[ VIDEO ] → ❝ pardon me sir gangster - your trousers are descending ❞
[ From the looks of it, this new face has been messing around with the Forge for upwards of twenty minutes. His face is twisted in a most unhappy expression that was probably brought on by waking up in this room and being greeted with such a poor explanation as to why he was here and then intensified by the fact he couldn't get this godforsaken
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[Offhand, he wonders whether this makes Robert the king or Joffrey, or... well, it's hard to tell, and not especially relevant, but really, when dead kings walk, who takes precedence?]
[And he ought to leave this to Robert Baratheon, but the Seven only know what Stark has told that drunken lout by now, and if Cersei were here...]
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[To look after her son.]
[Wasn't that his damned vow, even if he wasn't in King's Landing to see it fulfilled? So, very well.]
Your Grace.
[And then, more softly.]
...nephew.
[Perhaps it's too much to hope for that the horde of wolves and stags in the city will hold their damn tongues about the truth of that. At least for a time.]
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[ But for the moment you've beaten them, Jaime. No one's here to spill the beans, yet. ]
[ - that being said, however, your face is similar, but just... ]
[ Not the exact one he wanted to see. ]
[ Given, his uncle is knowledgeable enough and here at the moment as well. It takes him a couple seconds to reign in that displeasure that had been so evident in the original post, and even then it's not entirely successful and there's still a bite to his tone when he speaks. ]
Uncle.
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Though the world has seen fit to bring us any number of others claiming the title of king, or queen, or whatever horselords name their women.
[And others. Your father, for example - though whether he means the one you know, or the one you don't is questionable. Both, really.]
[How lucky you are.]
However, there is you, and me. And any number of other uncles. I expect they'll make themselves known quickly enough.
[Which isn't to say he's going to stay silent and let them spout whatever they like.]
Personally, I'd suggest you guard your ears.
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[But the sympathy is short-lived when he remembers what Joffrey did while Bran was stuck in Winterfell. To Sansa. To Father. All the things he'd been told and couldn't do anything about...]
[And the fact is, more than anything, Bran never wants to see Joffrey's mother again.]
Stop shouting, she isn't here. Neither is your council.
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[ Needless to say, this hasn't improved his mood. ]
[ And a Stark? Well, this one's not so bad - he can't do anything, and last he knew, it wasn't this Stark that was playing the part of thorn in his side. But - you know, one day he might. ]
Yet there is an abundance of useless children about.
[ He means you, Bran. He means you. ]
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[I am a Stark of the North. I am not useless.]
I suppose. Only children cry for their mothers.
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[ - cry to them like a child wishing to be held and assisted to walk. ]
[ He had never paid much mind to Bran Stark before. He heard he'd fallen, yes, but respects had been paid when the boy had still be asleep, and Joffrey himself under some duress. Idle days, when slaps had corralled him. Besides, it had been Tommen who had fought with the younger Stark boy, hadn't it? ]
[ Joffrey had been occupied with (goading) Robb Stark. And now that the little broken boy held Winterfell while Robb and his wolf marched upon him. Yes, some brothers garnered more interest than others. ]
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It had been Cersei she'd been most terrified of at first, a thing bled of logic, but there it was. Or had been.
Then they had come, one by one until it was Baratheon that was favored, and---
---now it's switched aliegence again at the last moment, raising its banner like a Frey - throwing its lot in with the lions.
She doesn't speak, doesn't move, doesn't breathe until she's sure she won't give away that she's heard. That she's here. He is not going to catch her unawares again ( ... )
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[Her face is impassive, even if she's biting the inside of her cheek, even if the tears are just beneath the sheen of heat - and she knows that if she blinks, she's lost.
So she stares straight into the screen, does her best to look contrite. Worried, even? Her nerves might serve her well - perhaps it will read as concern for him, not memories of his swollen face, all purpleblack horror, spilt wine and bits of pie at the edges of those fat, wormy, treacherous lips.
The risk is calculated, but she doesn't back down from her intent. The barest bit of a tremor in her voice when she speaks - devoid of hatred and harshness.]
They are not here, my lord.
[Go ahead, Joffrey. Say what you like. Everyone will hear.]
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[ It's automatic, really, but not incorrect, nor unwarranted with Sansa once he took care to recognize her voice and subsequently notices her face. A familiar face, if not a little weathered and not quite as puffy as he last remembered her. ]
[ Tearful was a word that came to mind. But it was not a pretty word, and when she was tearful, neither was she; face ruddy and eyes red. ]
[ This present Sansa wasn't as pretty as she might have been either, with her expression blank - stupid looking - and had he half a mind at the moment to be concerned with her, he would have been more displeased that she hadn't greeted him with a smile. ]
You would do well to remember that, my lady.
[ Or I will have to remind you, he almost adds. But there have been careful warnings from his uncles - one's he'd rather not listen to, for Hand or no; sworn to him or no - they had no business in attempting to herd him about. ]
[ A veiled threat would have to do for now, under the surface and under an almost casual smile. ]
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Would that were the worst part about him. She tries to find the beauty in him, the lie she once believed - to slip the veil back over but it's too caked with filth to pass for gossamer now.
Then again, he'd been fooled before, hadn't he? How could he know what she was thinking, how much she hated him when he most likely thought her small and insignificant and stupid?
What does he know? When is he---]
Your Grace.
[Is she smiling as she says this? Yes, just a bit. It means nothing, like all titles here - perhaps among the smattering of Scorched that hailed from Westeros and beyond, but beyond that? No one cares. Have your title, Joffrey, it's useless. But since you like the sound of it, have it again, why don't you?]
Forgive me, Your Grace.
[Choke on it. She'll just try not to show fear in the wake of those words. Seeing that smile just makes her angry that she'd been so blind to it, to him ( ... )
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Even Tywin Lannister might have been a more welcome sight. He couldn't help but wonder how long this murmer's farce would go on. One look at the boy told you all you needed to know. There was not a drop of Baratheon blood in him.
Yet, what was he to do?
It is as though I am once again at King's Landing. Only this time, he did not even have his Onion Knight. ]
Joffrey.
[ there is a distinct lack of "nephew". ]
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[ They'll have to see how well that keeps up, however, with family members popping up like plot devices and with the only member who truly had his preservation at heart being absent. ]
It's Your Grace, Uncle.
[ Although he somehow has this magical ability - it's really magical - that makes the word "uncle" sound like "traitor". ]
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He hears the tone the boy is taking and it only serves to irritate him. He wants almost nothing more than to see Joffrey dead and burried.
Though when the truth comes out to Robert, I wager that he may do just that to the boy. ]
You have no right to that title. Not here, and not in Westeros.
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[ Eddard Stark - case and point now that he's shown up here and is apparently no ghost. ]
[ His face colored at his jab, and his lip twitched upward in a pure look of agitation. And when he spoke, Joffrey practically spat; ]
I have every right.
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I've only encountered my Uncle Jaime thus far. [ There's that somewhat aloof - yet so unamused - tone that's meant to remind people of their conduct and that his name is Baratheon. ]
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I was not speaking of the Kingslayer.
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My Uncle Tyrion, then. Or my grandfather.
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