Disclaimer: Just in case nobody realized I don't own nor do I claim ownership of Game of Thrones, all characters and worlds belong to their real world respective owners. I'm just having some fun, that's all.
The Young Lion
Act 2 Ch 29: The Bell Tolls
The afternoon sun loomed high over King's Landing as Joffrey and his escort rode through the winding streets of the capital.
Heat rolled off the packed stone roads in shimmering waves while the various smells of the city filled the air. Salt from Blackwater Bay mixed with horse shit, roasting meat, sweat, smoke, and the sour stink of Flea Bottom baking beneath the summer sun.
The city was alive around them. Merchants barked prices from crowded stalls. The constant banging of his Industrial sector's hammers rang somewhere farther down the street. Children darted through alleyways barefoot while women leaned lazily from open windows watching the royal procession pass below.
Yet beneath the ordinary hum of the city lurked a certain tension.
War was coming to their doorstep.
Joffrey could see it in the way conversations quieted when his party passed. In the nervous glances exchanged between commoners. In the long lines outside bakeries and market stalls where people bought extra grain whenever they could afford it.
Everyone was doing what they could to prepare themselves for the coming siege.
The king rode at the front atop his new black destrier while Ser Barristan and Jacelyn flanked either side of him. Behind them followed Tyrion atop a smaller horse better suited to his size, while Bronn rode lazily nearby looking entirely too comfortable for a man escorting a king through a city on the edge of siege.
The remaining Kingsguard followed behind in polished white armor, their capelets snapping softly in the warm wind.
They rode deeper toward Visenya's Hill until eventually the streets narrowed and the buildings grew older around them. The lively noise of the markets faded little by little, replaced by quieter roads and ancient stone structures blackened by a combination of age and smoke.
Then they finally arrived at a place many in the capital wished would just fade away.
The Alchemist Guildhall.
The building was enormous standing alone near the foot of Visenya's Hill like a forgotten tomb. It was built from thick black stone darkened further by centuries of soot and weather. Iron chimneys jutted from its roof while narrow windows stared down at the street like empty eye sockets.
Even in broad daylight the place looked wrong.
Joffrey dismounted first.
The moment his boots touched the stone street, the different smells hit him; sulfur, oil, smoke, and something else he couldn't place or want to.
He handed his reins to a nearby stable boy before turning toward the others.
"The rest of you wait outside," he ordered the Kingsguard calmly.
Ser Mandon frowned slightly beneath his helm.
"Your Grace—"
"That wasn't a request ser, fall to command."
The knight immediately bowed his head.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Joffrey turned toward the guildhall doors afterward.
"Barristan, Jacelyn, Tyrion and the cut throat you're with me."
Bronn raised an eyebrow from atop his horse.
"Should I be worried?"
"Probably." Tyrion jested, making his sellsword grin slightly.
The heavy wooden doors groaned loudly as they were pulled open.
Immediately a wave of stale heat rolled out from inside the building hitting the group almost like a slap to the face. The interior air felt thick and damp, carrying the overwhelming smell of sweat, smoke, and unwashed bodies.
Tyrion grimaced.
"Gods," he muttered. "It smells like someone boiled a corpse in piss."
Bronn snorted while Jacelyn covered part of his nose with his hand.
The interior was dim despite the daylight outside. Green flames flickered within iron braziers mounted along the walls, bathing the corridors in an eerie sickly glow that made shadows twist unnaturally across the stone.
Their boots echoed softly as they moved deeper into the guildhall, which the farther they went the creepier it got.
Chains hung from ceilings beside copper pipes and strange brass instruments. Shelves overflowed with powders, parchments, oils, and glass containers filled with liquids of every imaginable color. Somewhere deeper within the structure something bubbled loudly while metal clanged against metal.
The place felt less and less like a guildhall and more and more like something out of a horror story. Even the cut throat stopped smirking, clearly put on edge by the sights.
Eventually they found a hunched old man waiting for them farther down the corridor.
"Welcome, Your Grace," the figure rasped immediately upon spotting the group. "We are honored by your presence."
The man looked ancient beyond measure.
His face was gaunt and deeply lined, covered in scars, warts, and age spots. Wisps of white hair clung desperately to his scalp while several crooked rotten teeth became visible when he smiled. Heavy chains draped around his filthy gray robes, clinking softly whenever he moved, while his back curved forward so severely it looked painful simply to stand upright.
And the smell coming off him…Gods.
Between the sweat and whatever strange chemicals soaked into his robes, he somehow made Grand Maester Pycelle look like a noble lord fresh from a scented bath.
"Good afternoon, Hallyne," Joffrey greeted calmly. "I've come to inspect my order."
The old pyromancer's eyes brightened immediately.
"Of course, Your Grace. Of course. Please follow me."
He turned slowly afterward, chains rattling softly as he shuffled deeper into the guildhall.
The others followed several steps behind him. Mostly because none of them wanted to stand close enough to breathe him in properly.
As they walked deeper underground, Joffrey noticed Ser Barristan's growing discomfort immediately. The old knight's expression remained controlled, but his unease was clear as day.
Which made complete sense.
Barristan Selmy had served on king Aerys kingsguard, and knew exactly what this place was. And more importantly he'd probably had already figured out what his king had ordered from here.
The corridors twisted downward through narrow stone hallways lit only by green fire. Sweat rolled down Tyrion's brow from the oppressive heat trapped beneath the guildhall while the air became thicker and harder to breathe the farther they went down.
Eventually Hallyne stopped in front of a heavy wooden door reinforced with rusted iron bands. The pyromancer fumbled through the absurd collection of keys hanging from his chains before finally selecting one and unlocking the chamber.
The door slowly creaked open.
Inside waited what appeared to be some sort of private laboratory.
Glass tubes bubbled over green flames while strange copper instruments hissed with steam. Florence flasks lined every shelf beside jars filled with powders, oils, and things floating in cloudy liquid that Joffrey decided he very much did not want explained to him.
"Welcome," Hallyne announced proudly, spreading his arms wide, "to my personal laboratory."
Nobody answered him, the silence immediately becoming awkward.
Tyrion eventually coughed into his hand.
"Perhaps," he suggested dryly, "you should skip the pleasantries and just show us what we're here to see."
The pyromancer brightened at once.
"Yes, yes of course."
He hurried toward a nearby crate before carefully retrieving a small round glass orb filled with swirling green liquid. The substance moved strangely beneath the glass, thick and almost alive beneath the green light.
Hallyne carried it with both hands like a mother holding a newborn child.
"Careful, Your Grace," he warned nervously while offering it over.
Joffrey accepted the orb casually.
The others visibly stiffened the moment Joffrey began tossing the glass sphere lightly between his hands while examining it beneath the light.
The old man nearly suffered a heart attack.
"Your Grace!"
The king ignored him before passing the orb toward Tyrion.
Unlike Joffrey, Tyrion handled the glass like it contained the Stranger himself. He rotated the glass slowly while studying the green liquid trapped within.
"I once heard an old sailor's saying," Tyrion mused aloud. "Piss on wildfire and your cock burns off."
Bronn barked out a laugh while Jacelyn rubbed his forehead with annoyance.
To nobody's surprise, Hallyne looked more thoughtful than offended.
"Oh…" the pyromancer murmured seriously. "I have never personally conducted that experiment, but theoretically it may very well be true."
Tyrion looked up from the glowing glass and stared at him. The old man's eyes practically gleaming with crazed enthusiasm.
"The substance burns as hot as dragonflame," he explained proudly. "It can burn wood, stone, even steel. And of course flesh. Once lit, it will consume any and all before it."
Bronn immediately took half a step farther away from the orb.
"That's…comforting…I guess"
Tyrion carefully returned the sphere afterward while Hallyne practically cradled it against his chest before placing it safely back within its crate.
"After the dragons died," the pyromancer continued proudly, "wildfire became the true strength of House Targaryen."
Barristan's discomfort deepened visibly at those words, meanwhile Bronn and Jacelyn looked unimpressed.
"My friends take issue," Tyrion commented lightly.
"Aye," Jacelyn finally spoke up. "Because if magic pots won wars then every drunk alchemist from Dorne to the Wall would rule the Seven Kingdoms."
"Aye. Just a load of pigshit if you ask me," Bronn added.
Hallyne looked taken aback.
"Our order does not deal in pigshit!" he protested indignantly. "Wildfire is fare given form! And we have perfected it since the reign of Maegor himself!"
"To do what exactly?" Jacelyn asked bluntly.
"The jars are loaded into catapults and hurled at enemy armies."
Bronn folded his arms.
"In an actual battle?" he asked skeptically. "With arrows flying everywhere? Men screaming? Horses panicking?"
He gestured lazily around the room.
"One dropped jar and your own soldiers end up burning alive."
Jacelyn nodded alongside him.
"Battles are messy. The enemy won't just stand still while you throw exploding jars at them."
Hallyne huffed furiously.
"You would not dare insult our order beneath King Aerys's reign."
Bronn shrugged.
"Aye well he's not ruling anymore and all your magic pots didn't help him did they?"
Barristan closed his eyes briefly at the mention of the Mad King, while the pyromancer looked ready to argue more, but the king cut him off before he could.
"Enough," he ordered. "Show me how much you've produced."
Hallyne brightened instantly.
"Ah! Yes! Follow me, Your Grace."
The old pyromancer led them deeper underground afterward, down another set of narrow stone stairs. The air grew cooler the farther they descended, though the sulfur smell thickened.
Eventually they arrived before an enormous iron storage door. The old man proudly lifted an absurdly oversized key before unlocking it with both hands.
The heavy metal door groaned open, and the sight that greeted them left the group silent. Rows upon rows upon rows of clay jars stretched through the massive underground chamber and beyond.
There were thousands of them, and every one filled to the brim with Wildfire.
Tyrion stared into the room with stunned disbelief. Barristan looked outright horrified, and even Bronn looked uneasy.
"We have worked tirelessly day and night since Your Grace commanded it," Hallyne declared proudly. "Our current count stands at eight thousand seven hundred and twelve jars."
His rotten smile widened further.
"Enough to burn Stannis Baratheon's army and fleet both."
Joffrey stood motionless while staring down the endless rows of clay jars. The destructive potential sitting beneath King's Landing was difficult to comprehend.
One spark.
One mistake.
And the city itself could vanish in an explosion of green flames.
"You know this is completely insane, right?" Bronn finally asked flatly.
"Indeed," Ser Barristan agreed immediately. "For once the sellsword and I agree."
The old knight stepped closer to his king.
"Your Grace," he said carefully, "there must be another way."
Joffrey listened quietly and nodded.
"Yes," he admitted calmly. "This is a ridiculously dangerous plan. One that could spell the end of the city as we know it if anything goes wrong."
He then turned and looked at the group.
"So let's hear your ideas to deal with Stannis' fleet."
The king looked between them waiting for an answer that never came.
"That's what I thought."
He then turned and began walking back toward the corridor while Hallyne hurried to reseal the chamber behind them.
"Continue your work," he ordered calmly without turning around.
The pyromancer bowed deeply, well as deeply as he could with his hunched back.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Then the group began making their way out of the darkness and back to the light above.
o-O-o
The climb back toward the surface was quiet.
Joffrey walked at the front beside Ser Barristan and Jacelyn while the other two followed several paces behind. Tyrion looked deeply unsettled, his usual wit buried beneath deep thought. Even Bronn seemed to have lost much of his careless attitude after seeing the sheer amount of wildfire hidden beneath the city.
Eight thousand seven hundred and twelve jars, enough to turn King's Landing into history's largest funeral pyre.
They had nearly reached the upper corridor leading toward daylight when Barristan suddenly reached out and clasped Joffrey lightly by the shoulder.
"Your Grace," the old knight said quietly. "I need to speak with you."
The king stopped, hearing something in Barristan's voice that he'd never heard from the knight before.
Fear.
The young king studied the Lord Commander of his kingsguard for a moment before nodding.
"Very well," he said before turning to the others. "Wait outside."
Tyrion glanced between the pair curiously, but he didn't say a word. Bronn just shrugged while Jacelyn exchanged one brief look with Barristan before all three nodded and continued towards the exit.
Once they were gone, an awkward silence settled over the pair, until Joffrey gestured towards a nearby chamber.
"In here."
The room was small and mostly empty save for several dusty crates stacked against the walls and an old wooden table warped with age.
Barristan waited until the door closed before speaking again.
"Your Grace…" He hesitated briefly, as though carefully choosing his next words. "I beg you. Please do not do this."
Joffrey leaned lightly against the table behind him.
"What exactly are you talking about?" He asked. "You mean using the Wildfire?"
"Yes," he answered, his face filled with disgust at the mention of its name. "I cannot stand by and watch another promising king walk down the same road that Aerys Targaryen did."
And there it was.
This wasn't just about the wildfire.
Barristan feared history repeating itself. He feared watching another ruler slowly consume himself with obsession and madness.
"You're afraid I'll become another Mad King," Joffrey said directly.
Barristan did not answer immediately.
Instead, the old knight looked away for a moment, his expression distant as old memories resurfaced behind his pale blue eyes.
"When I first swore my sword to Aerys Targaryen," Barristan began slowly, "he was not yet the man history remembers."
His voice had changed as he recounted history.
"Believe it or not, he was charming once. Ambitious, sure, and filled with dreams for the realm." A faint humorless smile crossed the knight's face. "He wished to build new roads across the kingdoms so trade could flow more freely, and of ending old blood feuds between noble houses. He wanted to be remembered as the greatest king the Seven Kingdoms had ever known."
Barristan's expression darkened.
"And then I had to stand by and watch him become a monster."
His words were quieter now.
"He burned men alive while smiling and listened to their screams as though they were music." His jaw tightened visibly. "By the end, I couldn't recognize the king I had once knew."
Joffrey remained silent while the old knight spoke, finally Barristan looked back at him.
"And I believe his obsession with wildfire played no small part in his fall to madness," The pain in his eyes and voice were evident. "Please, your grace, don't do this."
For several moments, the king said nothing. The room remained utterly still around them save for the distant hiss of green fire somewhere deeper within the guildhall.
Then he finally spoke:
"Ser Barristan, do you truly believe the wildfire brought about the mad king?"
"I believe it had a hand in his creation, yes."
Joffrey nodded thoughtfully.
"Then does a sword create a murderer?"
Barristan blinked with confusion.
"What?"
Joffrey pushed himself away from the table and started making his way in front of Barristan.
"Does a blade make a man evil?" he asked calmly. "Or a spear? Or even a bow?"
The old knight furrowed his brow.
"With respect, Your Grace, I fail to see your meaning."
"My meaning," the king replied, "is that tools possess no morality of their own. A sword can butcher innocent children in the street…Or it can defend them from those who would."
Ser Barristan remained silent as the king continued.
"The steel itself is neither wicked nor noble. It becomes one or the other based entirely upon the hand wielding it."
The old knight's expression shifted slightly as he considered the point, and Joffrey stepped closer.
"The same is true of the wildfire."
Barristan visibly disliked the comparison, but he did not interrupt him.
"Yes," Joffrey admitted openly. "Aerys intended to use those flames to murder his own people. And nearly reduced King's Landing to ash because his ego and pride could not accept his defeat."
His expression hardened briefly.
"That was evil, but those exact same flames could have protected this city."
He gestured toward the ceiling above them.
"Tell me honestly, Barristan. What happens if Stannis breaches the walls?"
The older knight's jaw tightened immediately.
The king continued before he could answer.
"What happens to the people of Flea Bottom? To the bakers? To the smiths? The mothers holding children in their homes while armies tear through the streets?" His green eyes locked firmly onto Barristan's. "What happens to them?"
Ser Barristan didn't say anything nor did he have to since they both knew the answer.
War was never clean.
No matter what the songs said.
Stannis might not be cruel for cruelty's sake, and probably wouldn't call for the rape and slaughter of thousands, but both the king and his guard doubted his men would be as merciful.
"You fear these flames because you watched a madman misuse them," he said quietly. "But refusing to use every weapon available to defend this city simply because Aerys once abused it…" He shook his head slowly. "That's letting fear dictate our choices."
Barristan frowned. "Fear is not always foolish."
"True," Joffrey agreed. "But it becomes dangerous when it blinds us."
The old knight's eyes narrowed slightly as he contemplated the young king's words and the wisdom they carried.
Joffrey's voice softened. "You once told me a king's first duty is to protect his people."
"It is."
"And that's exactly what I intend to do," he said firmly. "I don't care about glory just like I don't care whether future maesters paint me as some noble ruler or monstrous tyrant in their books."
He stepped closer and clasped Barristan's shoulder.
"The only thing I care about is that this city remains standing long after I'm rotting in the ground feeding maggots and worms. And if future generations decide to label me a monster because of the choices I made to save them, then so be it. As long as the better world I envisioned comes to pass, I will proudly wear the title of murderer."
"You would really go that far for them?" Barristan asked.
"Yes," he nodded. "I want a realm where children do not starve every winter. Where smallfolk are not butchered because lords decided to feud over crowns and pride."
He paused looking a little downtrodden.
"Perhaps it's a naive and foolish dream, but I will still pursue it until my last breath, because that is what I was brought here to do."
The knight seemed moved by his words,but had no idea it was Daniel talking about his rebirth.
Barristan shook his head. "No, your grace, that's not foolish."
"Then help me, ser," he said. "Help me build this new world."
His words were simple, but sincere, and for a fleeting moment Barristan saw another prince standing in front of him who had said something similar, his image overlapping with Joffrey's.
"Rhaegar," he thought.
Barristan felt his chest tighten unexpectedly at the sight of his dead silver prince, and slowly, the old knight went down onto one knee.
"I understand, Your Grace."
Joffrey's expression softened, and he reached his arm out to the kneeling knight.
"Good."
The old knight looked up again, stared at the king's outstretched arm, and reached out and clasped it with his own.
"Come, my friend," the king said warmly. "We still have much work ahead of us."
Barristan found himself smiling back despite everything.
"Yes, Your Grace."
The pair exited the chamber together afterward and made their way back through the twisting corridors of the guildhall.
When they finally stepped outside, warm afternoon air washed over them like freedom itself. The sulfur smell faded beneath the scents of horses, sea salt, smoke, and the crowded city streets stretching below Visenya's Hill.
Tyrion, Bronn, and Jacelyn waited nearby alongside the remaining Kingsguard.
Bronn looked between the two men curiously.
"Well? You two done with your little talk?"
Ser Barristan and Jacelyn narrowed his eyes at the sellsword for his quib, while Tyrion studied Barristan carefully, clearly noticing the subtle shift in the old knight's demeanor.
Whatever had been said between the two seemed to have eased some of the knight's tension.
Joffrey mounted his horse again before looking down over King's Landing.
The city shimmered beneath the afternoon sun while smoke drifted lazily upward from thousands of chimneys. Somewhere below, merchants shouted prices while children laughed in crowded alleys completely unaware of how close the war truly was.
Thousands of lives.
All resting upon choices made by men like him.
"Let's go," Joffrey ordered calmly. "We still have much to do before Stannis arrives."
The others mounted quickly afterward.
Then together they rode back toward the Red Keep while far across Blackwater Bay, war continued drawing steadily closer with every passing hour.
o-O-o
Two weeks had passed since Joffrey and his companions had visited Visenya's Hill and the Alchemist Guild.
The city had changed during that short span of time. Trenches were dug deep into the earth around both the Mud Gate and King's Gate, with rows and rows of sharpened wooden stakes lining them.
They were crude but deadly, much like the old Roman fortifications Joffrey remembered from another life.
Massive hwachas rested atop the battlements overlooking the walls, their frames reinforced and packed with enough bolts to turn entire armies into piles of corpses when Stannis's army finally arrived
Below the Red Keep, Tobho's industrial district burned day and night. Smoke constantly climbed into the sky from the countless furnaces and foundries while blacksmiths hammered iron from sunrise to sunset and beyond.
The capital was ready.
Or at least as ready as it could be.
Now all they could do was wait for the old stag and his forces to arrive.
Joffrey sat alone within his solar, a fire crackled softly inside the nearby hearth. The warm orange glow illuminated the room in flickering waves, casting shadows across the piles of parchment scattered over his desk.
Schematics, logistical reports, production tallies, troop movements, engineering concepts—the table had become buried beneath his endless attempts to stay ahead of a disaster.
His fingers absently rubbed at his brow while he reviewed another set of notes.
Tywin had sent word that he knew of the city's situation and was on his way with reinforcements, but Joffrey doubted his grandfather and western host would arrive in time for it to matter.
Even if the old lion marched his men to exhaustion, distance alone made a timely intervention unlikely.
No.
This battle would be decided before the western army ever reached the capital, and it was that realization that weighed so heavily on him.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, his eyes drifting towards the cyvasse board still sitting near the corner of his desk. One of the ivory dragon pieces had been knocked over during his late-night games with Tyrion several nights prior and still remained there.
Joffrey stared at it quietly.
The war truly did feel like a cyvasse board now, with every piece moving towards an inevitable conclusion.
His eyes eventually drifted back to the half-finished schematic sitting in the middle of his desk.
It was another draft for an aqueduct system he hoped to construct after the war ended—something that could finally bring proper clean water into the poorest districts of King's Landing.
As he dabbed his quill and began to finish it a sudden knock came at his door.
Knock Knock Knock
The king let out a loud sigh, annoyed by the interruption.
"Yes?"
"It's Lady Sansa, Your Grace," Ser Balon answered through the door. "She wishes to speak with you."
Joffrey hesitated for a moment before answering.
"Send her in."
He quickly gathered up several of the more sensitive parchments, rolling them shut before placing them to the side. The door opened moments later and Sansa stepped quietly into the chamber.
The moment she entered, the room suddenly felt lighter.
She wore a lovely light velvet gown that clung gently to her figure, the neckline dipping low enough to reveal pale skin between her breasts. Her auburn hair had been left loose tonight instead of tied formally, falling in soft waves down past her shoulders almost to the middle of her back.
The firelight catching against the copper strands.
For a brief moment, Joffrey simply stared at her, then she smiled.
"Good evening, Your Grace."
Her voice carried warmth that immediately eased some of the tension in his chest.
"Good evening, my lady," he answered softly.
Sansa slowly crossed the room toward his desk, her eyes drifting over the mountains of documents scattered across it. Then she looked at him closely for the first time.
Immediately her expression changed.
Concern flickering across her face.
"Joffrey…" she said quietly. "You haven't been sleeping."
It wasn't phrased as a question more of an observation.
"Not really," he shrugged, his answer clearly bothered her.
"You know I don't like it when you work yourself like this."
"Sansa I don't—"
"No," she interrupted gently but firmly. "I understand why you're doing it. I know the city needs you. But if you work yourself into an early grave, who will look after the kingdoms then?"
Joffrey opened his mouth to respond, but paused. Annoyingly enough she had a point.
Sansa crossed her arms over her chest with a tiny victorious look, that looked more cute than threatening.
"I see your lessons are still bearing fruit." He commented.
That finally drew a faint chuckle from her.
"Yes, they are." She smiled proudly. "Your tutors have taught me quite a bit."
"Oh?" Joffrey leaned back slightly in his chair. "And what else have they taught you?"
Sansa's eyes brightened slightly at the question.
"Histories mostly. Great rulers, famous queens, those sorts of things."
"Any favorites?"
She thoughtfully pressed one finger against her lips while pretending to think deeply.
"Hmmm… I think Queen Alysanne is my favorite."
"Jaehaerys' queen?" Joffrey asked with slight surprise. "Why her?"
Sansa smiled softly.
"Because she was everything a queen should be."
There was genuine admiration in her voice now.
"She was wise and compassionate. She cared about the common folk just as much as the nobility." Sansa slowly walked around the desk while she spoke, clearly becoming more passionate about the subject. "That's why she held her women's courts during the royal progresses. She listened to people nobody else cared to hear."
Joffrey watched her quietly, not interrupting her.
"She helped convince King Jaehaerys to abolish the First Night," Sansa continued proudly. "And she pushed for the Widow's Law to protect women after their husbands died."
The passion in her voice actually surprised him.
"She sounds important to you," he observed.
"She is," Sansa answered. "That's why she'll always be remembered as the second greatest queen in Westeros history."
Joffrey raised an eyebrow.
"Oh? Only second?" He asked with a coy tone.
Sansa suddenly slid gracefully into his lap before he could react.
"Yes, because," she said matter-of-factly while wrapping her arms loosely around his neck, "I'm going to become your queen after all."
A grin spread across her face.
"And together we'll surpass them all."
Joffrey laughed quietly.
"Quite ambitious, aren't you?"
"I guess you rubbed off on me."
She playfully tapped his nose while he continued chuckling softly, and for a few precious moments…the war disappeared.
For that brief moment it was just him and her sitting alone in his room.
Eventually the laughter died down, and the pair simply stared quietly into one another's eyes while the fire crackled softly nearby.
Then Sansa leaned forward and kissed him.
The kiss started innocent enough. It was soft and gentle, but quickly it started to deepen.
Her lips pressed harder against his while one hand slipped into his hair. Joffrey felt her body shift closer against him as her nervousness gave way to growing confidence. Then suddenly he felt the tip of her tongue brush lightly against his lower lip.
He blinked slightly in surprise.
Sansa immediately pressed forward, deepening the kiss further while her fingers slid down the muscles of his chest beneath his loose evening shirt.
Growing bolder, her fingers explored his chest more confidently. Joffrey's own restraint began slipping as his hands settled against her waist before slowly sliding lower, making Sansa shiver when his grip tightened against her.
Then her fingers slipped lower.
Too low.
She reached the drawstrings of his trousers and began fumbling with them nervously, and immediately Joffrey pulled back.
"What are you doing?"
Sansa blinked in confusion.
"What? I thought…" Her cheeks flushed red. "I thought you wanted to."
Joffrey carefully stood up, guiding her off his lap.
"Sansa we can't." He said sternly as he fixed his shirt.
"Why not?" She asked confused
"Because… I…" he fumbled trying to find the right words. "It's complicated," he finally said.
"Complicated?" she repeated, confusion quickly giving way to frustration. "Every time I try to get closer to you, you pull away."
"Sansa—"
"Am I not attractive to you?"
The insecurity in her voice hit him harder than anger ever could have.
Joffrey immediately shook his head.
"No. Gods no."
"Then why?" she asked desperately. "Why won't you share your bed with me?"
"We have shared a bed, remember."
"You know what I mean." Her voice cracked slightly near the end.
Her words made him quickly realize that she wasn't angry he wouldn't sleep with her, she was afraid why he wouldn't. She most likely believed that he was only marrying her as a political obligation, not because he loved her. Which frustrated him to no end.
Because how could he explain that mentally he was a twenty eight year old man trapped in a seventeen year old's body. Or how the idea of him sleeping with someone her age made him feel like he should be locked up somewhere, despite loving her.
After several long moments, he finally found the safest truth available to him.
"You're too young."
Sansa blinked.
"…What?"
"You're too young to safely bear children."
Confusion flooded her face.
"My mother had Robb younger than me."
"And she was fortunate to survive it," Joffrey answered immediately, his tone sharpening unexpectedly.
Sansa froze slightly at the intensity behind the words, while the king stepped closer.
"Do you know how many girls die giving birth?" he asked quietly. "How many never wake afterward? How many children die with them?"
Sansa didn't answer.
"Your life is too precious to me to gamble away for one night of pleasure."
That stunned her silent while his expression softened.
"One day we'll have a family," he promised quietly. "And when we do we'll have as many children as your mother if that's what you want."
He gently brushed a strand of auburn hair from her face.
"But not yet."
Sansa stared at him for a long moment before finally asking in a much smaller voice:
"You promise it's not because I'm ugly?"
Joffrey nearly groaned aloud before stepping forward and wrapped both arms around her.
"Sansa," he said softly, "you are the most beautiful girl in all Seven Kingdoms."
Her face buried immediately against his chest.
"I have never once thought otherwise."
He felt her relax slightly after that.
Eventually she looked back up at him.
"…Alright," she whispered. "I'll wait."
"Thank you."
They kissed again, but this time the kiss was much softer and more chaste. The two of them remained in each other's embrace for who knows how long. Seemingly content to just stare into each other's eyes without a word.
Then suddenly—the bells tolled.
The sound thundered across the city so loudly the chamber itself seemed to vibrate.
Joffrey released her and strode toward the balcony doors, the cold night air slammed into him the moment he stepped outside.
And there—far beyond the city walls the Kingswood burned.
Orange flames illuminated the horizon while black smoke climbed skyward like storm clouds rising against the night.
Sansa slowly stepped beside him, fear growing on her face. While the king's own expression became completely still.
All warmth from moments ago vanished.
"He comes," he thought.
The bells continued ringing across King's Landing while faint shouting already echoed from the streets below as civilians rushed to get inside.
Joffrey turned sharply and strode back into the chamber, ripping the door open.
"Ser Balon."
The Kingsguard knight straightened immediately.
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"Find Jacelyn. Tell him my uncle has come." His voice carrying the authority of a king now. "Tell him to have the men assemble at the Dragonpit."
"At once, your grace."
Balon disappeared down the corridor immediately.
Joffrey shut the door before turning back toward Sansa. She still stood near the balcony looking pale beneath the firelight.
"Sansa," he said firmly, "go to Maiden's Vault and remain there until I come for you."
She swallowed nervously before nodding.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Joffrey had already begun removing his evening shirt when she suddenly stepped back toward him, and kissed him again.
"Be safe, my king."
Joffrey smiled faintly despite everything.
"Of course, my lady."
Sansa gathered her skirts and hurried from the chamber moments later.
The instant the door shut behind her, Joffrey's expression hardened completely.
Outside, the bells continued ringing endlessly across King's Landing while somewhere beyond the burning Kingswood, Stannis marched closer and closer through the darkness.
Joffrey crossed toward the armor stand waiting near the wall.
"The war ends tonight," he thought grimly while reaching for his Valyrian steel sword. "One way or another."
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