"So damn unlucky!"
The young Prince Joffrey was complaining, surrounded by a knot of attendants.
"Last night a wolf was howling under my bedchamber window. I couldn't sleep!"
"If it pleases you, I can make the thing shut up."
The Hound—Sandor Clegane—stood there in a black helm. His tall frame cast a long shadow across the hard ground.
"A dog killing a wolf!" Joffrey liked the idea. He barked, "Winterfell has wolves everywhere. Kill one and House Stark won't even notice!"
"My dear nephew, how tragic."
Tyrion "the Imp" Lannister swung his short legs over and strolled in. "The Starks can count, unlike a certain prince who can't even count to five!"
"You—" Joffrey choked on his rage, but the speaker was his own uncle.
"Hurry up and pay your respects to Lord and Lady Stark," Tyrion went on, smiling in that irritating, smug way. "They're your future goodfather and goodmother. And your betrothed, Lady Arya—are you pleased?
Yesterday I watched you two in the dance… you looked positively delighted."
"I hate that skinny little creature. She's like a wolf!"
Joffrey's face twisted with impatient fury. That dwarf uncle really knew how to poke the sore spot.
"No manners at all." Tyrion frowned. "That's your betrothed."
"I hate her. So what?" Joffrey snapped.
Tyrion rose onto his toes, hopped, and cracked Joffrey across the face with a hard slap.
"If you don't want your brother Tommen inheriting the throne," Tyrion said coldly, "then don't say things like that again!"
"You dare hit me?" Joffrey clutched his swelling cheek, stunned.
Tyrion hopped and slapped him again. "You all heard it—His Highness asked me to do it! Such a strange request. I've never heard anything so strange in my life…"
"I'm going to Mother!" Joffrey squealed.
He spun and ran, cheek in hand. As always, he bullied the weak and folded before anyone stronger.
"Lord Tyrion," the Hound warned, "the prince won't forget this humiliation."
"Good." Tyrion walked off as if bored. "If he ever does forget, dog, you can remind him."
…
"Where are the queen and Ser Jaime?" Tyrion grabbed a servant at random.
"In the gardens, my lord."
Tyrion couldn't help thinking of his brother and sister—perfect, identical statues carved from the same mold, the gods' flawless work.
If I had a twin too… he thought.
Then he shuddered. Better not. Seeing one face like mine in the mirror is horrifying enough. Two would be a nightmare.
…
Joffrey stewed in rage. He'd meant to find Queen Cersei and tattle, but he couldn't find her. So instead he mounted up, took his attendants, and rode out into the woods to "clear his head."
There was an open patch near a line of trees—high enough that you could look down over the river.
In the clearing, a boy and a girl were playing at knights. They used wooden sticks as swords, darting and crashing into each other with tireless energy.
The boy was a few years older and much stronger. The girl was smaller, scrambling to parry his attacks.
When she tried to counter, he blocked and flicked his stick down onto her fingers. She yelped and dropped her "sword," wailing.
"Isn't that my betrothed?" Joffrey burst out laughing. "What a pathetic fall!"
"Mind your own business!" Arya had spotted him too.
"You dare speak so rudely to a prince? You want a beating!"
Joffrey drew his steel sword. The scrape of metal on leather made him almost giddy.
"Your Highness," an attendant cautioned, "she is your betrothed."
Joffrey remembered what Tyrion had said. If he truly harmed Arya, his father might strip him of his inheritance and hand the future crown to Tommen.
But the humiliation still burned.
Joffrey—future "great emperor"—had never swallowed such an insult in his life.
"I know," he said, then pointed his blade at the freckle-faced boy sparring with Arya. "But he isn't."
He rode closer, looking down with mocking contempt.
"Boy. Who are you?"
"My lord… I'm Mycah," the boy said quietly. He'd recognized Joffrey's status and didn't dare lie. "A butcher's apprentice."
"A pig-killer wants to play knight?"
Joffrey dismounted, sword in hand. "Pick up your sword, butcher's boy. Let's see if you're worthy!"
Mycah froze. "It's not a sword, my lord. It's just a stick."
Joffrey strode in, lifted his blade, and set the tip against Mycah's cheek.
A red blossom opened.
A thin line of blood slid down the boy's face.
The thrill of tormenting the helpless washed over Joffrey—pure, intoxicating pleasure.
Even as a child he'd had a cruel streak—he'd liked cutting open pregnant cats and playing with the unborn kittens.
Later would come Bran's attempted murder, and Ned Stark's execution—works of the same vicious hand.
In the end, Joffrey would die at his own wedding feast.
"He's my friend!" Arya shouted. "Let him go!"
"That's not your decision." Joffrey's eyes flashed with savage delight. He was about to poke a few holes in the butcher's boy and vent the bitterness in his chest.
I can't control you, he thought smugly, but I can hurt the people around you.
Arya stopped wasting words.
She gripped her wooden stick with both hands. While the attendants' attention drifted, she swung hard at Joffrey's head.
Crack.
The stick split.
In that instant, Arya felt an almost blissful satisfaction—like she'd accidentally grasped what Ser Domeric had called the "true meaning of strength."
Joffrey staggered, turning, his scalp streaming blood. For a heartbeat he didn't even seem to understand what had happened.
Arya swung again—beating him while he was down, and enjoying every second.
The attendants didn't know what to do. One was the prince—future king. The other was a duke's daughter—future queen. They didn't dare offend either side, so they stood there stupidly, pretending to be dead.
"You hit me?!" Joffrey snapped—then went feral. He hacked at Arya with his steel sword.
Arya's stick couldn't stand against good steel. She retreated in frantic steps, forced back again and again.
At the critical moment, a gray blur flashed past her.
Nymeria—the direwolf—slammed into Joffrey and knocked him flat. She clamped onto his arm and tore, snarling and thrashing.
"Help! Help me!"
The prince's shrieks were pitiful and ugly—like a pig screaming in a slaughterhouse.
…
The glass garden was Winterfell's hot-house, warmed by its hot springs. The heat and damp made the soil never freeze, perfect for southern fruits, vegetables, and rare flowers.
"The Hand should be you," a woman's voice said.
"Spare me," Jaime Lannister replied lazily. "Do I look like I'm made for that sort of work?"
"Can't you see the danger?" Cersei's worry sharpened into anger. "Robert will listen to Eddard. Our position will become far worse…"
"Honestly, we're lucky," Jaime said. "Seven save us—if Stannis or Littlefinger became Hand, that would be worse.
Compared to an ambitious enemy, a man like Eddard Stark—so obsessed with honor—is the kind of foe you can sleep around."
"Robert is already wary of us," Cersei hissed. "Otherwise why ride a thousand leagues to fetch his dear friend? Who knows when he'll cast me aside?
Only if he dies—only if Joffrey takes the throne—"
A flash of venom crossed her eyes, fever-bright and almost hysterical.
"Yes. The sooner Robert dies, the better!"
"Sorry. I won't help you with that." Jaime exhaled. "I swore I wouldn't betray the king."
"You already betrayed one king," Cersei said, mocking. "Have you forgotten?"
Jaime sighed. "Stop worrying about tomorrow. Think about what we have now."
"Don't feed me that." Cersei's voice turned raw. "Just thinking of that fat, bloated wineskin on top of me makes me sick."
"Enough," Jaime murmured. "Close your mouth and come here."
Two sentinel trees grew together, trunks pressed close. Behind them, a pair of shadows moved.
Cersei's arms hugged the trunk. Her rounded thighs were lifted.
Then her pale, delicate feet hung in the air—and suddenly tensed.
The tree trunk began to sway…
…
"Brother! Sister! Where are you?"
Right then, Tyrion came waddling in, shouting, "Joffrey's in trouble!"
Jaime and Cersei both jolted as if struck.
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GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT
🏰🩸 GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT 🩸🏰
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📢 DARK SECRETS RISE IN THE NORTH! 📢
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Beneath the Dreadfort, old horrors stir.
Power, bloodlines, betrayal, northern cruelty, and buried secrets wait beneath one of the most feared castles in Westeros.
❄️ The North remembers.🏰 The Dreadfort hides.🩸 And some secrets should have stayed buried.
Uncover what lies beneath before anyone else does.
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