Joffrey just can't catch a break
Joffrey paced the throne room like a caged lion, his golden curls plastered to his forehead with sweat. The once vibrant crimson of his king's cloak seemed dull in the flickering firelight. News had arrived, a raven carrying a message that shattered the fragile peace Joffrey had enjoyed since Sansa Stark's "unfortunate accident." It was Stannis Baratheon, the Mannis, marching south.
Joffrey slammed his fist on the oaken table, scattering a half-eaten platter of grapes. "That beardy fool thinks he can take the Iron Throne from me? From a Lannister?" He spat the name with a mixture of pride and disgust.
Cersei, ever the calm center of the storm, adjusted her crown and spoke in a soothing voice that did little to ease Joffrey's growing panic. "He is a Baratheon, Joffrey. They are known for their stubbornness. We will deal with him."
"Deal with him? How? We have hardly enough men to hold King's Landing, let alone…" Joffrey's voice trailed off as his gaze fell upon Tyrion Lannister, his impish uncle sprawled across a chair, a mocking smile twisting his lips.
"Let me guess," Tyrion drawled, "you're worried about little Stannis and his ragtag army?"
Joffrey bristled. "Little? He has an army, Tyrion. A large one!"
Tyrion chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Large, perhaps, but ill-equipped and poorly led. Stannis is a fool who believes he has a right to the throne. We Lannisters don't hand out crowns, Joffrey. We take them."
Joffrey found himself nodding, though a sliver of doubt remained. Stannis wasn't like Robb Stark, a rebellious pup Joffrey had taken pleasure in crushing. Stannis was older, experienced, and driven by a cold, unwavering ambition.
The following weeks were a whirlwind of activity. The city buzzed with nervous energy as men were drilled and supplies were gathered. Joffrey found himself barking orders, his voice cracking with a mixture of fear and bravado. He prowled the battlements, his eyes searching the horizon for any sign of the approaching Baratheon forces.
One particularly bleak afternoon, as the wind howled like a banshee and rain lashed the city walls, Joffrey sought solace in the Sept of Baelor. He knelt before the statue of the Seven and mumbled a desperate prayer. He wasn't known for his piety, but the threat of Stannis had driven him to his knees. "Please," he whispered, the words choked with fear, "don't let him take my crown. I'll be good, I swear. I won't be cruel anymore."
His confession echoed in the vast emptiness of the Sept, unanswered. Joffrey stood, his heart heavy, and made his way back to the Red Keep.
Days bled into weeks. The tension in the city was palpable. Finally, scouts arrived, breathless and panicked. Stannis' forces were upon them. The battle raged for a day and a night. Joffrey, sequestered in the Red Keep with Cersei and Varys, paced the floor like a caged animal, the sounds of battle a constant, terrifying drumbeat.
When the news finally arrived, it was Cersei who spoke. "Victory," she announced, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "Stannis is dead. The Mannis is no more."
Relief washed over Joffrey, so intense it almost knocked him off his feet. He roared with laughter, a sound that echoed through the halls of the Red Keep, a chilling reminder of the monster he truly was.
But even in victory, Joffrey couldn't catch a break. The celebrations were short-lived. Whispers began to spread, growing louder with each passing day. Daenerys Targaryen, the Dragon Queen, was gathering strength across the Narrow Sea. A new threat loomed, a fire-breathing one.
Joffrey slammed his fist on the table again, a dark premonition settling in his gut. "Dragons," he hissed, the word leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. "Just what I need. More problems."
His reign of terror had been extended, but for how long? Joffrey, the cruel boy-king, felt a flicker of fear. Perhaps, just perhaps, his luck had finally run out.
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