The prince tossed the dice in the bowl, watching them tumble for a second before the lay still, showing a four and a three to the audience of red cloaks around him.
Moans and victory cries soon sounded out as copper coins changed hands and the prince sheepishly handed the bowl with a few copper pennys.
"Sorry, must have been the horse," he said with an apologetic look, the bowl being snatched by another red cloak as the game went on.
Orland didn't exactly know how him and his small gang of soldiers had ended up gambling over dice games and drinking stale ale with the prince of the Seven Kingdoms, and the prospect of finding out grew dimmer by the day. One night they've been laughing and cursing, the fickle luck of the dice adding a pinch of unpredictably after a long, grueling watch, when a man in obviously noble quality light leathers had entered the tower. His eyes had looked a bit sunken beneath the cloak and cowl he wore, and he'd walked towards their table like a moth following fire, almost without looking. He doubted the prince himself had known what he was doing, but he'd just sat there with a happy, bittersweet smile as he watched them play.
Now, the intrusion of an armed stranger into one of the Red Keep's towers would have been cause for alarm had Barret not vouched for him, claiming he was one of Lord Tyrion's retainers. As it was, they've decided to indulge the quirky stranger in their games, some of the men's eyes alight with the prospect of fleecing a noble unfamiliar with the games of chance.
They had, to a point, though Orland suspected the prince had been spoiling his throws… his hands handled to the dice with too much experience, too much casual skill to justify his continued losses. He won quite a few later, in any case, laughing and jesting with the men like he were one of them, clearly relishing every moment of it.
It was only later they found out the truth, almost two weeks (and many late nights in the tower) after they've met the stranger. Heward had entered the games with the will of a man half starved, finally able to walk downstairs from the barracks after one of the King's horses had left him seeing stars and barely conscious. He'd been so happy to be able to do something beyond staring at the ceiling as he recuperated, the old dumb redcloak had only realized the identity of the prince midway through the match.
He still remembered the dread… in hindsight it had been quite hilarious, though how they could've been so blind he didn't know.
Heward had been watching the cloaked man for a while in confusion, the bowl motionless in his hands. Suddenly his face had turned pale, swiftly standing up before kneeling.
"M-m-my prince!" he strangled, the bowl flying out of his hands and the dice clattering to Orland's feet.
There had been silence for a second before the small space inside the tower had exploded in laughter, Barret the loudest of them all as he grabbed his belly in mirth, "The prince?! I think that horse may have turned something loose in there Heward!" he'd roared. Heward had always been a bit slow, but that… that had been something else!
Everyone had been laughing, except for him and the prince. "… It's true," he'd said with the voice of a man conceding defeat. The chuckling had died as Heward stayed on his knees, the prince's eyes somehow sad at the turn of events. The final nail on the coffin though, had been Barret, the burly redcloak looking confused as he spoke. "But you're Lord Tyrion's gua--" he stumbled mid-sentence, and Orland could almost hear the click inside his head.
They had all kneeled then almost at the same time, swift "m'prince's" being muttered almost at unison by half a dozen suddenly dried throats, throwing panicked looks to each other as everyone thought the same thing.
We were fleecing the King's son?!
That had shaken the prince from his melancholy though, growing angry as he stood up and bodily lifted Orland back to his feet. "That's quite enough, Orland!" he'd shouted, "Barret, Heward, Edmund, all of you too, get up," he commanded, exasperated.
The rest of the red cloaks stood up uncertainly as the prince looked down at the bowl and back at the red cloaks. "Argh, just sit down," he commanded as he shook his head, following his own order as he sat on the same stool he'd been on but a moment before.
The red cloaks threw each other uncertain looks as they sat, and Joffrey gazed at Orland with purpose in his eyes, having apparently reached a decision regarding their punishment for the unacceptable behavior they've been giving their own prince.
"What's on the dice?" he'd asked.
Orland had looked down to his feet, then back up. "Snake eyes," he'd said dumbly.
"Lucky bastard," he'd said as he tossed Heward a bag of copper coins. Heward had been so shocked the bag had bounced clean off his head, landing on the ground… he hadn't even attempted to grab it.
The silence continued for a second before Joffrey had leaned close to Orland. "… How many times did that horse hit him?" he'd whispered in his ear, loud enough for everyone else to hear. It was probably intended as a harmless jape to lower the tension, but after days and days of everyone repeating the same joke after they passed by Heward's bed it had become somewhat of saying between the red cloaks of the north eastern tower. If someone botched a dice throw, then the looser always said something like "Too many horse kicks," or if you forgot to clean your breastplate it was "must have been the horse."
To hear the prince of the Seven Kingdoms say it though, that had been too much for his self control. His laughter seemed to be just what the prince needed, quickly picking up both the bowl and the dice and passing them across.
Things had kind of… carried on from there. The prince insisted they just called him Joffrey, and would not stand anyone to kneel. He had more success with the latter rather than the former... In time, they had all carried on almost as usual.
The prince was a curious man, almost enigmatic, very far away from what he'd imagined him to be according to the stories of Mad Raegar or King Robert, or even the rumors he'd heard as he worked here. He possessed some eternal melancholy that often left him thoughtful at the most unexpected of moments, as if great revelations were warring inside his mind. He'd often ask the men about their families, their lives and what they thought about the most strange of matters. He seemed to relish the simple conversation but they had a tendency to leave him stone faced and serious… most of the time anyway.
"Hey Orland, I've been thinking… what is that piece of wood doing hanging from your neck?" the prince suddenly asked him as Barret placed his bets.
"It's a good luck charm m'prince," he said, grabbing the small piece of slightly burnt wood and turning it in his hand.
"Call me Joffrey," said the prince reflexively before tilting his head, "A good luck charm? I must confess I've never seen one like it… its usually bone or some other mineral with cultural significance, hm… though the Dothraki would beg to differ…" he mused, the talk of foreign cultures and unexpected insights was by now expected from the young prince, though Orland supposed it was just standard for a man of royal blood.
"My father got it in the Sack, m'prince," Orland told him as he took of the pendant and offered it towards him. The prince seemed touched by the gesture of confidence, though he tried his best to hide it as he received he piece of wood as if it were a crown.
"The Sack huh?" he mused as he turned it over, gaze lost as he examined the chipped, worn piece of blackened wood.
"They say a whole block burnt down to cinders right in the middle of the Hook, the flames were so tall you could see them from the harbor…" Orland said, reciting the tale from memory as he leaned back on his chair.
"That's bullshit Orland!" called out Galt. The bearded red cloak was in a corner of the tower, polishing his plate and looking vaguely scandalized. "They would have to have been taller than the city walls for that!" he called out.
"Ma' papa was no liar, wasn't capable of it… except for when he went out wenching," admitted Orland as he scratched his chin, "Mama always knew though, he'd be rocking a mighty bruise all week, and he never had it when he told the tale," he said, the flawless logic enough to make Gart snort in disbelief as he turned back to polish his plate.
"Shit!" muttered Barret in disgust as he passed the bowl, the prince absentmindedly receiving back some of his coppers.
"So… how's this all got to do with a lucky charm?" the prince asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Ah, well, you see the whole block burned down in less than an hour… all except for one little house smack in the middle of it, barely singed after the fiery inferno had reduced everything around it to ash," Orland said with an ominous tone.
"The owner must have been quite lucky indeed," the prince murmured, still looking at the charm.
"Well, the house, not the owner. Poor fool got an axe in the head for making a fuss. He didn't like the sight of over two score soldiers chipping his house for lucky charms," Orland said with a chuckle.
"Oh…" the prince muttered, frowning as he gave the piece of wood another long look. "Did your father ever tell you anything else about the Sack?" he asked after a moment.
Orland nodded as he received the bowl, grabbing the dice inside, "Only when he was drunk as a sailor. Sometimes he'd laugh about it, a dozen different tales splurging like water from a packed well… other times he'd be all quiet, muttering about fire and the stench of the folks who had shat their breeches. Wasn't pretty," said Orland as he shook his head. "There are still some parts of the city where Lannister men have to watch their backs," he said as he tossed the dice. "Bloody business that was, and people here have long memories when it suits them…" he said before looking back to Barret with a pleased smile.
Barret handed the coin as he grumbled, the prince nodding silently. "This city… the countryside… everyone, they've all been through quite a lot, haven't they?" he asked almost to himself.
"Such is life, ain't nothing one can do about it," said Orland, repeating the wisdom of his late father as he passed the bowl to the prince.
"Can we?" muttered the prince as he ignored the bowl, his gaze fixed as he slowly tilted the charm, his thumb slowly rubbing a bit of the blackened charcoal.
-.PD.-
"What do you think if, for whatever reason, Stannis was made King of the Seven Kingdoms?" his strange nephew asked him one day.
"… is that a trick question?" asked Tyrion, buying time.
"No. Do you think his reign would be peaceful? Would the people thrive? Would he handle the other lords?" Joffrey insisted.
They were nonchalantly playing the most intense game of Cyvasse Tyrion had ever experienced, not that Joffrey seemed to notice, his distracted hand moving the pieces as if with a mind of its own.
"Well…" Tyrion said, "He would be a strong King, the lords would respect that, he has a strong sense of justice…" he mused out loud.
"Indeed?" Joffrey murmured, sounding hopeful for some reason.
"Too strong perhaps… he maimed the man that relieved his supplies at the siege of Storm's End, even though he knighted him not a moment later," he added, using the time bought to desperately try and think a way out for his surrounded elephant.
Joffrey scratched his right arm as he leaned back on his chair, the cool afternoon breeze gently swaying the small study's curtains. "That doesn't sound so bad… considering…" he interrupted himself.
"Considering..?" Tyrion asked, the strange conversation drawing him out of the game.
"Nothing. You said he'd be respected by the lords right?" his nephew asked.
Tyrion stayed quiet for a moment as Joffrey fidgeted with a discarded knight. "…Probably, he is a veteran commander and the man who broke the Iron Fleet, though he's too hard headed to be King. Stannis is like iron, they often say. No bending, too inflexible… the intrigues would be too much for him I think…" Tyrion mused before snorting. "I've talked to him, and he barely stands the petty intrigues of the Narrow Sea houses, never mind the whole Seven Kingdoms. I reckon he'd have no patience for it…" he said as he finally found a way for his elephant to escape.
Joffrey looked slightly frantic as he leaned forward, "But with a good advisor aware of the various plots, he would do pretty well right?" he asked as if he were trying to convince himself.
"Sure, sure, especially after a peaceful succession," Tyrion placated him, "I think it would be a reign no worse than Robert's at least… why the sudden interest in Stannis though? You barely spoke with one another before he returned to Dragonstone," he asked him, curious.
"I just… I've been trying to get to know my Baratheon uncles a bit better…" he said, moving a siege tower and almost blocking Tyrion's escaping elephant.
"That's why you've been talking so much with Renly these past few days?" he asked him.
"Yeah…" Joffrey said as he sagged back on his chair, clearly not happy with whatever he'd found. "A reign no worse than Robert's… We need a better reign, a far, far better one… and even then…" Joffrey muttered as he stared out the window.
"You'll do okay Joffrey, don't worry about it," it sounded like an empty platitude, but Tyrion was surprised to find out he meant it. His nephew had come a long, strange way since the bizarre incident that had almost killed him.
That had clearly been the wrong thing to say though. Joffrey suddenly stood up, mumbling halfhearted apologies as he walked out of the room… For the thirtieth time that month, Tyrion asked himself what the hells was going on inside his nephew's head.
-.PD-.
"And to think your uncle had to force you to come at first…" Nalia teased him yet again as Joffrey snorted, serving himself another mug of cider and quietly relishing the close contact. They were both seating in a stately cushioned sofa, Nalia's head leaning on his shoulder. The room inside the Swan-and-Moon had become almost a second home at this point after weeks' worth of visits, and Joffrey couldn't help but feel as some sort of wild cat that had been steadily tamed with the passage of time. The distance at which he let Nalia seat from himself had been steadily eroding over the months, and he seemed powerless to stop it… to his distress and guilty excitement.
He twitched his head suddenly, his eyes alert. "Did you hear that?" he asked her.
Nalia looked confused as she looked around, before settling back on Joffrey shoulder. "…Are you sure the visions are… gone?" she asked him.
"Haven't had one in a while…" Joffrey said as he tried to relax, cursing his mind for playing its games.
"But you still dream about it," she said, a statement rather than a question.
"Every night…" whispered Joffrey, shuffling a tiny bit closer to her warmth, her understated gown doing little to muffle it.
"Tell me another dream then, one of the beautiful ones…" she asked him.
"Hmm, let's see…" Joffrey mused out loud. He had opened up with Nalia like never before in his lives, telling her tales improbable and fantastic… and also terrifying. She thought both his nightmares and his actual past lives were one and the same, a torrent of visions and omens that felt as real to Joffrey as life itself. He hadn't tried correcting her, though for all intents and purposes the difference was small indeed.
So he told her of the time he visited Oldtown with his friends, his Broken Knights. How the streets twisted and turned under the commands of architects far more ancient than those of King's Landing, and how the city lit up under the fiery gaze of the Hightower at night… and the times he'd lived with his friends.
"They were giving Jon all sorts of leery winks, they were even fondling his wolf for Seven's sake, of course he was as red as a cherry!" Joffrey laughed out loud.
"And did they finally manage to tame the other wolf?" Nalia asked him.
"Of course they did! Took a little prodding on both my and Tyrion's part, but we managed it," Joffrey ended triumphantly.
"And did they tame the lion too?" she asked teasingly.
A bit of the levity left Joffrey's voice as he grimaced, "No, there was no need for that," he told her.
"They must have tried though, nobody would let such a good catch slip away like that…" whispered Nalia as she gently kissing his neck.
"There was no time for that…" Joffrey said, leaning away from her.
"I think there was…" she said, following his movement and kissing her way up his neck.
Joffrey flushed as his heart beat wildly, his hands stopping her as he turned away. "She was not the one," he said, the excuse ringing dull to his ears.
"Joffrey… what 'one'? You told me you have barely looked at your betrothed these past few months, and you're hardly the type to emulate chivalric tales anyway…" her calm words cut through him like a scythe, something old turning within his belly.
Her hands cupped his face as she gently tilted it, her chocolate brown eyes finding his again. "I think the real reason you didn't go with those pirate ladies is the same one that makes you run away every time I kiss you…"
"Let it go Nalia," Joffrey whispered, unable to break her gaze.
"What are you scared of Joffrey? What is it that so terrifies you?" she delved deeply, her eyes entrancing.
"I…" Joffrey whispered, his voice dry, "There's something… broken within me, Nalia… Something wrong… deep inside me," he said the last few words with a knowing, bitter smile. "Something I don't think a thousand lifetimes will be able to fix," he said, his voice almost breaking as he grabbed her face with his own hands, "I can't control it, I'd hurt you… and I'd enjoy it…" he whispered fiercely in despair, willing her to understand.
"You're not that man any more, Joff," she said as she placed her forehead against his, "I understand little of what happened to you, but I know this much… you have to let that shadow go," she said, her mouth but a hair's breath away from his.
"You don't know…" whispered Joffrey before she closed the distance and kissed him.
It was both long and short, the swirl of tingles in his belly running up and down his chest and everywhere else as he relished the taste of olives and sweetwine, Nalia's blissful acceptance a nectar finer than he'd ever tasted.
She smiled after she broke the kiss, caressing his blonde hair with one hand. "This is the Joffrey I know, gentle and caring," she said simply.
Joffrey didn't know what happened. One moment he was staring at her in mild incomprehension, the next he was kissing her almost desperately as they whirled towards the big bed, pieces of clothing flying away wildly as an almost weightless sensation took over Joffrey, fears and worries washing away under the relentless, burning kisses of Nalia.
-.PD.-
-----
-----
He awoke slowly, the lazy sunlight of the late afternoon sun washing over the black silk sheets. Nalia lay asleep beside him but an inch away, her smooth face half covered by her brown hair.
Joffrey spent a while just watching her, his eyes tracing her curves absentmindedly, feeling strangely lightheaded. He was possessed by a strange clarity as he quietly got out of the bed and clothed himself in his light leathers. He kissed her gently in the forehead before walking outside the room, his legs almost with a mind of its own as he walked out of the building altogether, the guards outside giving him a tiny nod.
He walked through the slowly dimming streets of King's Landing, his absentminded strides carrying him through the Muddy Way, the various vendors and merchants gradually stowing their carts and wagons, tired but satisfied after a productive day. He spotted throngs of children dashing past him, chasing a dog with wild abandon.
He saw a dozen maids past a private manse's gates, stretching wide a heavy blanket and shaking it before folding it in a quick choreographed sequence, the oldest of them staring at the steadily overcast skies before leading them all inside. He saw a couple of beggars making their way back to Flea Bottom, their faces gaunt and malnourished.
He walked past seamstresses and cobblers, the latter's callused hands full with the weight of cheap ale mugs as they followed the former's heavy bossoms in longing. More than a few of them sported angry little pinpricks in their hands, evidence of one fondling too many. He saw a little boy younger than Rickon Stark still over the cobblestones, unmoving.
The red cloaks at the Red Keep's gate bowed respectfully as he walked past them.
"Best you turned in early m'prince, the Seven are brewing a mighty summer storm me'thinks," said Orland, the small looking red cloak giving him a small smile.
"Seems so, Orland, seems so…" Joffrey said as he looked at him for a moment. The redcloak's plate was smoothly polished except for the small part next to the lower left strap, where a string of sticks had been drawn with white chalk. He was still wearing that ridiculous piece of burned wood, tied around his neck with a small string.
"Something the matter m'prince?" he suddenly asked him.
Joffrey shook his head with a small smile as he walked past him, making his way to Maegor's Holdfast. The wind was heavy with the scent of a storm as he stopped beside a small pillar, looking at the small courtyard where Tommen and Bran took turns moving around with a shield, their feet struggling to follow the rhythm of the rather amusing jig Sandor was humming. The footwork exercise soon got the better of Tommen though, causing him to stumble and crash against Bran, leaving them both tangled up in the ground. He kept walking, Clegane's barking fading with the twists and turns of the hallways.
He walked up a flight of stairs before lingering a moment over a window, the sight of a harried Ned Stark hounded by both his daughters as they all walked to the Tower of the Hand making him smile. He was already walking away when Myrcella bumped into him, her face quickly lightening up as she looked up to him.
"Hey Joffrey!" she greeted him before thrusting a small flower into his hands.
"Is this for me?" Joffrey asked her, amused as he looked at the pale and wide, almost dark green petals surrounding the yellow pollen.
Her eyes lit up as she smiled, "Yes! You're always going to the Godswood in the morning, so I figured I'd take a flower from there and leave it in your room, it could help you sleep too!" she said happily.
"Thank you, Myrcella," Joffrey said seriously as he kneeled a bit, "For everything," he added as he gazed at her fondly. "It also plays well with your eyes," she said cheekily as she snatched the flower from his hands and placed it over his ear before dashing away.
Joffrey protested at her fleeing back but she was already gone, leaving him there in the hallway as he scratched his ear.
He decided to leave the flower there as he kept going up Maegor's Holdfast, finally reaching the wooden stars that carried him to one of the holdfast's towers. His small bundle of rags and books was still there, next to his painting of King's Landing. The city was now depicted under great wide strokes, a collage made up of different shades of white only an Ibbenese or a Northman would really understand.
Joffrey leaned over one of the crenellations, looking at the city as the sun almost disappeared under the horizon. The clouds above King's Landing looked dark and heavy, the breeze atop the tower vaguely warm and oddly still.
Below, carts and wagons were already clearing the streets. The people looked smaller from atop the tower, their tiny forms seeking shelter in the multitude of white and brown buildings. Some of the houses and taverns had light shining within, hearth fires drawing in both family and clientele as bards, storytellers and charlatans took up the space closest to it, some sort of ancient instinct making the listeners come close to the tales and the fire.
It was raining now, the distant crackling of thunder rumbling in the distance, almost a faint whisper. Joffrey closed his eyes as he let his head tilt up, the rain washing his face of sweat and salt. The stars were like tiny pinpricks in the great dark mantle of clouds, their light occasionally peering through the gaps in the dark grey sea.
He looked south, as if trying to peer beyond the horizon to see the sands of Dorne, the dark green forests of the Stormlands. He wondered how many little hamlets were now battening down wooden windows and heavy doors in the Reach, how many more across the Narrow Sea to the east, sea captains and hardy sailors franticly securing rope and sail.
The rain was constant, almost heavy atop his shoulders as the thunder crackled close, the flash big enough to light the city for a moment. He wasn't bothered by it though, his mind deep in abstract thought as he remembered how the Vale of Arryn looked from atop the Mountains of the Moon, great bowls of grey and green etched on the surface of the land as if by great spoons of stone, each bowl a riot of understated colors that nonetheless always seemed to share the same palette as the other.
Joffrey breathed in deeply as another thunder snaked through the sky almost atop the city itself, the wind still warm as it flew in from Blackwater Bay. He took the small flower over his ear, looking at its drenched, slightly bent form. Even as he looked the heavy rain took one of the green petals with it, leaving it broken. Joffrey twirled with it absentmindedly as the thunders roared and a great gust of wind took another petal, his heart beating heavily.
He wondered if Tommen and Myrcella were already in their rooms, or if they had scuttled towards Mother's bed like they had done when they were little. The great thunders continued unabated, their great roars mixed with the crashing of the waves as the sea responded in kind, almost to the tune of his heart as he grunted in discomfort, his gaze turning to his painting of King's Landing. The water was rubbing it down, dissolving the tinctures and leaving great splotches in the canvas, splotches of white in between the city.
He closed his eyes tightly, his hands almost clammy as he held on to the crenellation, his head hanging low as the pain in his chest reached unbearable proportions and he breathed deeply, each time slower than the last.
He thought of the lush fields of the Riverlands, the quiet dignity of Oldtown, the skittering deers of the Stormlands.
He thought of Jon in the far north, of Eddard's face as he was hounded by Sansa and Arya, of Sandor and his half scowl and Mother and her schemes.
King's Landing was completely silent, drowned under the relentless rain and the great thunders as his forehead came to rest on the stone crenellation, his hands locked into tight fists.
The pain in his chest was almost unbearable, his hands trembling as he thought of ice and copper.
Copper, he thought, his fists gently uncurling.
He arrived at a conclusion as he lifted his head back towards the city, an enormous thunder almost leaving him deaf as the pain in his chest exploded and he dared say it aloud.
"I'll have to be King," he said, the words lost in the wind as the thunder somehow, impossibly, kept on going right behind him with the fury of a thousand lesser storms.
He turned in a second, one hand grabbing his chest in pain as his ears ringed. Right in the center of the tower was the Silver Lion, its roar the greatest thunder of them all. It stopped as Joffrey stumbled back only to bump against the crenellations again, the warhorse sized beast gazing at him with pale green eyes as its blonde mane shuffled with the wind.
Joffrey stood there, limp, almost paralyzed, only his tight grip on the crenellation stopping him from falling to his death. "H-h-how?" he asked dumbly. The Silver Lion sat on its haunches, tilting its head sideways almost quizzically as it stared back at him.
The rain kept dousing them as they both stared at each other, its constant noise the only indication that time itself had not been frozen. Joffrey managed to regain his feet, awkwardly shuffling closer and waiting for the lion to do anything. The great beast just stared at him though, its oddly familiar eyes boring into his own. The rain was back to normal now, the thunders still rolling inland up the Kingsroad, the winds dying down.
Soon he was standing right in front of it, his hand rising to touch the lion's head. Joffrey somehow knew the Silver Lion would not hurt him, strange familiarity guiding his hand as he scratched its blonde mane… it was almost as if he'd known it his whole life.
The lion practically collapsed on its side, purring as Joffrey scratched the side of its head like one would a cat. "You like that, huh?" Joffrey mused out loud, knowing it did. The shock was quickly wearing out, almost implausibly fast, he knew the Silver Lion as much as he knew himself.
The rain started to peter out, the droplets gradually becoming scarce as he sat next to the lion, a deep tiredness taking ahold of him as he lay with his back propped up by its belly, the lion's head curling to his side as he kept scratching it absentmindedly.
"It's on us… it's on us to do it right…" Joffrey muttered as a deep lethargy claimed him, his eyes growing heavy until the only thing he could see was the partially clouded sky. His mind grew hazy as the Silver Lion's eyes drooped as well, the beast's uncanny pale green eyes looking at the stars above, same as Joffrey but a moment before. Shah's words reached him in that moment, like a needle of clarity as he gazed back at the starry vault.
"Starwatcher…" he named his strange companion, the corner of his mouth turning up as the lion growled slightly.
"Stars then," he relented with a half-smile, though his thoughts were jumbled and soon he didn't have the strength to speak, he could only gaze at the stars as his eyes slowly drooped.
His dreams were confusing, jumbled. Archmaester Vaellyn's words resounded through the dreamscape, his calm hands drawing orbits below the Citadel Vaults, the Hightower's light a beacon in the dark, the grey horizon of the Beyond and its cloudless nights an overwhelming expanse.
Stars, the thought hit him as he woke up slowly, the night sky still overhead as he tilted his head to the right. He saw the lines, the obvious lines between the stars to the north, his eyes drawing not a warrior or a soldier but a Knight. The Knight, shield and sword held hand in hand. He turned his head slowly as he found The Broom, very similar to a common mace if one saw it upside down, the bundle of stars named by the smallfolk of time immemorial, named after an eternal implement of the common household… It was still quite a distance from a very specific tree, christened by the First Men and still named thus even after the attempts of countless Andal astronomers to rename it.
Joffrey's eyes traced the imaginary lines between the stars, the name emerging into his consciousness with the smell of Oldtown chalk and the rustling of ancient books. The Weirwood.
They're not runes…
They're constellations, he thought in shock, unable to blink as the lines were almost seared into his eyes.
Constellations that would only make sense to a modern Westerosi, who knew its twists and origins, its mesh of cultures, the product of Andal and First Men stargazing since time immemorial mixed into a syncretic pantheon of celestial bodies thanks to our unique history…
The answers had been staring at him all this time, shining from above.
-.PD.-