One's King was not treated this way
The narrow streets were lined by men of the City Watch, holding back the crowd with the shafts of their spears. Ser Jacelyn Bywater went in front, heading a wedge of mounted lancers in black ringmail and golden cloaks. Behind him came Ser Aron Santagar and Ser Balon Swann, bearing the king's banners, the lion of Lannister and crowned stag of Baratheon.
King Joffrey followed on a tall grey palfrey, a golden crown set upon his golden curls. Sansa Stark rode a chesnut mare at his side, looking neither right nor left, her thick auburn hair flowing to her shoulders beneath a net of moonstones. Two of the Kingsguard flanked the couple, the Hound on the king's right hand and Ser Mandon Moore to the left of the Stark girl.
Next came Tommen, snuffling, with Ser Preston Greenfield in his white armor and cloak, and then Cersei, accompanied by Ser Lancel and protected by Meryn Trant and Boros Blount. Tyrion fell in with his sister. After them followed the High Septon in his litter, and a long tail of other courtiers-Ser Horas Redwyne, Lady Tanda and her daughter, jalabhar Xho, Lord Gyles Rosby, and the rest. A double column of guardsmen brought up the rear.
They crossed Fishmonger's Square and rode along Muddy Way before turning onto the narrow, curving Hook to begin their climb up Aegon's High Hill. A few voices raised a cry of "Joffrey! All hail, all hail!" as the young king rode by, but for every man who picked up the shout, a hundred kept their silence. He noted each of them as they did, becoming more surly as they rode. Even his mother laughing at Lancel's jokes annoyed him. She had told him he must smile at the people, that a certain image must be maintained, but did she not understand? They were disrespecting him, the throne, everything.
Halfway along the route, a wailing woman forced her way between two watchmen and ran out into the street in front of the king and his companions, holding the corpse of her dead baby above her head. It was blue and swollen, grotesque, but the real horror was the mother's eyes. He considered riding the woman down for a moment, how dare she get in his way? He was turning his horse when Sansa asked him to give her a coin instead, a show of generosity from the King. He would have argued with her, but perhaps that was what his mother had meant when she spoke of the picture they had to portray. Fumbling with his purse, his fingers closed upon a coin and he tossed it at the woman. The stag bounced off the child and onto the cobbles, rolling off under the legs of his Guard, the ungrateful wretch not moving as men in the crowd began to fight for it. No thanks, no gratitude, she simply stared at him, her baby held aloft in her arms as if he should do something about that.
"Leave her, Your Grace," Cersei called out to him, "she's beyond our help, poor thing."
The mother heard her. Somehow the queen's voice cut through the woman's ravaged wits. Her slack face twisted in loathing. "Whore!" she shrieked. "Kingslayer's whore! Brotherfucker!" Her dead child dropped from her arms like a sack of flour as she pointed at Cersei. "Brotherfucker brotherfucker brotherfucker."
The dung hit him in the face, splattering through his hair and clothes. Joffrey cursed, his anger rising with his bile as he wiped it off his face. "Who threw that?" Joffrey screamed. He pushed his fingers into his hair, made a furious face, and flung away another handful of dung. The indignity of it all. These people were his subjects. He was their King! "I want the man who threw that!" he shouted. Even the rabble would understand that. "A hundred golden dragons to the man who gives him up."
"He was up there!" someone shouted from the crowd. Joffrey wheeled his horse in a circle to survey the rooftops and open balconies above them. He would be found. He would not let this man go. In the crowd people were pointing, shoving, cursing one another and the king. How dare they curse the king?
"Please, Your Grace, let him go," Sansa pleaded.
He paid her no heed. "Bring me the man who flung that filth!" Joffrey commanded to his men. He would not let this insult lie. "He'll lick it off me or I'll have his head. Dog, you bring him here!"
Obedient, Sandor Clegane swung down from his saddle, but there was no way through that wall of flesh, let alone to the roof. Those closest to him began to squirm and shove to get away, while others pushed forward to see. Tyrion, a coward as well as a freak countermanded his order. "Clegane, leave off, the man is long fled."
"I want him!" Tyrion had no right to order his Dog around! The rage consumed him. There was no more reason in him, only anger, and he would have the head of whoever had done this. Have all of their heads, the ungrateful wretches. "He was up there! Dog, cut through them and bring-"
A tumult of sound drowned his last words, a rolling thunder of rage and fear and hatred that engulfed them from all sides. "Bastard!" someone screamed at Joffrey, "bastard monster." He listened to the calls in disbelief, each one making him angrier, less rational, each one making him want the head of them all, all of these people who dared to speak so against him.
Other voices flung calls of "Whore" and "Brotherfucker" at the queen, while Tyrion was pelted with shouts of "Freak" and "Halfman." Mixed in with the abuse, there were other cries, cries of "Justice" and "Robb, King Robb, the Young Wolf," of "Stannis!" and even "Renly!" From both sides of the street, the crowd surged against the spear shafts while the gold cloaks struggled to hold the line. Stones and dung and fouler things whistled overhead. "Feed us!" a woman shrieked. "Bread!" boomed a man behind her. "We want bread, bastard!" In a heartbeat, a thousand voices took up the chant. King Joffrey and King Robb and King Stannis were forgotten, and King Bread ruled alone. "Bread," they clamored. "Bread, bread!"
Joffrey didn't know who ordered the retreat, but suddenly all was being made ready. Ahead of the column, Jacelyn Bywater was roaring commands. His riders lowered their lances and drove forward in a wedge. He wheeled his palfrey around in anxious circles while hands reached past the line of gold cloaks, grasping for him. One managed to get hold of his leg, but only for an instant. Still, it was an instant too many, and Joffrey felt fear spike through his heart, piercing the rage. Ser Mandon's sword slashed down, parting hand from wrist. "Ride!" the freak shouted at him, giving the horse a sharp smack on the rump. The animal reared, trumpeting, and plunged ahead, the press shattering before him.
Tyrion would be told later who was in charge, but for now Joffrey just rode. Away from this rioting mass, away from his people, the subjects who were supposed to revere him. Love? Who needed love, he would teach them fear. There would be no forgiveness from this.
He rode hard towards the bailey, so wrapped up in his own anger that he didn't notice at first that hooves were pounding on dirt and grass, not stone and cobbles. The branch that caught him across his face and sent him tumbling was what he noticed, his horse only running a short while more before stopping. "Dog!" He shouted, not seeing any of his Guard, in fact, only seeing woods. Woods that should not be there. He looked up in panic, still not registering that an angry mob would not be at his back. Still, he managed his feet, looking about nervously, his hand resting on the bridle of his horse who had wandered back to him.
How dare they abandon him. And what sort of thing was this? A secret way out, some magics or other silliness? "DOG!" He shouted again, this time more forcefully. He would be here, and when he answered, he would pay. Of that Joffrey was sure.
King Joffrey followed on a tall grey palfrey, a golden crown set upon his golden curls. Sansa Stark rode a chesnut mare at his side, looking neither right nor left, her thick auburn hair flowing to her shoulders beneath a net of moonstones. Two of the Kingsguard flanked the couple, the Hound on the king's right hand and Ser Mandon Moore to the left of the Stark girl.
Next came Tommen, snuffling, with Ser Preston Greenfield in his white armor and cloak, and then Cersei, accompanied by Ser Lancel and protected by Meryn Trant and Boros Blount. Tyrion fell in with his sister. After them followed the High Septon in his litter, and a long tail of other courtiers-Ser Horas Redwyne, Lady Tanda and her daughter, jalabhar Xho, Lord Gyles Rosby, and the rest. A double column of guardsmen brought up the rear.
They crossed Fishmonger's Square and rode along Muddy Way before turning onto the narrow, curving Hook to begin their climb up Aegon's High Hill. A few voices raised a cry of "Joffrey! All hail, all hail!" as the young king rode by, but for every man who picked up the shout, a hundred kept their silence. He noted each of them as they did, becoming more surly as they rode. Even his mother laughing at Lancel's jokes annoyed him. She had told him he must smile at the people, that a certain image must be maintained, but did she not understand? They were disrespecting him, the throne, everything.
Halfway along the route, a wailing woman forced her way between two watchmen and ran out into the street in front of the king and his companions, holding the corpse of her dead baby above her head. It was blue and swollen, grotesque, but the real horror was the mother's eyes. He considered riding the woman down for a moment, how dare she get in his way? He was turning his horse when Sansa asked him to give her a coin instead, a show of generosity from the King. He would have argued with her, but perhaps that was what his mother had meant when she spoke of the picture they had to portray. Fumbling with his purse, his fingers closed upon a coin and he tossed it at the woman. The stag bounced off the child and onto the cobbles, rolling off under the legs of his Guard, the ungrateful wretch not moving as men in the crowd began to fight for it. No thanks, no gratitude, she simply stared at him, her baby held aloft in her arms as if he should do something about that.
"Leave her, Your Grace," Cersei called out to him, "she's beyond our help, poor thing."
The mother heard her. Somehow the queen's voice cut through the woman's ravaged wits. Her slack face twisted in loathing. "Whore!" she shrieked. "Kingslayer's whore! Brotherfucker!" Her dead child dropped from her arms like a sack of flour as she pointed at Cersei. "Brotherfucker brotherfucker brotherfucker."
The dung hit him in the face, splattering through his hair and clothes. Joffrey cursed, his anger rising with his bile as he wiped it off his face. "Who threw that?" Joffrey screamed. He pushed his fingers into his hair, made a furious face, and flung away another handful of dung. The indignity of it all. These people were his subjects. He was their King! "I want the man who threw that!" he shouted. Even the rabble would understand that. "A hundred golden dragons to the man who gives him up."
"He was up there!" someone shouted from the crowd. Joffrey wheeled his horse in a circle to survey the rooftops and open balconies above them. He would be found. He would not let this man go. In the crowd people were pointing, shoving, cursing one another and the king. How dare they curse the king?
"Please, Your Grace, let him go," Sansa pleaded.
He paid her no heed. "Bring me the man who flung that filth!" Joffrey commanded to his men. He would not let this insult lie. "He'll lick it off me or I'll have his head. Dog, you bring him here!"
Obedient, Sandor Clegane swung down from his saddle, but there was no way through that wall of flesh, let alone to the roof. Those closest to him began to squirm and shove to get away, while others pushed forward to see. Tyrion, a coward as well as a freak countermanded his order. "Clegane, leave off, the man is long fled."
"I want him!" Tyrion had no right to order his Dog around! The rage consumed him. There was no more reason in him, only anger, and he would have the head of whoever had done this. Have all of their heads, the ungrateful wretches. "He was up there! Dog, cut through them and bring-"
A tumult of sound drowned his last words, a rolling thunder of rage and fear and hatred that engulfed them from all sides. "Bastard!" someone screamed at Joffrey, "bastard monster." He listened to the calls in disbelief, each one making him angrier, less rational, each one making him want the head of them all, all of these people who dared to speak so against him.
Other voices flung calls of "Whore" and "Brotherfucker" at the queen, while Tyrion was pelted with shouts of "Freak" and "Halfman." Mixed in with the abuse, there were other cries, cries of "Justice" and "Robb, King Robb, the Young Wolf," of "Stannis!" and even "Renly!" From both sides of the street, the crowd surged against the spear shafts while the gold cloaks struggled to hold the line. Stones and dung and fouler things whistled overhead. "Feed us!" a woman shrieked. "Bread!" boomed a man behind her. "We want bread, bastard!" In a heartbeat, a thousand voices took up the chant. King Joffrey and King Robb and King Stannis were forgotten, and King Bread ruled alone. "Bread," they clamored. "Bread, bread!"
Joffrey didn't know who ordered the retreat, but suddenly all was being made ready. Ahead of the column, Jacelyn Bywater was roaring commands. His riders lowered their lances and drove forward in a wedge. He wheeled his palfrey around in anxious circles while hands reached past the line of gold cloaks, grasping for him. One managed to get hold of his leg, but only for an instant. Still, it was an instant too many, and Joffrey felt fear spike through his heart, piercing the rage. Ser Mandon's sword slashed down, parting hand from wrist. "Ride!" the freak shouted at him, giving the horse a sharp smack on the rump. The animal reared, trumpeting, and plunged ahead, the press shattering before him.
Tyrion would be told later who was in charge, but for now Joffrey just rode. Away from this rioting mass, away from his people, the subjects who were supposed to revere him. Love? Who needed love, he would teach them fear. There would be no forgiveness from this.
He rode hard towards the bailey, so wrapped up in his own anger that he didn't notice at first that hooves were pounding on dirt and grass, not stone and cobbles. The branch that caught him across his face and sent him tumbling was what he noticed, his horse only running a short while more before stopping. "Dog!" He shouted, not seeing any of his Guard, in fact, only seeing woods. Woods that should not be there. He looked up in panic, still not registering that an angry mob would not be at his back. Still, he managed his feet, looking about nervously, his hand resting on the bridle of his horse who had wandered back to him.
How dare they abandon him. And what sort of thing was this? A secret way out, some magics or other silliness? "DOG!" He shouted again, this time more forcefully. He would be here, and when he answered, he would pay. Of that Joffrey was sure.