gerion's shield this time around, edging closer to his neck and head, although he was fast beginning to grow tired in his arm, and the shifted angle of Buckwell's shield did not help to stop that. Still, he held out it, fighting with the strength of a young lion now more in truth, bringing his left arm closer to his body to give way to his right one and finishing with a fourth strike coming in slightly from the side.

That seemed to work. Gerion's shield was knocked slightly to the right, and Joffrey hacked once more at it, as Gerion tried his best to lower his sword above it all onto Joffrey's head, using his height to his advantage, but Joffrey had long arms and a long reach as well, and he was fast. He struck his sword arm up, right into the sky, as fast as lightning to counter it, parrying and slinting off Buckwell's sword to come landing down onto his helm. Dunk! It said, and Joffrey felt the glee of the fight.

Yes! Now, you bucket-head, now I've got you, you dumb ugly fool!

He tried continuing the strike downwards even more, towards his neck and chest, but the shield was in the way once again, a wall of wood which proved impossible to get past. He drew back his sword again, as Gerion gave him a hard hit from the left – Gerion's right – and then another one, and then another one, as Joffrey staggered backwards.

"Find your footing again!" Ser Aron called out. "Don't let him push you back!"

Joffrey tried his best to find his footing, but his legs were long and slender, whereas the whole of Buckwell's body was thick and strong. His legs were almost like big tree trunks, clad in that plate armour, Joffrey thought. How could he stand his ground to such a strong and older boy as that?

But he tried, at least, and put his one leg back and the other one in front, as he knew that he should do, and then he tried taking sats and to charge blindly with his shield. It only almost worked. Gerion met the charge head-on, shield and torso against shield and slender torso, and Joffrey fell back. Gerion had pushed him back and down onto the ground, and Joffrey felt the terror of the loss.

Gerion angled down his sword at him, as he lay suddenly on his back, but Joffrey parried with his own sword, smacking that of Gerion's to the left side, smacking it back to take it to the right side again, as Gerion slintered closer and down, trying to spear it right down at his thin armoured chest, and Joffrey panicked but beat away at the sword towards the right with his shield. This time he felt stronger in some way. Yes. He found that he was strong when hitting from the side. That might work.

He stabbed hard, and wildly, blindly, with his sword at Gerion's side as he arose from the ground, hopping up from it only almost as quick as light, but then realized what his Father had told him of how to be more calm and calculating, only striking out his moves in perfect power and balance, as Gerion saw his clumsiness and took advantage of it, knocking him back and to the left.

Joffrey faltered, and was mighty close to falling down again, but Gerion waited, having the grace of letting his opponent get up again, and Joffrey steadied himself on his sword, although Ser [Corleon? Corlys?] had always said that one should never do that, hopped a few paces further away to get some free open ground, and then turned around to strike at his enemy again.

Gerion stood ready to receive him, his sword and shield both up, as Joffrey heightened his own sword, and made sure to stand in a good spot of the dirt where it was more stable and not so loose. He planted his boots hard into the dirt, felt the balance inside his lithe body, as well as he could, and prayed and hoped that his feind would not be able to rub him out of his place, although he of course secretly knew that that was much folly to think.

Still, he tried. He stood there, waiting, as none of them made a move, only staring each other down. Gerion made to talk, it seemed.

"Come on now, my lord... Come on then, my lord of Lannister... Make your strike."

"My strike will come within due time, Buckwell", Joffrey replied, speaking the name with disgust.

Your helm even looks just like a bucket, he thought, as he had a hundred times before. Perhaps it was on purpose. He was sure that it was.

They angled their swords towards each other, although still a good fifteen feet away from each other, encircling each other slowly, keeping the circle symmetrical and walking to the left, clockwise, and a little more, until they knew it was time.

Then Joffrey took a step forward. And Gerion did as well. And then Joffrey. And then Gerion again. Soon they were within striking range of each other, as all the commotion around them seemed to have gone quiet. Ser Aron Santagar did not call out for them, nor did Prince Robb or the King or indeed Lord Tywin say a word,... Each of the two boys breathed in and out one deep breath of effort, and then another one, in preparation for what was to come.

... And then they went at each other again.

Joffrey took good care to angle his sword in precisely the right way, if he were to have any semblance of a chance to finally get through and past Gerion's shield. Then he [ ]

[

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...

"You will not fight in the melée part of the tourney", Lord Tywin decided. "That much is clear."

"You can't stop me!" Joffrey said.

"I can, and I am. I will not have you make a fool of yourself. Keep practicing, and you will be able to participate in a couple of moons' time, or next year. You are still too young."

Ser Barristan the Bold had only been ten or eleven when he had participated in his first joust, Joffrey knew, and his long-lost brother Ser Jaime had squired for Ser Arthur Dayne at fourteen and been made kingsguard at fifteen. Joffrey was thirteen, almost as old. If he could not fight, it was Lord Tywin's fault, for not having prodded him to practice more earlier, only naming him heir when he thought he might be Hand again, surely. Joffrey was furious.

He tried his best to cover his frustrations before the Prince at least, making a semblance of a bow before him as he watched his Tully blue eyes scrutinize him with the same deep chilling frost gaze as that of the King, before handing over his sword and shield to Ser Aron and dusting off his helm.

"Hm. Another good spar, but not quite enough", Ser Aron declared. "You next, my prince."

Prince Robb took his own sword from its scabbard and fetched himself a proper shield, far bigger than Joffrey's light one had been. It showed the direwolf of House Stark, fearsomely sculpted and painted on in silver white and grey, its fangs terrible to see.

Joffrey strode back to the fencing to stand beside his lord father, even though he hated him.

"You know I am only doing this for the best of our house.", he said. "A fool would throw it away. You cannot let these smaller houses be the better of you. House Buckwell..." He sneered, annoyed.

"I will have him lying on the ground next time!" He promised. "Then we'll see who's the best."

"Yees... I should hope so." Lord Tywin flexed his fingers, then stared intently forward into the empty air above the training yard as the prince began his fight.

"You will wake up early tomorrow, as soon as the sun has gone up, to have private practice with Ser Aron. I will tell the King to sort it.", he declared.

Joffrey felt angry, but he all the same knew that he would need to practice more if he would ever best the Prince as he had once again. The thought of seeing those cold blue eyes lose their countenance again made the thought of it worth it, as he saw the prince clanking away at Buckwell.

"Yes, father."

Lord Tywin gave him a strange look, then, turning his head, and looked almost as if he were to speak up and say something of importance, but then Prince Robb got Gerion to the ground by a fluke of luck, and all of the courtyard exploded in applauses for the prince, to which Lord Tywin himself forced himself to reply, clapping quietly, politely, and making a small bow of acknowledgement in the prince's general direction. His visure was hard, as usual, but respectful all the same. Joffrey was sour.

"Don't worry. I will show the prince before long. Then we'll see who's clapping for who."

"Your enthusiasm will serve you well. You have the strength and determination in you that is necessary. I can see that much. I only hope you may take in the lessons I have taught you today, and to use them next time. Perhaps I have let you spend too much time in Tyrion's company. He's always had a propensity to do the opposite of what I tell him to do, to my anger and spite."

Joffrey did not understand. It was he who had sent him out with Tyrion in the first place. Besides, his dwarf uncle was surely not all that bad. He had helped him on their travels, they had been all they had at Winterfell, and even now when they had arrived in the capital. He was almost beginning to feel a shift somewhere inside him at those words, as he wondered just how many times Lord Tywin had shown his disapproval and disgust at Tyrion in the many years before.

It was not fair. It could not have been fair, Joffrey thought, as his mind boiled with thoughts and feelings of queasiness. If he himself, who was as close to the perfect heir as any man could hope to have apart from the bloody tales of his brother Jaime at the Wall, then how surely terrible must his lord father previously had have been towards Tyrion, who had only ever been an ugly poor old dwarf to bear the proud standard of the Lion? Joffrey shuddered, and suddenly felt sorry for his little misshapen uncle. He was always giving him advice, looking out for him... Whereas Lord Tywin only gave him mostly gruelling talks, and lots of anger and fret. Tyrion was wise, and somehow kind, although devious, all in his own way, Joffrey thought solemnly to himself. Yes...

He decided that he would go and try and find his uncle as soon as he could, and perhaps to ask him how it had been when he had grown up, if Lord Tywin had been more or less kind to him, if he had behaved differently in any way or if he had always been so harsh and angry as he was.

He wondered if he was hiding at one of the brothels, or at his chamber reading in his boring old books. At any rate, he would ask Jyck or Loften or Ser Clydeon and then go and talk to him. Find him. Yes, that he would. Perhaps he could even give him some tips on how to try and sneak himself into the jousting. If his uncle was anything, despite all his faults and defects, it seemed to be smart.

But first he would ask Morrec to order a new suit of armor and lances for the tournament. He would be participating, whether Lord Tywin wanted it or no. He was decided. He would show him, yes.

He said as much to Morrec. The beweaponed manservant hurried off in the direction towards the castle gates as soon as he gave him the order, and then Jyck and the others followed him back into the castle, as Joffrey strode forth with decided steps, leaving Lord Tywin, Buckwell, Prince Robb and his fret behind him in the courtyard as best he could.

"Find my uncle", he said. "Is he still in our chambers or has he gone out to another brothel again?"

"I will go and search for him in the Silk Lantern, my lord", Taleon promised eagerly.

That was one of Lord Baelish's most famous brothels, or Lord Littlefinger's, as he was apparently known by some. His uncle had shown and told him before. Joffrey had been there himself twice by now.

The brothel was the closest to the castle, as close to the Red Keep as dared from the visage of the King, a seedy shadow of red lights and pleasurable sighs knitted into reddish and bronze knettle-walls with red, pink, orange and white silk curtains flowing from one bed-mabled room of dark-haired and eager whores into the next, and somehow seemed to had the Silent Wolf King's official grudging agreement, if not his blessing.

"I could go to Chataya's", Pasker said. That one was far far away, in the other parts of the city.

"No use. Chataya's is far out in the city. He can't have gone that far in a mere two hours", Joffrey said. "Not with his little twisted legs."

Pasker nodded in reply.

"No, m'lord. Certainly, m'lord."

He might have taken his horse, or a litter, of course, but Joffrey doubted he would be so foolish as to risk being seen visiting a whorehouse outside the castle wallls during daylight. In the night time, yes, certainly, as long as it did not anger the king, but not now before the sun had set. No.

"Just go ahead up to the chambers instead. See if he's there, and then come back again."

Pasker gave a nod and hurried up.

Joffrey walked the rest of the way up into the castle, nodding reluctantly but politely to Lady Tanda and the grotesquely obese Lady Lollys as they passed him by in the entrance to the castle.

"My lord of Lannister", they both said, as Lollys raised her grotesque fat arms to the sides to pull out her dress, making her figure appear even broader with her dress.

At least these foolish old hens respect me, he thought bitterly. They don't know of my loss to Buckwell until they come out and hear all about it. And then they'll laugh. And I'll have their heads.

He stormed up along the winding stairs, climbing each one as if it was his fallen enemy, conquering each one like a feat of bravery and strength. He would have Buckwell, he would kill him someday, he told himself. He felt his rage slowly slowly dying down to be exchanged for tiredness at climbing the many stairs, even though they were only half the number of those at the Rock.

Finally he and the guards got up to their quarters at the [third? Fourth?] floor.

As it turned out, Tyrion was still in their chamber, sat reading one of his boring books again, his deformed body still placed on its reading chair, a huge pile of heavy tombs and a candle in front of him on the wooden desk.

"Nephew", he said, as he looked up from the pages of parchment, his elbows resting on the yellowish white of the large pages, stretching out to the sides broader than he was himself. "Back so soon?"

"The bloody Buckwell's a fool, but he knows how to fall down quickly at least", Joffrey sneered as he kicked the door shut behind him. It should have been Morrec's job to do so, but he was off towards the Street of Steel to make the order for the armour and lances. Tyrion would ask soon about that, no doubt. And then Joffrey would have to hope he would not tell their lord father.

Joffrey wondered how long it would take Taleon to search through the Lantern, and what he might found with his pointy nose before he realized that his short-statured lord was not hiding there beneath one of the petticoats or silk skirts of the heavenly whores in their red knettle-boxes of smelted steel. For every quarter he was gone unnecessarily, while Joffrey and Tyrion waited at their chambers for him to return, he would cut down one gold dragon from his monthly pay, he decided. His girls, the cheapest ones that he always went for, only cost a few silver stags each at any rate.

"The Buckwells are a small house, but proud", his uncle said, as he adjusted to the light streaming into the chamber from the corridor, in the moments before the heavy dark oaken door closed once again. "No doubt the boy has gotten a fair amount of training from Ser Aron Santagar as well, having lived here for several years. The salty Dornish do know their quick way around a sword, from what I have seen, and Ser Aron is surely among the best, to train the crown prince."

"A Lannister of the Rock ought to defeat a Tully any day of the week", Joffrey said, still sullen.

"A Tully and a Stark, lest you had somehow forgotten who his royal father is. It is no coincidence that His Grace earned his crown through a war, and not through inheritance. The Starks have always been great warriors, ever since they first defeated all of their northern rivals, and made to rule the vast land of the North as the Kings of Winter, defeating the barrow kings, the Frosts and the Boltons in the process half a hundred times before. Their blood runs cold, and their minds are trained only in the art of war, if not in anything else, dear nephew. It is no shame to lose to the prince before you are come of age. Just remember to pay back the debt. The North may remember, but so do we."

His dwarf uncle tapped lightly on the side of the page with his reading stick, as he continued making notes and scribbled something unintelligible along the sides of a loose piece of parchment.

"What are you doing?" Joffrey said, suspiciously, as he kicked off his boots on the mat, put on his inside shoes and walked up to him.

"Making notes", Tyrion said.

"About what?" Joffrey said, annoyed.

"The War of Ice and Fire", Tyrion replied. "Also known in here, and in some mouths still, as the Rebellion, or Lord Robert's Rebellion, as it was named first, before our good friend His Grace encountered my brother Jaime on the throne and took it for himself. Did you know that Lord Robert Baratheon once fought and won three battles within a single day? The Demon of the Trident.., yes."

"Of course I knew that!" Joffrey said, annoyed. "The smallest child has heard the stories."

"I should find it very interesting to get to meet Lord Robert again, and see what has become of him. I am told that he and the King remain good and fast friends even now, often hunting and arranging feasts here or at Storm's End."

"I hear he once killed a boar as heavy as ten men with only his hunting knife", Joffrey put in.

"I had heard so too, and I don't doubt it", Tyrion said. "Though mayhaps the beast was wounded."

"Who cares if it was wounded? He killed it with his bare hands and only a knife! He's the greatest fighter the realm has ever seen. Apart from uncle Jaime. … And the King.", he grumbled.

"Now perhaps..." Tyrion allowed. "But before the war, there were those that might have challenged him in both strength, skill and size."

"Why are we speaking of this now?" Joffrey said, annoyed.

"No particular reason. I was only overcome with the thought after having seen Lord Clegane at Winterfell."

"Lord Clegane? The Hound, you mean." Everyone called him that, even to his face sometimes.

"Yes, if you must be so crass. His older brother was known as the Mountain That Rides before he died, and I dare say that had he grown up he would have rivalled Lord Baratheon in both size and strength.

But King Eddard took his head clean off himself, for the deed of having killed the Mad King's newborn grandchild, and raped his daughter in law, the Dornish princess Elia Martell, and then he sent my dear brother up to the Wall for his own crime. "

Tyrion adjusted his pen and writing stick and put them slightly to the side, querying Joffrey nonsenically with his mismatched eyes. He seemed to think deeply about something all of a sudden.

It looked as if he was asking him a question though his words said naught. Perhaps he was only speaking to his own voice inside his head. He did that sometimes. Just another part about him that was so strange, to add to it all.

"… Jaime would have no equal," his dwarf uncle continued, "were he still serving here, apart from Ser Barristan of course. Ser Lewyn Martell was slain with a sword to the [ ] and an arrow or two to the head shortly after, [ ], and the three greatest, Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Arthur Dayne were taken by King Eddard himself, along with his companion the little crannogman Howland Reed. Did you know?"

Of course he knew that, once again. Everyone had heard the story. Although Reed was rarely mentioned as much as the King. Tyrion seemed to wonder what had become of him.

"Of course I know. We were speaking of Robert Baratheon. The others are all dead."

Tyrion nodded vaguely and continued on browsing his page.

"How heavy is a boar anyway?" Joffrey tossed out, with an annoyed tone.

"I think that a more interesting notion would be how heavy the Lord of Storm's End is. The Baratheons have always been tall, rivalling even our own tall line in length and strength, but Lord Robert is something out of the ordinary, or so they say. And years of excessive feasting and drinking have not put a stop to his growing, it would seem. Though I would not tell it to the King.

"Do you think I am some fool?"

"I am merely trying to help. You seem to have a lot of questions, and I am trying to answer them so that you don't accidentally ask the King."

"I'm not some bloody child!" Joffrey said, disgusted. He had just lost all mirth of talking to Tyrion again. "You don't need to teach me anything out of your stupid, dusty old books! All that matters is how to smack a Buckwell on the head, it seems. Not to know how fat the King's friends are, or what type of herbs Lady Stokefat has in her tea, or who shot which Dornish olive bunghole with an arrow on some muddy swine field long before the Mad King died!"

They stood looking at each other, for one tense moment, then two, as Tyrion seemed to consider his words, yet said nothing to argue with them. The silence was intense as his uncle turned back slowly.

Then Joffrey kicked one of the empty chandeliers on the floor to the side and stormed into his bedchamber.

"I will talk to you tomorrow. If I feel like it.", he sneered with a seething spit.

"I thank you humbly for your sacrifice", he heard his dwarf uncle mumbling as he licked his grotesque dwarf fingers and turned another page in his stupid book that was as big as he himself.

"Tell Pasker he's lost a gold coin for your sake", Joffrey finished, slamming the door. "If the poxy old bastard hornbuck returns here before morning, that is."

He threw his cloak off, his golden lion clasp towards the walls, and then picked it up from the floor again, only to deliberately cast the null token even harder into the wall once again. And again.

Then he fell on the bed in a red rage and cried a lanky lion cub's silent black tears into the red velvet and gold cushion, as the darkness fell around him in the dunkelness of the room."

"