A Struggle of Stags (ASOIAF AU)

[HypoSoc]

Eddard I​

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.

Spoiler: AN

This is my November project. I plan to finish it out in the month in 50k words. Lets see if I can get it done. Editing is sadly minimal.

 

[KenKara]

Is it an si that got inserted at a wrong time @nd circumstance?

 

[HypoSoc]

Joffrey I​

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.

 

[HypoSoc]

Is it an si that got inserted at a wrong time @nd circumstance?

Click to shrink...

There is no SI. This is a pure AU.

 

[ThedudeManBro]

The plot keeps thickening like tasty delicious oatmeal. Yummy!

 

[Paradosi]

Joffrey, even trueborn, is a trainwreck. That tracks.