Chapter 25 — Joffrey the "Wise"
Inside the royal apartments of Maegor's Holdfast, sunlight poured through tall windows, glimmering across golden drapes and polished marble floors. Every inch of the room spoke of excess — and at its center stood the young king himself, Joffrey Baratheon, preening before a full-length mirror gifted by a merchant from Lys.
Two handmaids scurried around him, tightening belts, brushing shoulders, and adjusting every wrinkle with terrified precision.
The young king, crowned with a glittering golden antler circlet that caught the light against his shining blond hair, wore a crimson robe trimmed in silver, cut neatly at the knee to show off his "refined" figure. Below, he sported immaculate black trousers and tall boots threaded with gold.
To complete his ensemble, Joffrey had chosen a fire-red silk cloak edged in black, embroidered with a leaping stag and roaring lion — symbols of both his "heritage" and his vanity. The result was dazzling, perhaps even garish, but Joffrey admired himself with open delight.
He grinned at his reflection, tilting his chin upward.
"Yes," he murmured. "Majestic. Truly, they shall see their king today."
But the moment he descended the staircase, his pride was met not with praise — but with his mother's frown.
"Kings should look dignified and commanding," said Cersei Lannister, her emerald eyes narrowing. "You look like a boy playing dress-up."
"What? This is magnificent!" Joffrey brushed his sleeve with mock grace. "I think it suits me perfectly."
"If I were you," she said, exhaling, "I'd use what little time we have and change into something proper."
The young king's smile faltered. He straightened his shoulders and replied sharply,
"You're not me. I'm the king. I wear what I please."
"I'm your mother," Cersei reminded coolly.
Joffrey turned, lips curling. "The king's mother."
A heavy silence hung between them. For a long moment, they simply stared — Cersei unflinching, Joffrey fidgeting beneath her gaze.
Then, with forced nonchalance, he turned to the armored knight at his side. "Good dog," he said cheerfully. "My attire suits a king, doesn't it?"
The Hound, his face hidden behind a snarling metal helm, replied dryly, "You're the king."
Satisfied, Joffrey cast his mother a triumphant smirk.
Cersei sighed — she had no patience for another argument. "Fine," she said at last. "A king must have his freedom. Perhaps this isn't worth quarreling over."
Her tone softened slightly, but her eyes sharpened again. "Just remember — there must be no mistakes today. When Eddard Stark confesses, you'll strip him of his titles and lands, send him to the Night's Watch, and forbid him from ever meddling in the realm again. Do you remember your lines?"
"Of course," Joffrey said proudly. "Grand Maester Pycelle called it his masterpiece. Though honestly, I think I might shorten it a bit. Too wordy."
Cersei rolled her eyes, but said nothing more. They left the chamber together, followed by a retinue of armored guards.
---
The royal carriage rolled out of Maegor's Holdfast, descending the winding roads toward the Great Sept of Baelor, where the trial of Lord Eddard Stark was about to take place.
Another carriage trailed behind. Inside the barred wagon sat Eddard Stark, head shaved, beard gone, his weathered face gaunt and shadowed. He leaned against the wooden bars, silent and unreadable.
From his window, Joffrey caught sight of him and sneered. "He looks like a clown," the young king scoffed. "A crippled old fool who thought he could flee King's Landing. What a pathetic show."
"Fools are amusing," Cersei said quietly, "but it would be wise to ask how he escaped at all."
Her tone darkened, her expression thoughtful. "Ser Meryn examined every corpse. The young man who helped Stark — the one you mentioned — was never found. Perhaps we should hire a skilled painter to sketch his likeness and post a bounty."
She paused, then added, "And that notebook you spoke of — the strange one. Even if it contains no sorcery, its material alone is… remarkable. A parchment so thin and soft — unlike anything known in Westeros."
At that, Joffrey perked up, eyes glinting with curiosity. "And the maesters? Have they made progress?"
"None," Cersei admitted. "It's written in a script no one can read."
Joffrey scowled. "Then what good are maesters if they can't even read a book? Pycelle's ancient — he made me wait once before council. A king! Waiting!" He clenched his fist. "We should replace him."
"You already dismissed Ser Barristan," Cersei reminded pointedly. "Replacing the Grand Maester right after that would be… unwise."
"I'm the king. My word is law."
"A wise king listens to counsel," she said calmly.
"And a real king has his own mind," Joffrey shot back. "Father never listened to any of you."
"That's why he's dead."
"That was an accident."
"One mistake is all it takes to die," she said coldly. "I warned him — and you saw what happened."
"I SAID it was an accident!" Joffrey snapped, voice rising until even the guards outside heard him. None dared react.
Silence filled the carriage again. Finally, Joffrey muttered, eyes downcast, "I don't even like wine."
"Good," Cersei said, softening. "Drink only when politics demand it — and even then, sparingly. Oh, and another thing — stop striking your betrothed. Even the gods despise such acts."
"I've never hit Sansa," Joffrey lied smoothly, and looked away.
---
By the time their carriage arrived at the Great Sept of Baelor, Joffrey's irritation had nearly vanished. The deafening cheers of the gathered crowd filled him with energy again.
He stepped out, one hand resting on the jeweled hilt of his sword, and climbed the marble stairs. Tens of thousands of eyes followed him. He felt invincible.
"Look at them," he murmured, smiling. "Their king."
Standing at the platform's center, he waved grandly to the masses — but when he turned, he saw his mother whispering quietly to Sansa Stark, her red hair gleaming in the sun.
Joffrey's smile faltered. "That whore," he hissed under his breath, rubbing his still-bruised elbow.
---
The plaza below was packed — a dark sea of heads and restless murmurs that buzzed like a swarm of flies.
Then the crowd parted. Eddard Stark was dragged up the steps, flanked by armored guards. He kept his head bowed, gaunt and silent, enduring the jeers and stones hurled from the crowd.
On the platform, he paused. The sunlight gleamed off his shaven head.
"I am Eddard Stark," he said quietly, voice steady. "Lord of Winterfell, and former Hand of the King."
A hush rippled through the crowd. Even the nobles leaned forward.
"I stand before gods and men to confess my crimes." His voice strengthened. "I betrayed my king — my friend, Robert Baratheon. I betrayed his trust and his command."
He paused, breath unsteady. "I swore to protect his children, yet while his body was still warm, I conspired to depose and murder his son to claim the throne myself."
Gasps and shouts rippled through the crowd, then anger took hold.
"Traitor!"
"Kill him!"
"Death to the wolf!"
Rocks began to fly; guards raised shields as the mob howled for blood.
At Cersei's subtle gesture, the High Septon stepped forward to continue the ritual.
He knelt before the king and his mother, booming in a solemn tone:
"Before gods and men, this man has confessed his sins. The gods are just — but they are also merciful. Your Grace, what is your judgment?"
The mob roared again — a single, unrelenting chant:
"Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!"
The cries lit a feverish gleam in Joffrey's eyes. His hand tightened on the sword.
For the first time, he felt it — true power.
This was his moment.
His first act of rule.
His chance to show them all.
Mother's words echoed dimly in his mind — "Send him to the Wall."
But then came the cheers, the chants, the memory of that day Sansa's wolf had humiliated him, and the sight of Ned Stark's cold, defiant eyes.
His jaw tightened.
"I am the king," he thought fiercely. "And a king must answer his people."
He raised his hand. "My mother and Lady Sansa begged for mercy," he announced. "But mercy is for the weak."
He turned, smiling cruelly at Sansa's pale face. "A traitor deserves but one reward."
Joffrey lifted his hand, pointing toward the executioner.
"Ser Ilyn," he declared, voice sharp as steel.
"Bring me his head!"
A stunned silence — then a deafening roar of approval.
Ser Ilyn Payne stepped forward, expressionless beneath his black hood. He drew his massive greatsword, Ice, from its scabbard — Ned Stark's own blade — and raised it high.
The crowd screamed for blood.
Joffrey grinned, trembling with exhilaration.
But before the blade could fall, a voice cut through the chaos — loud and clear:
"STOP! Or I'll kill the Queen!"
Gasps rippled through the mob.
There, atop the marble statue of Baelor the Blessed, stood a young man, wind whipping at his cloak.
In his hand, he held a crude straw doll, a mockery of a man.
For the first time, the great square fell utterly silent.
Cersei's scream pierced the air.
Ser Ilyn froze mid-swing.
And Joffrey — "the Wise King" — blinked in disbelief.