A Good King - A Joffrey Baratheon Insert

Outnumbered

"You monstrous freak! You are no son of mine!" He yelled, the antler crown upon his head.

"Father no! I'm sorry!" I wailed, tears pouring down my cheek.

"He was my brothers son and you murdered him in cold blood! Why you incestuous bastard? He was but a child!" He roared.

"Father, please you don't understand!" I yelled. "Mother, please tell him!" I pleaded hopelessly but she just stood there hatred in her eyes. "You disgust me." She said viciously and her words struck me like a ton of bricks and I sobbed some more.

The reincarnated Robert Baratheon strode towards me and I moved back as far as I dared, praying to the Old Gods and the New and the thousands from my previous life that somehow this ordeal would end without my death.

But it was not to be as my father strolled towards me; his war-hammer in hand. "Die bastard!" He roared and swung the huge metal death stick. It struck straight in my stomach and I went flying off the edge of the tower and I felt myself falling, somehow not dead already.

And I fell, and fell and fell.

And then I awoke in a cold sweat. The light outside my window telling me it was day. I sighed as I glanced around the room, every now and then I would have this recurring nightmare. My dead father 'taking revenge' for his brother and my mother staring at me with cold contempt in her eyes. Every time I had it I questioned whether or not killing Bran was the right decision and every time I decided it was. I knew what was coming - I didn't need him and yet he could have destroyed me. But even still it nagged at me.

Sighing yet again I stared into empty space for a good ten minutes until there was a knock on the door and one of the servant girls entered and headed through the door to draw me my daily bath. Hygiene was very important, especially when you live in this filthy shit hole.

I placed a few silver stags on the table, something I do every day before heading instead to the bathroom and excusing her.

After I had finished bathing I re-clothed and headed to my office. I was working on securing more trade with the people of the Free Cities and also the Iron Islands. After the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion father had continued the Westerosi policy of ignoring the Iron Islands. I, on the other hand, thought this stupid. Now that a more friendly House had been installed as Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands (Lord Rodrik Harlow has ditched the title of 'Lord Reaper' soon after the war, in an effort -I assume- to abandon the negative connotations that name carries and to distance themselves from the troubled past of the islands.) I decided to try and improve the still somewhat frosty relations between the Crown and the Iron Islands. In that spirit I had sent a raven to Lord Rodrik with an offer. Everyone knows that the Iron Islands make the best ships and so I had offered Lord Rodrik a monopoly in ship production for the Royal Fleet. I had had plans for an expansion of the fleet for a while and now with the increased tensions with the Reach I thought now was the best time. In return I offered Lord Rodrik weapons and armour from the capital, as well as an exception from the food tax. When I arrived at my office I found a raven with the seal of House Harlow on it, within was a letter accepting my offer.

I had just penned my reply asking for the immediate production of 20 ships, 10 for trade 7 galleys and 3 warships when the door burst open and a servant entered. "Your Grace, the Small Council has been called by Grand Maester Pycelle!" He exclaimed. I thanked him and headed off to the Small Council chambers, fearing the worst. The only reason Pycelle would convene the Council is if he has received an urgent letter and the only thing I could think off currently that would require such a letter is if Renly had instigated an attack.

As I entered the chambers my worst fears had all but been confirmed as I observed the grim faces of the Small Council, especially on Tyrion's. After we were all seated Grand Maester Pycelle spoke.