Capítulo 202: Joffrey 3 295 AC
Carefully, he placed his hands on the railing of the balcony, taking in a great breath.
The wind was coming in off the sea with the grim storm overhead, and the smell of saltwater at least drowned out the stench of King's landing.
It was a brief respite, but one he sorely needed, for the feast overwhelmed his senses so thoroughly, all the crowd so close to him, his mother's poison, his Father's wounds, the sycophants in their worthless greens, and, by some miracle, a few genuinely honorable men, and some lesser number of pure women.
None were so clean or so unstained as his Sansa.
And, over all of it, above the Lord's and Ladies, the powerful and the frail, his cousin had sat, some bloated puppet master of clouds and terror, a swirling vortex that grasped the souls of his minions in strings of lightning.
He had seen how the Greyjoy and the Princess of Drone twisted under those clouds as if directed by some great invisible hands within, how darkened tendrils of stormcloud stretched out and sought to shadow the whole of the hall in its presence, like some great octopus or monstrous dragon wing.
So close to his cousin now, he had even seen beneath it, to the shadowed soul of his cousin, that pillar of arrogance, crackling with lightning, suppressed only by the faintest sense of self-awareness. Harsh and Brass, and full of blazing green lights and turning cogs.
It had seemed to beat with a heart of its own, crackling and expelling lightning into the cloud above, and drawing down the cloud back into itself.
There was no doubt in his mind that Arthur, whatever blood they shared, was no man.
He was a monster, as sure as that demon that had walked from the corpse of the Dragon-prince. He might be less vile, less thoughtless and aggressive, but that thoughtfulness did not make him less dangerous.
No, it made him worse.
"Gya?"
Joffrey glanced over at the baby across the room from him.
Young Tommen was, well, not a baby exactly. His younger brother was just on the cusp of being a toddler, he could manage a few words, and stagger along with something to support himself.
Joffrey smiled at the innocent boy trying to climb his way out of his crib.
He was big for his age, black of hair and blue of eye.
Like his father, his uncles, his cousins.
If Joffrey and Myrcella had inherited all the Lannister traits it was sure the boy had inherited the Baratheon ones. Even his soul at such a young age was already so cheerful and lively, like the rest of the clan.
Well, save Lord Stannis, but his Uncle could hardly be considered the rule.
Joffrey sighed, turning away from his brother. It was odd that their mother seemed to care so little for him, leaving him mostly to the maids, but then, that might be better for the boy.
He felt a pang in his heart.
He loved his mother, he knew he did. Even seeing how toxic she was to those around her. How she seeped into Uncle Jaime, into Myrcella.
Into himself.
He could trace his own soul back to hers in more ways than he liked.
And that was hardly his only concern, there was his Grandfather too, and his plots. The Dornish and their obvious hatred for his family, his grandfather especially. Uncle Tyrion who all save Uncle Jaime seemed to hate, though he could not see why.
The Dwarf's soul was not clean, but relative to most of those here he was cheerful and wholesome, a hearty red, the other side of the house colors that his Grandfather bore no mark of.
And that wasn't even to speak of the other Lord's paramount, the Tully's, and the Tyrell's with their ambitious souls, his own party under Lord Stark as grey as ever, or the hundreds of lesser Lords and ladies, all possessed of their own dispositions.
He placed his hand against his forehead.
It was too much. All too much.
And even with all this knowledge what was he to do with it? What that wouldn't lead to accusations of being a sorcerer like his fell cousin.
He was still a boy in the eyes of everyone here, he had no realm, no army, no blasted company to ferry him gold or power.
A knock to the door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Enter." He spoke, sighing and turning back into the room.
A grey bulwark entered, eyes cold, but there was warmth behind them.
"Joffrey," the Stark Lord said, staring down at him and raising an eyebrow. "You're missing the feast."
He felt himself freeze up, panic taking his heart, he couldn't tell him, couldn't…
No, even Lord Stark he couldn't tell.
He'd decided on that long before, he was hardly going change his mind about it now. Maybe Sansa, when they were wed, but not before, never before.
"Yes, I know."
The Lord of the North nodded grimly, staring at him a long moment before shaking his head and taking a seat on one of the ornate chairs of the red keep, crafted precisely of thick dark wood.
"Would you like to talk?"
He was about to deny on instinct, to say no to everything, but after a moment's reflection, he sighed.
Even if he couldn't tell him about the visions, Eddard Stark was still kind, still understanding in a way that almost no-one else… no, no-one else at all was.
He set himself down in another chair, squeezing his brow, trying to find words to use.
Finally, he gave a simple answer, the best one he could.
"Yes."
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