A Crown's Cruelty

"Can we?" Joffrey's eyes brightened. "Then prepare it quickly."

The servants forced a draught into the prisoners' mouths despite their begging. Joffrey frowned. "What is that?"

"A weakening draught," Baelish said. "Once they are released, Your Grace may hunt them without dirtying the sport with too much resistance."

"Good. Very good." Joffrey's smile sharpened, then vanished. "But why weaken them? Are you doubting your king's strength?"

Baelish had not expected the boy's mood to turn so quickly. Being scolded in front of servants made his face tighten.

This was the piece he meant to use, yet the piece dared bark at him.

If not for the final revenge, Baelish would have enjoyed giving Joffrey a dose as well.

Instead he smiled. "I would never doubt Your Grace. I only did not wish those base creatures to stain your clothes."

"See that you remember it."

The prisoners tried to run when the ropes came loose. The draught dragged them down before they could take more than a few stumbling steps. Joffrey became delighted at once.

"Run. Run, you useless things. If you do not run, your king will kill all of you."

He fitted a bolt and pulled the trigger. The quarrel sank into flesh as if guided by spite.

Pain forced one man upright. Another crawled toward the open gap in the fence, lured by escape he could see and never reach.

Joffrey had ordered the way out made wide. Hope made the game better. One bolt after another cut that hope apart.

When his excitement rose, Joffrey ordered Eddard Stark's cage opened. He wanted to hunt the northern lord as he had hunted the others.

The order made the servants hesitate. Even Baelish's men understood that a nameless prisoner and the Lord of Winterfell were not the same sort of prey. Joffrey noticed the pause and enjoyed it.

Fear in his servants was almost as sweet as fear in the yard. Baelish made a show of caution. Joffrey snapped at him, and Baelish withdrew with perfect humility. Ned understood enough.

The boy was only a dagger. Someone wanted Joffrey to kill him, and through that murder pull Lannister and Stark into open war.

Even so, Ned had underestimated Joffrey's cruelty. There was something of the Mad King buried in the child, raw and delighted by helplessness.

Ned's weakened body stumbled away from the first bolts. He tried to speak, but Joffrey gave him no room.

The crossbow loaded quickly. Bolt after bolt struck earth, wood, cloth, and flesh. Their failure only angered the king.

"Die, you damned northman."

This time, Joffrey used his little hidden trick. Two bolts launched together. Ned did not expect it. Desperation threw him back toward the cage he had just left. Joffrey smiled.

"Lord Stark, you chose that yourself."

He threw aside the crossbow, drew the sword at his hip with both hands, and thrust through the bars. The blade found Ned.

Blood slid down steel. Ned's already weakened body folded around the wound. Joffrey leaned his weight into the sword until the point bit into the dirt beyond him.

Eddard Stark stared at the boy through a haze. Words gathered in his mouth, but none escaped.

He thought of Winterfell. Of Catelyn. Of Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon. Of the North he had wanted to protect by being honorable in a city built to punish honor.

The last clear thing he understood was that he had been wrong about almost everyone.

Baelish's plan had succeeded. The draught did its work, and the piece he had chosen believed himself a king dispensing justice. Traitors deserved death.

Then Joffrey did something even Baelish had not expected.

By the time he was done, he lifted the severed head with one hand and shattered a cup with the other, roaring toward the yard as though displaying royal majesty.

"This is what happens to traitors."

Baelish watched him leave with the head swaying from his grip. The last link was closed. His opportunity would come soon.

The servant who had helped him stepped forward behind him.

"My lord?"

Baelish turned and embraced him. The dagger went in cleanly. When he wiped the blade, the smile remained on his face. A close look would have shown it was not joy. It was hate.

...

"Commander, one of Joffrey's guards wants to see you."

Ronan glanced at the messenger, then at Arya, who was suffering through the stance he had given her.

"Rovyn, supervise her."

"Commander..."

Ronan had already gone. Arya, legs shaking, muttered, "Is he doing this on purpose? Have you ever trained like this?"

Rovyn shook his head. "The commander has not taught us this method. But it seems useful for beginners. It roots the lower body."

"My dancing master said something like that. He did not make me hold it this long."

"Perhaps the commander has higher expectations for you."

That made Arya feel a little better, though comfort did nothing for the fire in her legs. Ronan had told her to find balance, a way to stand long without pain.

She had not found it. At times she suspected he was tricking her. Outside the barracks, Ronan found the scarred man waiting.

"Did you come for me," Ronan asked, "or did Joffrey send you?"

"I came."

"Then speak."

"The girl was locked in the dungeon."

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing else."

Ronan looked at Sandor's grave face and smiled. "Good. I know."

"You are not going?"

"You care about her?"

"No."

Sandor turned and left. Direct, at least.

Ronan watched him go. Coming all this way for an unimportant girl was almost too deliberate. The Hound must have seen how Ronan had protected Arya once and decided the same protection might extend to Sansa.

What Sandor did not know was that Arya mattered for more than her blood. She was useful.

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