A Struggle of Stags (ASOIAF AU)

The king's bedchambers was a room Eddard was sadly quite familiar with. The king, in his obstinacy, often retreated to his chambers, or refused to leave. When the castle staff, and even the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard failed to rouse the oaf from his torpor, it was often up to Eddard as the man's friend and Hand to force him to the Council Chambers.

This occasion was, sadly, far more morose. Eddard wished it was just as simple as dealing with a reticent king who stubbornly refused to rule. Even outside, the air of the chambers stank of rot and strange poultices.

"Robert?" he announced with a knock of the door.

"Enter." The voice boomed. And, for a moment, Eddard allowed himself to imagine his friend was at his full strength, his voice as strong as it had been back in their shared youth. But the dream proved itself a lie as soon as he opened the door.

Robert… was not well. He had lost most of his weight. The embarrassing stuffing of a man who drank to excess had not shed to reveal the muscular frame of of his youth. Rather, it was a skeletal waste that remained of his friend.

Though not all of him seemed to be a pale vestige. "Really, Robert?" Eddard deliberately kept his eyes off the pair of… companions who were decidedly not dressed.

"What?" Robert scoffed. "If the Grand Maester insists on having me slathered with creams and potions, I'd much rather have it be done by a whore with heaving tits. Hah!"

"Is this really appropriate, Grand Maester?" Eddard addressed the Grand Maester who seemed practically frozen in place.

"Not… not as such. No…" the man stammered. "The treatment should be applied by trained men. But… the king was quite insistent."

Eddard took a deep breath. He turned to Greenfield. "See these girls back to the establishment. And have someone find where their clothes went. Or find them replacements."

The Kingsguard grinned. He clearly had no issue with the command to visit the Street of Silk. He didn't even offer a token protest at leaving the king unguarded.

The king pouted as the whores left, each giving a flirty wink as they exited. "Damn it, Ned? Can't you let me enjoy myself?"

"You were the one who summoned me," was his blithe response.

"Right right." he shook his head. "Get the fuck out of here, Oswyn."

"Your majesty?!" The Grand Maester protested. "Your treatment… it should not be interrupted!"

"If I can't survive a single moment to speak with my Hand about matters of state, then what good are you? I told you to get the fuck out! Don't make me repeat myself again!"

"Your… your majesty," Oswyn meekly bowed, and fled the room, leaving Eddard and the king alone.

There was silence. The stench of the poultices filled the room.

Eddard felt his irritation growing. "Was there a point to this? Did you simply wish to waste my time? Because there is work to be done, managing the realm." 'Work that you are no help with,' was the unspoken accusation.

"I'm dying, Ned." Robert's strong voice was soft. Potable. Eddard nearly froze for how wrong it sounded.

"Surely you exaggerate. The Grand Maester hasn't indicated this attack is any worse than your previous. No doubt you will recover once more."

"No, Ned. It doesn't matter what that fool thinks, I'm dying. I can feel it. And I'm not going to fight it this time."

"Robert…"

"A man knows, Ned. When you near your dotage… decades from now since you didn't waste yourself away like I did, you'll know what I mean. This is a fight, Ned, just another battle, but for this one I won't even bother to draw my sword." He laughed. "You know, I've never been the religious type. But I'm looking forward to meeting the Stranger. When he comes to drag me down to the Seven Hells, I think I'm going to smash his face in. It would serve the lazy bastard right for failing to grab me back at the Ruby Ford."

"What are you saying, Robert?" Eddard knew what he was saying, but he couldn't believe the words.

"I'm there every night, Ned. I'm at the Ford, night after night, smashing that bastard Rhaegar's face in. But I don't even remember what he looks like anymore. The face I'm caving is always someone else's. Osywn. The Kingslayer. Yours. Mine. I'm just in a rabid rage, killing and smashing, carving in the chest of everyone and anyone. All for a woman whose face I have long forgotten, whose voice I had never heard whisper a sweet word… would that I had just died, then, Ned! Would that this entire damned kingdom broken and died with me and the bastard both!"

"You are tired, Robert. Sick. You do not mean what you say."

"I mean every word, Ned." There was not a trace of humor in Robert's voice. "I am going to die. I want to die. I want everyone to die. I want this world to break and shatter for all the pain it has caused me. I want all the pain to stop, forever."

"Cease, Robert! Do not speak these words!"

"Ah, Ned. I did not deserve you as a friend, even less than I deserved Lyanna. The Seven Kingdom's did not deserve you as its Hand. It deserved the likes of me and Jon."

Eddard frowned. "I have striven to live up to Jon's legacy."

"Hah, I don't know why you bother. You're a better Hand than he had ever been. Oh, don't given me that look, Ned. Jon was a shit Hand. Even an idiot like me could see that, confined to bed with nothing but thoughts. Jon was a Valeman through and through. A man who conspired with Lannister, Tully, and Tyrell to raise the lords and kingdoms above the crown. Tax breaks and amnesty and laws… but what should anyone expect from a man who rebelled? Sometimes I wonder if he hated the Targaryens more than me… to work to so thoroughly dismantle everything they have build, to put an oaf like me at the head of it all… I wonder if he cursed the Seven Kingdoms with his dying breath, just as I do. I would hardly blame him for it."

"Robert, cease this incessant talk of your death. You are writing a prophesy with your own breath, one that would not otherwise be considered." Where was the lazy king Eddard had suffered all these years? Where was the rage boiling hot and laughter in equal measure? Where had all this cold, seething hate come from. "Your wife is expecting. Can you not bring yourself to anticipate the birth?"

"If that spawn lives and is not an abomination, I'll join a sept and swear off wine!" Robert spat. "That woman's womb is cursed, Ned. You know it. Everyone knows it. It's not me, because my bastards are still fine. But if I have to witness another dead monster pop out of her cunt…" he huffed.

"And yet you still try. You must have some hope."

Robert glared. If his body were less frail it would have been piercing. "Don't blame me for that shit. If it were up to me, I'd just release upon her belly, or refuse her entirely. I feel bad for the bitch, suffering it again and again, but she is the one who insists on trying, as if it will make a difference. And each one is another reminder of this cursed world."

"What of your other children, Robert? Your healthy children?"

"Them, hah! Babies are cute, Ned. But then they grow. They grow into miserable fucks. Their mother drips poison in their ears, making monsters and madmen out of them. And the bastards… they love me not, Ned. I know this. They resent me, demanding money and positions, if my bitch of a wife doesn't chase them off. No Ned, there is no love to be found in my spawn. There is no love to be found in all of the Seven Kingdoms.

"I hate them, Ned. Gods, I hate them. I hate them near as much as they hate me. I hate my spawn and the bitches who spawned them. Whichever bastard follows me, the Realm will deserve him. Will deserve worse."

"Whichever… Robert! What are you planning?! Do not tell me you plan to be Aegon the Unworthy, come again!" Robert had discussed legitimizing his bastards before, deep in the cups. Ned and the Queen had done their best to dissuade him time and again. Was his old friend planning ruin from his deathbed?

"There is no plan, Ned. This has nothing to do with me. If you have blinded yourself to the faults of the court then you must be drunker than me! The Seven Kingdoms is a hell of its own making, Ned. Westeros, from the Land of Always Winter to the meanest tip of Dorne… the people here are a miserable lot, wastrels who will demand their own suffering. Perhaps it is not just Westeros, and Essos is similarly blighted. It is the people, Ned. The grasping, ungrateful, hateful lords and smallfolk. They will be the means of their own demise. Even if I wished to stop the coming storm I am more helpless than any man. All I can do is embrace it." There was madness in Robert's eyes. A deep conviction of insanity that Eddard had not witnessed since the king's late and unmourned predecessor.

What was this sickness, to have driven his friend so? Or was it the Iron Throne? A curse of the dragon lords of ages past that would consume the minds of all who sat upon it?

"The Unworthy, come again, you ask? Hah! I am King Robert Baratheon, first of his name! The realm will curse me for their misfortune, and I will do naught but laugh and rot, moldering in my deserved fate. My name will be an insult on their lips, the like of which where all will forget the name Aegon. Perhaps it is my final revenge, to outdo those bastard cousin fuckers even in the greatest excess of their sloth and cruelty."

A weak hand grasped for Eddard's collar. It was fragile, like a babe, not one he would ever picture as belonging to Robert.

"The storm is coming, Ned," he rasped. "A reckoning long due, a retribution for this hateful world upon itself. The realm may deserve it, the kingdoms may deserve it. But not you. Not you Ned. You have been loyal. You have been true. You have tied yourself to this hateful bastard that the realm thinks is a king, but that is no fault of your own." The feeble hand shook, a trembling shudder of sickness and madness. "Flee, Ned. Run far away, back to the North. Do as Jon Arryn would have wished and pull yourself inwards. Ignore the Kingdoms and the rot and stay far away. I beg you, Ned. Do not get caught up in my folly. I have stolen too many years from you. I don't wish to destroy anything else of yours."

"Robert…" the earnest pleading on his friend's face was as painful as his wretched state. "I cannot. I have duties. To you. To Jon Arryn. To the realm. To the North. I cannot simply cast my duty aside and flee." He rested a gentle hand on Robert's, trying to convey the warmth of his meaning. "My daughter will be queen, Robert. I cannot abandon her."

"Of course. Of course. I knew you would deny me. I knew you would cling to duty. To this worthless crown. You have chained yourself in honor, and it is my fault most of all for demanding it of you." Robert's expression was sad. "Fine. Fine! Then I will be the friend I should have been. I will do this one thing of mercy before spite consumes me entirely. I dismiss you, Ned. I reject you. You are my Hand no longer. I banish you from King's Landing, under penalty of death. Return to the North, Ned. This I command you, as your king."

Eddard closed his eyes and sighed. He went to the door. "Grand Maester." he called, "the king is in pain. His mind is addled from stress and worry. Offer him wine. Milk of the poppy if you must. It is distressing to see him suffer so."

"Damn you, Ned! Damn you! I'll have your head for this! Don't ignore me!" Robert raged, his voice a pale echo of what it should have been. "I'm trying to save your life, you fucking fool! I'm still king, even on my deathbed! Don't you dare ignore me, Ned!"

Eddard bowed his head and left the bedchambers, letting the Grand Maester and his assistants return.

Robert would recover, he assured himself. Just he had the other times before. When his mind had returned he would laugh and claim it all a joke.

Eddard could not permit himself to accept the words. The madness of sickness was too disturbing to bear.

He exited the chamber and shut his mind to the unpleasant thoughts. There was too much work to be done.

The heir of the Seven Kingdoms glared into the training yard from the balcony above. The courtyard was filled with courtiers, colorful figures, ladies and waiting and dandy ponces in their fancy dresses. They laughed and cheered and snacked upon little pastries, clapping and delighting at the show they pretended to enjoy.

Fools. Cowards. When he was King there would be no room for these gossiping cunts. The training yard would regain its glory as a place of martial valor, where only knights, true, loyal knights, would be permitted to hone their steel. These petty picnickers would be banished back to their realms, if not consigned to the Black Cells.

In the center of this pathetic spectacle, making a show for the audience to clap and cheer to, was the shining Prince Steffon, his 'brother.' The little boy, clad in plate that had never seen a speck of dirt, danced away with the Master-of-arms to the delight of his little court. And a dance it was. No man of true martial skill could ever mistake it for an honest spar.

The point was made all the plainer by Steffon managing to wrest the sowrd out of his 'opponent's' hands, to the rousing delight of the fops. Joffrey scoffed. He could imagine his silent uncle, next to him, doing the same.

Fools. Did they not realize how easy the knight was taking the fight? How he simply played with the brat, mocking some real battle? The boy prince was just that, a pathetic little boy, aping at his betters with the aid of his adoring sycophants.

Joffrey imagined what his 'princely brother' would do in a real battle. If a man in the ramparts, like where Joffrey stood, held a crossbow. He imagined what it would feel like to aim such a thing, to feel the twang of its release, to see the bolt pierce through his brother's foolishly unhelmeted face. That handsome smile, the one he was so proud of, that the courtiers sang of and praised… Joffrey imagined it as a bloody smear.

"Most impressive," he drawled, letting his voice and the blatant sarcasm carry on over the crowd. "Though if you are done playing around, perhaps you would be interested in a real fight."

"My prince?" The Man-at-arms turned in shock. "I did not realize you were here to watch."

Joffrey bristled, but tried to not let it show. "I was simply passing by," he shrugged. "I caught sight of my… little brother… training. And the thought occurred that I might join him. Have my armor readied," he ordered. "And fetch my sword."

The courtiers gasped and gossiped, as was to be expected.

"My prince… you mean to spar with your brother?" The stupidly slow knight gaped. "But… the boy is half your age!"

"Four and ten is old enough, I would say. You think yourself a knight, Steffon? You think yourself ready to fight? Ready to enter the lists? Why don't we let him prove himself." Joffrey glared at one of the man servants. "What are you waiting for? Fetch me my armor!"

Steffon beamed at him. It was an ugly smile, a lying smile, one that seemed to deceive everyone around the little monster. Women called it handsome, as if they could not see the rot hiding behind it. "I would love the opportunity to spar with you, brother."

"Hmph." Joffrey did not deign to reply. The boy's desires were irrelevant. His little brother would either face his blade, or prove himself a coward before all his fawning courtiers.

Joffrey found his way down to the courtyard, his uncle silently shadowing him. The servants had done their job and found his armor in the time it took him to arrive. He allowed them to fasten the plate.

His golden armor was a grand match for his uncle beside him. It far out-shown Steffon and his overly-decorated black plate.

"A blunted sword?" Joffrey scoffed. "Do you think me a child? Bring me my real blade."

"My prince!" The moronic man-at-arm protested. "Surely you do not mean to use live steel!"

"I mean to show the prince what it means to fight a knight." His retort was cold. "There is little to be learned from blunted blades and tourney rules."

"Ser Rennifer," Steffon smiled, "it is only right that I get to practice with live steel. If my brother thinks me ready, then let it be so."

The knight flinched, but was clearly not willing to countermand a pair of princes. It burned to see it. The man should have jumped at his order alone.

There was much that would be changed when he became king.

"Very well," the knight nodded. "I will watch and interfere should matters get out of hand. Please remember, my princes, that this is a spar. If either of you get injured, it will be my head on the chopping block."

"You will not need to watch for long," Joffrey declared. And he struck. A real fight did not have an announcement. A real war, like he one his father had waged, had no niceties. Joffrey would teach this lesson to his foolish 'brother.' If it were a lesson learned in blood, then so be it.

Steffon scrambled and caught the blow with his shield. Joffrey had failed to catch the boy off guard as much as he had hoped. But still, he had the moment.

Steffon was a large boy, as strong boy. Against his so-called peers, he towered and dominated. He had frustratingly inherited the build of the king. In reach and strength of arms, Steffon was a boy who stood above, especially against those who would hold back for fear of hurting a prince.

But Joffrey was a man grown. He had earned his spurs. Though his build leaned more towards his uncle than his father, he had height on his brother and would still for some years yet.

And Joffrey had no fear of harming the bastard.

So he attacked and attacked and attacked. He bashed and beat away and bullied his brother. Though he was not a fool enough to look and see, he imagined all the poncy courtiers watching in horror as their precious prince was driven back and back and back some more. Perhaps they would see now, what a fraud the boy was. Perhaps they would escape his spell.

Joffrey felt a pressure in his leg. His balance fled him. The ground raced towards his face. His sword was pulled from his grip.

Time seems to freeze and Joffrey fell.

His brother, that damnable bastard was smiling. It was a hateful grin, aping at cheerfulness. Joffrey could only see the slime and the spite and the hate.

"Good match." Steffon reached out a hand to him. Joffrey smacked it away.

He pushed himself to his feet. He would have whomever was in charge of the grounds killed. There should be no divots! No holes! Nothing to trip on. The damn servants had put his armor on wrong and it had thrown him off. His sword… no doubt they had ruined the weight. The servants would do anything to make their precious Steffon look good. The sabotage was clear. The conspiracy obvious.

"Do not grow a big head, brother," he spat. "In a real battle, the foes you face will not be as kind or merciful as me. They will hunt you down without a moment's hesitation. No fear of kin slaying will stay their hand."

With a sniff, he left the training yard, left the sabotaged sword in the dirt, left the damnable, treacherous courtiers to their gossip. He did not need to hear their words to know them. They laughed and mocked him, looked down on him, as if they were knights to judge rather than feeble bootlickers and wastrels.

The short-sighted fools did not respect him. They did not grasp how he, not Steffon, was prince of the realm, heir to the Iron Throne. They did not understand how his father was on his deathbed and how he, Joffrey, would be king all too soon. A moon, a week, mayhaps a day. His father's condition was dreadful but the idiots didn't care, did not put two and two together.

The whispers continued as he made his way through the Red Keep. Gossip spread faster than wildfire, outpacing him in his march. The story of his spar, of his humiliation, had no doubt expanded and expounded again and again.

His ears prickled as a maid servant whispered to another. The words were out of his grasp but he knew them. They burned him.

'Here comes the prince,' she must have whispered. 'The foolish one. The weak one. He lost to his brother, a boy half his age. It is to be expected, of course. Steffon is the gallant one. Weak little Joffrey is a poor substitute. Would that handsome Steffon were the older brother.'

The whispers were daggers, vile and worthless lies. He had the maid servant sacked for them, and flogged for good measure.

Staff must be loyal. Their obedience must be perfect. Steffon's creatures infested the staff, just as his courtiers festered in the court. He did not have the power to make a clean sweep of things, not yet. But he could still make examples of loathsome examples, like that serpent-tongued maid.

"I'm going to visit mother," he announced. It was unnecessary. His uncle would have followed him regardless, silent and watching. But proper courtesies must be made. His mother had taught him that.

He made himself presentable, reapplied the chalk, and marched out of the Red Keep for the sept. His trek was common enough that the guardsmen and groomsmen knew to be ready for it. His horse was ready and waiting, as were those for his entourage.

Uncle and the men at arms kept his path secure, pushing aside the mewling smallfolk who had come to gawk. He had no patience for them today, those vile leeches who hoped he might toss coins at them as if he were Steffon.

The march across the city, from the Red Keep to Visenya's Hill, was far too long. His mother should have stayed in the palace; the Great Sept, worthy as it was of her, was too inconvenient. But Joffrey made the trip all the same.

He dismounted his horse and forced his way through the prattling septons and septas to where his mother rested. The guardsmen knew to make themselves scarce, so only he and uncle entered the room.

Silence gripped the room, defeaning the noise of the Great Sept. Joffrey found himself unable to speak. But his mother would not break the silence, nor would his mother.

Eventually, he found his words.

"I fought Steffon today," he said simply. "Before his lickspittles. Before his fawning sycophants. I planned to humiliate him, to show him his place. But… I failed."

He could feel his mother's disapproving gaze. It burned as much as Steffon's monstrous smile.

"Of course I failed. I always fail. I don't know why I expected better. Pitting myself against 'Perfect Steffon…' when everything works for him, when everything is so much harder for me… how could it have gone any other way? Even though he is but a child, the world bends to him, everyone bends to him, away from me. I had deluded myself, that there would be justice. That the world wouldn't conspire against me. That the proper course would happen for once. More fool, I."

His words echoed in the silence.

"Father is dying. You know that, of course. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows it. But Steffon simply doesn't care. He plays away and plots. He doesn't feel the pain of father… of the tragedy. But what would I expect of him? He is no true brother of mine. No true son of father's. You know that as well as I. More than I."

Joffrey was not alone in his loathing. Surely his mother felt the same, if not more, for that monster who was not born of her womb.

"I will be king soon. Too soon. But it is a duty I will embrace. But I know that the court loves me not. The people love me not. They all croon for Steffon. They all prostrate before the cursed queen. She has taken everything, and turned my castle into a fetid field of her creation."

He was not blind. He could see the treachery. The castle loved the queen more than him, more than he, the rightful heir, the future king.

"I… I am too weak in this games. I can see that I have been thwarted again and again, but I cannot see how. I don't understand why the clamor for Steffon, why they worship the queen despite all the monsters she births. I just don't understand it. My wife is a worthless shrew, no help at all. Uncle refuses to speak a word. Father is dying. And… I need your help."

He bowed his head. "Mother, I beg of you. Please, tell me how to fix this. Make it right. You never would have let it come to this. Just tell me what to do. Speak with me."

The sept remained silent.

"Damn you, mother! Why won't you speak to me? Am I not you son?!"

It was his hair. Mother always hated his hair. She refused to look upon him and his black locks. He had covered it in chalk, but he must have missed a spot. Perhaps in the back, perhaps it had gotten smudged when he fell.

That damned black hair. It was his curse. His impurity. Tommen and Myrcella had gotten their mother's golden curls, but he was stuck with the mar upon his soul, the same hair as Steffon and Boros.

It was why his mother didn't love him. It was why everything was so hard.

"My prince," a decrepit voice called softly, a voice that should not be present. "I have no doubt that your blessed mother looks upon you from the Seven Heavens. But… I would not expect her voice to come so directly. That is the realm of prophets, the likes of which no longer walk among us. The Mother, and your mother, are speaking to you, no doubt, but you must find their messages in the world, in meditation, and in prayer."

"Why are you here?!" Joffrey shouted.

"I apologize, my prince. I was cleaning the crypt when you arrived. I did not have time to vacate. But you should not be concerned. The entire realm weeps for the king, as loyal subjects. But you, among so very few, also weep for him as your father as well. Your distress is understandable. It is a wound that time can never fully close. To lose one parent is a tragedy. To lose both is a trial from the Seven above. Know that we all support you in your time of grief. And know that I will keep your words safe, same as any other mourner."

Joffrey clenched his fist. But he could not have a septon beaten or killed. Not in the Great Sept.

He huffed, and turned, exiting the crypt. Mother was no help. Why had he thought she could be, he didn't know. But strange fancies took him at times.

He could expect no help from anyone. It would be his strength alone that would keep the realm from tearing apart.

Eddard was well acquainted with the Small Council chamber after so many years. Some would believe that the business of the realm was conducted here, far more than upon the throne before the court. Long experience had taught him that few decisions were truly ever made in this room, with the king so often absent. Rather, it was a place where the lords of the small council simply bickered. The real decisions happened behind closed doors, or outside the eyes of one another. Disgusting as it was, Eddard had learned the easiest way to get something done was to simply order it, rather than let the committee dissect and deliberate over every petty matter.

Most days, the Small Council was a loathsome chore to suffer through. Most days were not today.

"It… ah.. could be considered quite auspicious… quite appropriate, really. For the High Septon to die so shortly after the king. Mere hours, they say." Grand Maester Oswyn sputtered out in his meandering way. "I presume it will be said, among the smallfolk and lords alike, that the two were great friends, for the High Septon to follow him so."

For all that there were more faces in the chambers, it was the absence that Eddard felt most keenly. The absence, so common as to lack note on any other day, was a gnawing hole given the reason.

"It is good that the realm should be reminded of my husband's strong ties with the faith, sacred in life, and tantamount after." Margaery was not an uncommon sight in the Small Council chamber. She made a point to observe, more so than her late husband.

If not for her elaborate mourning garb, the queen's presence would have been entirely unremarkable.

Not the queen, Eddard reminded himself. Sansa was the queen now. Or would be once the coronation took place. Margaery was simply the Queen Mother now… or perhaps the Queen Widow would be more appropriate a descriptor. It would be queer to claim the Tyrell girl as a Queen Mother when she was scarcely older than the king to be.

Eddard would avoid commenting on the title until he had a better grasp of the etiquette. Even after so many years among the Southrons, most often his best tool in the court was to remain silent.

"Oh yes. The pious king, Robert." Baelish drawled. "It was the most prominent of his many virtues."

"Enough. What is the point of this nonsense, Oswyn?" Joffrey, the king to be, snapped. "What does it matter that the fat old oaf of a Septon passed? We have a funeral to plan. A coronation to plan."

There was a bristling from Tommen at that, but other than the king's younger full brother, no one in the chamber refuted Joffrey's description.

Years at court had done little to endear Eddard to his wife's religion. The High Septon in particular had struck him as a greedy and grasping man. He clung to excess worse than Robert, while nominally the speaker for the Seven. It was not a shock that he had passed. The wonder came from him having outlived Robert at all. Either the Southron Gods were far more decadent than their holy book portrayed, or the Church was less their representative than they claimed.

Though he had more tact to admit it, Ned still did not understand the point of a church and all its rituals, compared to the personal connection one held with the Old Gods. The priesthood seemed, to him, a mere excuse to extract a toll. Seeing the vast wealth of the Church of the Seven was proof enough of this corruption, in his mind.

"That… well, that is to say, it is a matter of logistics, Your Grace," Osywn swallowed. "The High Septon was an integral part of the planned ceremonies, both for the funeral, and your coronation."

"What use is this mummery?" Stannis groused. "We all know Robert had no care for the church in life. He certainly has no care for it in death. Dispense with the Septon and change the ceremonies. I doubt my nephew cares either in the matter of coronation. We have more important business than this."

"Quite right," Joffrey agreed. "If the oaf wanted to preside over my coronation, he should have lived longer. We don't need him. Some other Septon would do, it we must."

Despite agreeing with the sentiment, Eddard knew he needed to interject. "We should not underestimate the value of the High Septon at the the coronation. It would concern the realm if you appeared to be breaking ties with the church. Besides, it will take many months yet for the lords of the land to gather from cross the kingdoms. Perhaps a new High Septon would be chosen in that time."

"I am in awe of your optimism, Stark." Baelish smirked. "In my experience, men of the cloth dither more than a baker's wife at a fishmonger's stall."

"Lord Baelish, ah, may have the right of it." The Grand Maester nodded. "The Most Devout have, historically, not been the most brisk in the matter of selecting their representative. On one notable occasion, I believe, in the reign of Viserys II, their deliberation took a total of two years. Though on that occasion there was a great deal of fracturing. Some scriptural dispute if I believe. My insight into the, er, politics of the church is limited. But I would note that the ravens have only just departed. It would certainly take time for the Most Devout to gather."

"The Most Devout understand the importance of their duties," Margaery said. "If the matter takes time, it is because it needs to take time. For something as important as putting my husband to rest, we should be willing to accept the need."

"I am surprised, My Lady," the Mister of Whispers rasped. Walder Rivers was an ugly man, with a pock-marked face and a voice that grated on the ears. But Eddard could not say that he was not fit for the position. "I would have imagined House Hightower to already have a candidate at the ready. But if that is truly the case, Your Grace," he bowed to Joffrey, "If I may make a humble suggestion, why not take this opportunity to declare your own High Septon?"

"What?!" Eddard had seldom seen the queen so unnerved.

"That would be most unusual!" Oswyn said.

"It has been done before," Rivers said.

"Yes. By Baelor the Befuddled." Baelish drawled. "Which will it be, Your Grace? A stonemason? A child? Perhaps a mummer would make for a fine Septon."

Eddard frowned. "It seems distasteful to interfere in such a manner. The man will be seen as a puppet of the crown."

"As opposed to a puppet of the Reach?" Stannis said. "Let us not pretend that the High Septon has ever been as neutral figure as they claim. Choose and be done with it, or let them choose and ignore them if they fail to choose in time. It doesn't matter."

"This is the Faith of the Seven!" Margaery's rage was palpable. "You cannot interfere!"

"No, it is a matter of the realm. It is my every right to see this done properly. And I do not see why you care so much. You may pretend to be pious maiden, but we all know you are anything but. How many woods witches have you consulted? Essosi maegi? Did you meet with them before or after your womb got cursed?"

"I would ask you to not cast unfounded aspersions on my character." Margaery spoke coldly. "The Faith of the Seven has no cause to doubt my devotion."

"No. I imagine they do not." Joffrey smirked. "You have raised an excellent point, Rivers. Why should this not be a matter for the king to decide? Better me than the Hightowers. And no, Baelish. I am not so uncouth as to elevate some smallfolk rat. I have just the Septon in mind." He grinned. "Congratulations, Tommen."

"What?!" The quiet boy shouted for perhaps the first time in Eddard's recollection. "Joffrey, you can't just…"

"'Your Grace,' Tommen," Joffrey glared. "I am your king before I am your brother. And why not? You are a Septon, are you not? You certainly spent enough time with the old oaf. One could say you were an apprentice or what have you."

"I'm not qualified! I am not a member of the Most Devout! I am much too young!"

"Then spend more time reading The Seven-Pointed Star, I would have assumed you would have had the thing memorized by now. And what else is there?" Joffrey sighed. "Really, Tommen. You should be thanking me. We both know you are too much of a coward to go anywhere in life. Even among the Faith, you would be trampled upon. Now you don't need to flounder about." He grinned. "Oswyn, write a letter. Inform the Starry Sept that I have done them the favor of selecting their new High Septon. It saves everyone time, really."

"Your Grace… I, er… I fear that the Faith might take this action quite negatively."

"Are they traitors, Oswyn? Do you believe they would refuse an order from their lawful king? Do you believe they would have a problem with Tommen? A Septon in good standing, who is the king's full-blooded brother?"

"That… that is to say…"

"Send the letter, Oswyn. Let it reach them as soon as they learn of the fat oaf's death. That is an order. If they rebel, we will deal with it as it arises."

"Ah, so we are adding Maegor the Cruel to Baelor the Befuddled." Baelish japed. "Shall I secure new funds for a new Red Keep, Your Grace."

"I trust the Faith knows not to displease me. But I will be Maegor if I must. Or Jaehaerys the Wise. Or Robert the Good." Joffrey lifted his nose imperiously. "Are their other matters? I am bored of this."

"Yes," Eddard cleared his throat. "There have been disruptions in the shipments along the Roseroad. King's Landing is not receiving as much grain as it should."

"What's wrong with the Roseroad?" Ser Moore grumbled. "Bandits?" Eddard could imagine a rumble of enthusiasm behind the Lord Commander's fish-like eyes. Decades of peace had left many knights bored.

Eddard shook his head. "Not to my knowledge." The Lord Commander looked to have lost interest entirely.

"I have no word of organized banditry in the Reach, nor Crownlands." Rivers shook his head. "Have you any explanation from your father, My Lady?"

"There is little to explain, my lords," Margaery bowed her head. "The autumnal harvests were weak, and the first snowfall caught many off guard. I presume many lords are opting to build up their own stores rather than sell grain on. It would explain any shortfalls."

"Regardless," Eddard continued, "I wish to preempt the matter by ordering shipments from Essos. It will help shore up our own stockpiles as Winter approaches. Your Grace, if you would approve the expenditure, I will see this addressed."

Joffrey frowned. "Baelish, how are our coffers?"

"As well-managed as I can manage, Your Grace. But given how much I am reserving for the funeral and your coronation, we many need to acquire another loan. From your lord uncle, perhaps? I presume the Faith would not be so agreeable."

Stannis scoffed. "Do you intend to waste away coins like Robert did, beginning your reign with yet another loan? Cut from the funeral or the coronation."

"Do not presume what my intentions are, uncle." Joffrey glared. "No, I will not take a loan. And no, I will not diminish my father's funeral or my own coronation. They must be grand Anything less would be unworthy of the Baratheon dynasty."

Eddard raised a brow. "Will you do nothing, then? The price of food will rise. Many in King's Landing will suffer for it."

"Why should the crown be forced to pay when it is the Reach's fault that the food is diverted? No. I will not be tricked into worthless charity. Is there anything else?"

Eddard frowned.

"I wish to note the absence of your Master of Laws, once again." Stannis glared. "Perhaps your should consider a replacement."

"You may have forgotten, Stannis, but some of us have holdings we must visit on occasion." Baelish said. "Tedious as it is to visit my very many, scattered domains, it must be done. You shouldn't begrudge Renly for seeing to Storm's End on occasion, just because you lack any at all anymore." He smiled. "Why don't you come with me to the Vale on my next visit? I'm certain your daughter and goodson would love to see you."

Stannis grit his teeth. It was a wonder the man still had any after all these years. "Robert is dead." He said simply. "If there is ever a time for the Master of Laws to be here, this is it. That he has not hastened back is an insult."

"Your Grace," Rivers spoke up, "I feel it is important to note that word last said that Renly has been seen at Highgarden."

"Highgarden?" Stannis scoffed. "Perhaps you can explain, queen, why my brother is cavorting with your family at this time?"

"I could not say, Lord Baratheon," the former queen spoke softly. "Renly's friendship with my family is well known. But I cannot imagine the specifics. Perhaps I can ask Loras if he has any idea."

"Enough." Joffrey interrupted. "I do not care about my uncle or his wanderings. It does not matter in the slightest. Unless there is an issue that would delay my coronation, I do not care. Stark! Have you found the mummers I asked for? The acrobats? The chefs?"

Eddard sighed. "Yes, Your Grace. Many of Robert's favorites still remained in King's Landing. I have put the troupes on retainer for the coronation."

"Good, good." Joffrey rubbed his hands. "I will be making a trip to the Street of Steel today, to commission a new set of kingly armor. I wish to have a new crown forged, and a new cloak made for myself."

Eddard sighed as the king-to-be carried on with his demands and specifications. For a moment, looking at the dark-haired boy, Eddard could imagine it was Robert once again wasting the realm's coin on tourneys and frivolities, rather than his son.