Joffrey's "Game of King" had commenced in earnest.
Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy assumed the roles of opposing "Lords," each commanding their own small domain within the larger construct of the game.
Bran Stark, Jon Snow, Ser Rodrik Cassel, and four others among Winterfell's household had been designated as "Knights," sworn in service to one of the two opposing lords.
More remarkable still, seventy-seven onlookers—stable boys, guardsmen, serving girls, and others who had gathered to watch the martial display—found themselves conscripted as "soldiers," divided among the various knights' commands.
All, however, owed their ultimate allegiance to a single authority—the "King."
The "King" spoke, his voice carrying across the yard with practiced authority.
"What petitions do those assembled before me have?"
The participants, initially bemused by this unexpected diversion, had grown serious upon hearing the Crown Prince explain the intricacies of his game. None now believed it a simple pastime for the amusement of idle nobility.
Robb was first to step forward, adopting the formal stance of a vassal before his liege.
"Your Grace," he began, his voice carefully modulated, "your loyal vassal Stark requests a territorial judgment."
With four knights sworn to his service and the natural advantage of standing upon Stark land, Robb held a clear edge over Theon in this peculiar contest.
"Greyjoy has seized a knight's territory rightfully belonging to House Stark. Stark demands its immediate return."
According to the rules Prince Joffrey had established, each "Lord" possessed three opportunities to initiate a challenge. The challenged party could counter once without expending their own limited challenges.
Robb had initiated the first round of confrontation.
Should victory favor him, one of Theon's knights would transfer allegiance to House Stark, bringing eleven soldiers in his wake. Defeat would yield no reward and invite a punishment of the King's choosing.
Theon, predictably, had no intention of yielding without resistance.
He stepped forward with a flourish, his voice raised in petition. "Your Grace, these are nothing but Stark's baseless accusations! House Greyjoy demands trial by combat!"
Joffrey nodded, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Trial by combat is granted. Let Stark and Greyjoy each designate a knight to fight as their champion."
Robb named Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms, a veteran of countless battles whose experience could scarcely be matched in the North.
Theon turned to Jon Snow, with whom his relationship had always been strained by mutual dislike. "Jon," he said, unable to keep a note of challenge from his voice, "you wouldn't deliberately lose to spite me, would you?"
Jon's response was an unhappy snort, his dark eyes narrowing.
"I possess some honor still, 'my lord,'" he replied, the final words carrying a subtle weight of mockery.
Yet Jon did not go back on his word once given.
He fought with all the skill at his disposal. The swordsmanship he had honed since earliest childhood—perhaps to compensate for the stain of his birth—represented the culmination of years of dedication. To the astonishment of many watching, the bastard of Winterfell bested the experienced Ser Rodrik in single combat.
Robb's challenge thus failed, though Joffrey declined to impose any punishment for the defeat.
Emboldened by his champion's success, Theon decided to press his advantage with a counter-challenge.
"Your Grace," he proclaimed, "House Stark has unjustly seized two knight's territories belonging to Greyjoy. We demand their immediate return."
Theon had raised the stakes considerably.
Most of those present held allegiance to Winterfell, and some among Theon's reluctant followers already showed signs of discontent with their assigned role.
Robb, recognizing that trial by combat offered little hope given Jon's demonstrated prowess, sought a different avenue. "Your Grace, House Stark stands innocent of these false charges. I request a Great Council be convened!"
Joffrey assented with a gracious inclination of his head.
The "Great Council" represented an alternative form of judgment within the King's Game—a mechanism whereby the seventy-seven soldiers would vote upon the matter at hand.
Each knight now commanded eleven soldiers. By Joffrey's rules, the decision of seven or more soldiers would bind their knight, who could then vote to agree, disagree, or abstain from judgment.
The seven knights' final votes would determine the ultimate outcome.
Before voting commenced, both lords were permitted to address the assembled soldiers, seeking to sway opinion to their cause.
"The lords may present their arguments," Joffrey announced.
Robb, supremely confident in his position, offered only the briefest appeal: "I ask for your support, as is right and proper."
His assurance was well-founded. This was, after all, Winterfell itself.
Theon, more keenly aware of his tenuous position, anticipated yet another humiliation. The pattern had grown wearily familiar.
This game is inherently unfair! he thought bitterly.
Yet a darker voice whispered in response: Where in all the world does fairness truly exist? Is not Winterfell itself much like this game?
His thoughts spiraled into a morass of self-pity and resentment.
I am heir to the Iron Islands, son of the Kraken, an ironborn tempered by salt and sea...
Am I truly?
My father is Lord Balon Greyjoy of Pyke, yet his face has grown indistinct in memory, gradually replaced by the stern countenance of Lord Eddard.
My house words are "We Do Not Sow," yet here I stand in the North, where "Winter is Coming" rules all thought and action.
My god is the merciless Drowned God, who teaches that "What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger." Yet now I find myself mouthing prayers to the gods of the green lands.
I belong among salt spray and longships, yet I have nearly forgotten the taste of the sea upon my lips.
Who am I, when all is stripped away?
Would House Stark ever truly accept me as one of their own?
A metallic bitterness coated Theon's tongue as these thoughts tumbled through his mind.
He felt his very soul plummeting into a yawning abyss—neither Winterfell nor Pyke, but a lightless void of non-existence, a place beyond knowing or consciousness...
Joffrey focused his gaze upon the floundering youth, infusing his voice with something beyond mere command—something that bordered upon enchantment.
"Greyjoy," he said simply, "speak."
Theon felt compelled to raise his head. The Crown Prince's eyes seemed to beckon, drawing his gaze like lodestone pulls iron.
Gods have mercy, he thought with sudden terror, what manner of creature dwells behind those eyes?
Within their depths, calm warmth concealed a tempest capable of reshaping the world—unpredictable yet unwavering, inspiring both reverence and dread, adoration and hatred, impossible to forget once glimpsed.
Like the gaze of a supreme ruler.
King.
Yes, KING!
Theon's face transformed, suffused with an almost fanatical intensity. His eyes gleamed with mingled hope and despair, as though he had glimpsed both salvation and doom in a single moment.
He prostrated himself upon the cold ground, assuming the posture of a pilgrim before a sacred shrine.
"Your Supreme Majesty," he cried, his voice cracking with emotion, "Theon Greyjoy pledges unwavering loyalty to your person! My sword, my body, my very soul—all that I am and may become belongs to you alone!"
The assembled crowd stood dumbfounded, unable to comprehend this sudden transformation.
Joffrey's lips curled into a smile of dark satisfaction.
With fluid grace, he drew Dragonflame and placed its tip heavily upon Theon's trembling shoulder.
"I accept your fealty," he declared, his voice pitched to carry to all present.
"In the name of the Seven Who Are One, I, Joffrey of House Baratheon, do hereby dub you Ser Theon Greyjoy, knight in service to the King. Remember well that you must never flee from battle when the realm has need of you."
"Rise, Ser Theon Greyjoy."
The impromptu knighting ceremony, stripped of all traditional pageantry and somewhat irregular in its execution, nonetheless carried an undeniable solemnity that none present dared dismiss as mere play-acting.
The onlookers could only stare in stunned silence at this unexpected development.
Joffrey sheathed Dragonflame with practiced ease, one hand resting upon his hip while the other clasped the sword's hilt.
"Let the voting commence," he commanded.
Robb's earlier confidence had evaporated like morning mist beneath a summer sun.
The seventy-seven soldiers stirred at last, exchanging meaningful glances. A silent understanding passed among them—the wisest course lay in obedience to the greatest liege lord to whom they all ultimately owed allegiance.
Robb closed his eyes, accepting what would follow.
All seven knights found themselves stripped of meaningful choice. The soldiers under their command voted overwhelmingly for the same side.
The Great Council had spoken: Greyjoy emerged victorious.
Robb lost two of his knights to Theon's service, halving his strength at a stroke. The balance of power had shifted decisively.
Emboldened by success, Theon launched his next assault.
"Your Grace!" he called, his voice stronger now. "Stark has wrongfully seized two additional knight's territories belonging to Greyjoy. We demand their immediate restoration!"
One more victory would leave Robb utterly defeated.
The heir to Winterfell faced an impossible choice. Trial by combat offered no hope with Jon fighting for the opposition. The Great Council had already demonstrated its allegiance.
Must I also bend the knee to secure victory? Robb wondered, his thoughts troubled.
His mood grew complex as understanding dawned. The Crown Prince's intentions became increasingly transparent. The King's Game was, in truth, a game designed solely for the King's benefit.
Jon Snow's heart likewise struggled with conflicting loyalties.
Perceptive as always, he had long since recognized that this was no simple diversion. At minimum, the Crown Prince intended to force him toward some momentous decision.
King's Landing? The Night's Watch?
The moment of choice seemed to have arrived.
Jon's eyes met the Crown Prince's gaze across the yard. Some inexplicable force seemed to pass between them, as tangible as a physical touch.
Jon felt heat suffuse his mind, and before he fully comprehended his own actions, he had dropped to one knee.
"Your Grace," he heard himself say, "Jon Snow offers his eternal loyalty and humbly requests to be ennobled as a lord."
The crowd gasped anew at this unexpected development.
According to another rule of this elaborate game, knights could petition to be elevated to lordship, provided they secured the allegiance of another knight and seven soldiers.
Joffrey observed the unfolding scene with evident satisfaction, like a master mummer watching his carefully crafted play reach its inevitable conclusion.
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