Your comments, reviews, and votes really help me out so much and they make me super motivated to keep working on this story!Pat*eon : CaveLeather
What kind of man was Theon Greyjoy?
Joffrey hadn't been close to him back in Winterfell. The guy always wore that same cocky smirk, acting like the world owed him a laugh. The other Stark kids couldn't stand him—except Robb.
"Theon told me at the Neck that Dragonstone had too many ships and King's Landing didn't have enough," Robb said. "He volunteered to go home and talk his father into sending the Iron Fleet to help us, so I let him go."
"How'd he get the warning out once he reached the Iron Islands?" Joffrey asked. "His father wouldn't have let him leave once the attack was underway."
Robb scratched his head. "When Theon got there, he found his father already mustering longships. He only realized later they were planning to hit the North. So he played along, fooled Balon, and got himself a small fleet. Since he was the only one with a horse, the second they landed he bolted. Rode hard to a castle on the Stony Shore, borrowed a raven, and sent word to Winterfell. Maester Luwin forwarded it to King's Landing."
King's Landing?
Why didn't I hear about this?
Robb's face turned a little pink. "My father told me… and asked me to apologize for him. The message arrived a few days ago, but he figured the fighting was too hot and kept it quiet. I only just found out."
That made sense.
Joffrey ran the timeline in his head and everything clicked.
Ten years was plenty of time for a squid to grow a wolf's pelt. Ironborn culture was rotten, and their reputation was about as bad as the Freys'. Theon probably thought he was returning home in glory; instead he got nothing but side-eye. He also thought he was clever. His father was a stubborn hard-liner.
Years ago, when Robert had already united the realm and the Iron Throne looked untouchable, Balon still rebelled.
Now the throne was tearing itself apart in civil war. To Balon, the chance was too good to miss.
On one side: a father he barely knew, a man with no brains and no future. On the other: the man who'd raised him for nearly ten years, fed him, clothed him—the King's father-in-law, the Hand of the King, second only to the crown itself.
The choice was obvious.
So I really have been a Stark all along.
But after working it all out, Joffrey felt a swirl of emotions.
First, anger. Was Pycelle senile? A letter from Winterfell arrived and nobody bothered to show it to him first?
Then, respect. Lord Eddard really could carry a burden. His own home was under attack and not a flicker of it showed on his face.
And finally, suspicion.
Wait a minute… Eddard had been in King's Landing for over half a year. Had the old wolf actually learned a thing or two from the schemers here? These latest moves didn't sound like the honor-obsessed man everyone described.
Honor.
The word Eddard quoted constantly.
But "As High as Honor" was the Arryn words.
The Stark words were "Winter Is Coming."
And Eddard had been sent to the Eyrie at eight years old. Jon Arryn had raised him far longer than his real father, Rickard Stark, ever did.
Suddenly Joffrey wondered if a few eagle feathers might actually be hidden under that direwolf cloak.
He felt a little sorry for Robb.
"Come on, let's not stand around here," he said, clapping the young general on the shoulder. "Go see whoever you want to see. You won't be south long—you'll have to turn right around and ride home to deal with the Ironborn."
Robb looked confused.
"You're about to set a record," Joffrey said seriously. "Not many Northmen run up and down the kingsroad with an army twice in one year."
"Lord Eddard has to stay and hold King's Landing. The only one going north to fight the ironmen is you."
Robb's face fell.
Then a sly, evil little grin crept across it.
"Brother… if you're going to make me miserable, I'm going to make you miserable too."
…
The throne room was packed with silk, satin, and velvet.
A parade of dullards stepped forward one after another, all saying the same thing: "Your Grace, congratulations on your victory." "Your Grace, you…" "Your Grace…"
Joffrey smiled, chatted with every guest, and clinked cups with every lord.
Stannis had pulled back to Dragonstone. The Stormlands lords had retreated into the kingswood. Tywin was getting hammered in the Reach.
Yet all these people saw was a few thousand enemy corpses outside the city and decided the war was already won.
Fine. Let them think that.
The Small Council had agreed a victory feast was needed to lift the city's spirits, so the entire Red Keep and King's Landing had been turned loose in celebration.
If the enemy launched a surprise counter-attack right now, half the men on the walls would be too drunk to stand straight.
But Joffrey had checked with [Stargaze]—now upgraded to intermediate level. The Stormlands forces were quiet. The only new feature was a replay function, and the cooldown was still seven days. Even worse, you could only upgrade the skill once; after that you had to draw the exact same ability again to level it up.
Where the hell did this broken system learn its cheap tricks?
Current Role to Play:
The Cunning, Almost Demonic Advisor
The food and wine for the feast had been "generously donated" by several nearby earls. Stannis hadn't gotten around to stealing it, so it all ended up in the Red Keep's kitchens.
The soldiers who had fought got a fat purse of silver plus a very handsome reward: for the next week, every tavern and brothel in King's Landing was on the crown. How did they pay for it? The taverns would still owe taxes later. Problem solved.
Some people would complain, but Tyrion could take the heat for that.
Dish after dish arrived.
First came beet-and-plum salad sprinkled with crushed nuts, along with bowls of fresh fruit.
The main courses were the usual parade: salted pork swimming in almond milk and dusted with pepper, capons stuffed with onions, mushrooms, and chestnuts, served with fried bread and hot crusty loaves.
Every kind of soup—venison, oxtail, cream.
Roasted heron, roasted swan, even a roasted peacock served with its feathers still on.
Dessert was cinnamon-baked apples and someone's favorite lemon cakes.
At least there was no pigeon pie. Joffrey hated the stuff.
When everyone had eaten enough, he leaned over and whispered to the man beside him.
A tall, thin man in black slipped out.
A moment later he returned carrying a platter covered with black cloth.
"Your Grace, are you certain about this?" Ser Alliser Thorne asked, voice uneasy.
Joffrey nodded, face solemn. "It was discussed and approved by the Small Council. A prudent decision."
Robb, watching the scene, suddenly seemed to understand. He glanced at Eddard. Eddard gave him a small nod.
Robb's mouth fell open in shock.
"What's wrong with you?" Arya asked.
Robb didn't answer.
"What's wrong with him?" Arya turned to Eddard.
"You'll see in a moment… Gods help us."
Joffrey clapped his hands.
Every eye in the hall turned toward him.
"My lords," he began, "a few days ago we won a bloody battle and earned ourselves a moment to breathe. But the war is far from over."
"Some threats are more dangerous than rebels. Some wars are crueler than any fight for the throne."
"At this very moment of crisis, our brothers of the Night's Watch have brought us a message—and a gift."
"An old spirit."
The man in black lifted the black cloth from the platter.