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The Young Lion
Act 2 Ch 17: The Wolf Who Knelt
Steam coiled lazily through the vaulted ceilings of the royal baths, turning torchlight into blurred halos of gold. The scent of lavender oil hung thick in the air, mingling with the mineral sharpness of heated stone. Water lapped softly against marble edges in a rhythm meant to soothe and quiet the mind of a king.
Joffrey Baratheon sank deeper into the bath until the warm water reached his collarbone. The heat worked into his muscles, loosening the stiffness earned from commanding soldiers beneath a relentless sky. His head tilted back against the carved rim of the basin, damp strands of golden hair clinging to his temples.
For a fleeting moment, he allowed his eyes to close.
Darkness greeted him and then immediately shattered with the memory of the day's clash against northern steel. Then something else. Not banners snapping in the wind or horses screaming beneath falling riders, but fire.
A fire that swallowed the blue from the sky. The violent whistling echo of artillery tearing his unit apart. The ground shaking under the sky-splitting force. Smoke thick enough to taste, bitter and metallic, clawing down into his lungs. Men shouting his name, begging him to save them, cut short mid-sentence and silenced forever. Heat so intense it erased every other thought and feeling except pain.
The scent in his mind changed. No longer lavender. No longer clean stone, but burning metal, charred earth, and most of all, burning flesh and ash. His breath caught sharply in his throat. Water sloshed over the rim as his hand clenched reflexively.
A servant near the doorway shifted uneasily. "Your Grace? Shall I have the braziers stoked?"
Joffrey opened his eyes, and the bath returned around him in a rush of steam and gold light. "No," he said, too quickly. He steadied his tone. "Leave."
The servant bowed and withdrew, the heavy door closing with a muted thud that echoed louder than it should have.
Joffrey slid lower into the water until it brushed his chin, as though the water might drown what was rising within him. The world dulled beneath the surface; sound softened into a distant murmur. For a few seconds, there was only the steady beat of his pulse in his ears.
But even there, the ringing came. That high, endless tone that lingered after the blast, when the screaming stopped and the world seemed to hold its breath. He surged upright, water rolling down his shoulders. The bath no longer felt warm; it felt suffocating.
Rising abruptly, he stepped onto the cold stone floor. The chill bit into heated skin, grounding him in the present. A servant hurried forward with towels, only to freeze at the look on his face.
"Leave them and go," Joffrey said quietly.
The woman obeyed at once and exited the chamber.
He dried himself in firm, efficient strokes, as if preparing for inspection rather than rest. The heavy robe he drew around his shoulders settled comfortably against his frame, but the fabric did nothing to still the restlessness coiled beneath his ribs. Warmth could not reach what fire had etched into bone.
The usual bustling corridors of the Red Keep lay silent at this hour. Torchlight flickered along polished stone, stretching shadows into long, watchful shapes. The Kingsguards straightened as he approached, armor whispering faintly with the movement.
"Your Grace," they said in unison.
"I require no escort tonight," he said as he passed, not even looking in their direction.
There was a fractional pause before they inclined their heads. "As you command."
As he passed, Ser Barristan's face showed his concern for his king after the day's events, but he obeyed the king's command and left with the others. Their footsteps faded behind him, leaving only the soft contact of his own bare feet against marble. A cool draft slipped through a narrow window slit, brushing through his damp hair. He slowed, glancing outward.
King's Landing shimmered below in scattered points of lamplight. The city murmured even at the dead of night—distant laughter, the creak of a wagon wheel, a dog barking somewhere far below. Thousands rested beneath his protection, unaware of how thin the line was between safety and chaos.
He flexed his hand at his side, as if testing for steadiness, before closing the window and continuing on.
The door to his solar groaned faintly as he pushed it open. Inside, a single candle burned beside a jug of dark red wine, its flame bending slightly in greeting to the air disturbed by his entrance.
He closed the door behind him, sealing himself in quiet. Slowly, he made his way over to the candle and began preparing himself a drink. The wine poured thickly into a waiting cup, deep crimson catching the candlelight like polished garnet. He lifted it halfway to his lips—
A sound interrupted him.
Soft. Almost imperceptible. Fabric shifting against the stone floor. His body moved before thought could intervene. He pivoted sharply, abandoning the cup as it tipped and spilled dark streaks across the table. A shadow detached itself from the corner of the room. A hand reaching out towards him—
He caught the wrist in a swift grip, stepping into the movement. He shifted his weight, and in one fluid motion he turned, using momentum rather than brute force, and sent the figure over his hip. The body struck the carpeted floor with a breathless gasp.
He followed through, knee pinning an arm, the other hand already drawing the Valyrian steel dagger from his belt. The blade gleamed dark and cold in the candlelight. He raised it high, ready to bring it down and end the assassin, but stopped halfway at the sight of his would-be killer.
Red hair spilled across the floor like spilled copper. Blue eyes stared up at him with clear shock. The dagger trembled in his hand.
"Sansa?" The name left him raw and disbelieving as he stepped back.
She coughed, clutching her throat where he had pinned her. "What in the seven hells is wrong with you?!" she demanded, her voice hoarse. "Why would you do that?!"
The dagger slipped from his shaking hand and struck the stone with a sharp, accusing clang.
He recoiled as though he had been struck. "I thought—" His voice faltered. "I thought you were trying to kill me."
Sansa rose slowly, anger flashing in her expression before something else overtook it. She truly looked at him now—not at the king, not at the warrior fresh from battle, but at the man whose hands wouldn't stop trembling.
He sank to his knees as if the strength had simply drained from him. The chamber felt too close, the air too thin. His breathing grew ragged, uneven, as if he had run a great distance.
"I'm sorry," he managed weakly.
Sansa's anger faded entirely, and she slowly approached him with care, each step measured. She then slowly knelt before him, sliding her arms around his shoulders and drawing him into her embrace.
His body stiffened for the briefest instant, then yielded.
His forehead pressed against her shoulder. His fingers curled into the fabric at her back, gripping not in possession but in need. His breath came in sharp pulls against her collarbone.
"I'm here," she murmured softly.
Her hand moved gently through his hair, untangling damp strands with patient strokes. The simple rhythm of her heartbeat steadied him more effectively than command ever could. Slowly, the violent pounding in his chest began to ease. His breathing lengthened. The tremor in his hands diminished.
"You don't have to carry everything alone," she whispered in his ear. "Not with me."
He said nothing in return, but his grip tightened briefly before easing. Minutes passed in that quiet, candlelight flickering softly around them.
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were clearer, though shadowed by something he did not name. "Sansa," he said hoarsely, "would you mind staying with me tonight?"
A faint blush colored her cheeks, but her answer was steady. "Of course, Your Grace."
He retrieved the fallen dagger and set it carefully aside. The wine remained untouched upon the table.
They moved to the bed without ceremony. He lay down fully clothed, exhaustion overtaking pride. She settled beside him, the mattress dipping beneath their combined weight. His arm encircled her, firm but not demanding.
Her hand rested over his heart, feeling the pounding of a drum. For a time, they lay in silence. The wind brushed softly against the shutters. Somewhere far below, a bell tolled the passing hour.
Beneath her palm, his heartbeat gradually steadied. His breathing slowed, deepened. The tension left his jaw, smoothing the sharp lines of command from his features. At last, sleep claimed him fully.
Sansa remained awake a while longer.
She studied his face in the low glow of candlelight—the strength that had won her heart was still there, but now she could see the youth that still lingered beneath it, the faint crease between his brows that did not fully fade even in rest. Gently, she brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.
"If you are the sword that guards the realm, then I will be the shield that guards your weariness."
Then she lay still, sleep slowly claiming her as well as she listened to the quiet rise and fall of his breath. Behind the walls of the solar, within the narrow hidden passages known only to a few, another presence lingered.
Senelle stood in shadow, a narrow slit in the stone granting her a view into the chamber. She had come with intentions of her own, drawn by rumor of the king's return and the weight of battle upon him.
Instead, she found him asleep, being held not with ambition or lust, but by a young girl's innocent devotion.
Her expression shifted—something more thoughtful and understanding.
After a moment, she stepped back from the slit and refastened her cloak, covering her sheer silk night gown. The cool air of the passage closed around her as she retreated silently into darkness.
Within the chamber, the king did not stir, and for the first time since the battlefield, the fire did not follow him into his dreams.
o-O-o
Grass lay flattened, churned into mud where boots and hooves had torn it apart. In places, the soil had dried into dark, rust-colored patches that refused to blend back into green. Where once nearly twenty thousand Northmen had marched south with banners raised and voices loud, barely nine thousand now stood at the treeline.
The difference was visible even at a distance. Gaps appeared where companies had been shattered beyond repair. Some banners were missing entirely; others hung tattered, their cloth darkened and stiff. Boiled leather armor creaked softly as men shifted their weight. The smell of pine from the forest behind them mingled uneasily with the stench of blood that still lingered over the field.
They had retrieved what bodies they could, though many had been trampled to pieces by charging horses. The Northmen's faces betrayed what discipline could not conceal. They had seen the slaughter. They had heard the whistle of thousands of arrows and seen their comrades fall in numbers too great to comprehend. Shields had splintered. Lines had collapsed. Men had been skewered on spears as if they were mere swine.
Across the field, beneath the looming walls of King's Landing, the King's Sabers waited. Joffrey's Royal Guard held formation before the great gates in perfect alignment. Their black armor absorbed the pale light rather than reflecting it. Spears stood upright in disciplined rows, carbon steel tips angled toward the sky like a forest of unyielding steel.
Along the battlements above, archers stood ready, bows strung and steady. Beside them rested the Hwaches that had sent volleys of death across the field the day before. Their carbon steel-tipped bolts were reinforced, angled outward, silent now—but no less threatening.
A low horn sounded from the northern line. Robb Stark emerged from the trees on a broad-shouldered warhorse, gray as winter clouds. He rode forward at a measured pace until he reached the front of his diminished line. From the city came the grinding groan of iron-bound gates opening. The Royal Guard parted in flawless synchronization, and through that corridor rode Joffrey Baratheon.
His armor was black as polished obsidian, unscarred and deliberate. Behind him rode the Kingsguard in their pearl-white armor. Sandor Clegane rode at his side, massive and grim.
As Joffrey passed, the Royal Guard closed ranks behind him with mechanical precision. Shields aligned. Spears rose upright once more.
He finally reached the front of his formation and halted.
Across the open field, his gaze met Robb Stark's.The distance between them seemed greater than the physical space that separated them.
For a long moment, neither king moved.
The wind swept low over the scarred grass. Somewhere in the distance, a banner snapped once before falling still again.
Then both men nudged their horses forward.
Their respective guards advanced with them but slowed as they approached the midpoint. Hooves struck damp earth with muted thuds. The field that had witnessed slaughter now bore silent witness to something else.
When they drew within a short distance of one another, Joffrey raised a gloved hand without turning his head. His Kingsguard halted instantly.
Robb watched the gesture, then gave his own quiet signal. His guard reined in as well.
The two kings continued alone, stopping a few paces apart. Both dismounted their horses.
Robb Stark inclined his head slightly. "King Joffrey."
Joffrey regarded him without a flicker of the warmth from two days ago. "King Robb."
Whatever amiability had existed between them had vanished like spit on a hot skillet. Joffrey's tone was level, controlled, and cold as the dagger at his hip.
"That attack yesterday was against my orders," Robb said at last, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. "Three of my commanders betrayed me. They led their men against you without my leave, and I have already dealt with their treason myself."
The wind stirred faintly between them, but Joffrey didn't blink. "I already know that," he replied evenly.
Robb's brow furrowed. "Then you know I am not to blame for the breach of parley."
"I know you didn't command that charge," Joffrey's gaze sharpened, turning into something predatory. "My question to you is: so what?"
The words struck harder than any shouted accusation. Robb's jaw tightened. "What do you mean?"
"When disobedience festers among men," Joffrey said, his voice lowering to a dangerous growl, "the fault lies not only with the traitor—but with their commanding officer. Or in this case, with their King, and you wear the crown, Robb."
Robb drew himself up, his pride stinging. "That's hardly fair. I didn't know they were capable of—"
"Your sister was on that field yesterday, Robb!"
The force behind Joffrey's words cracked through the air like a lethal whip. Joffrey stepped closer into Robb's personal space, his face contorted with a cold, righteous fury that made the Stark King recoil.
"While you were busy losing control of your lords, Sansa was nearly trampled into the mud by your own screaming cavalry!" Joffrey snarled, his hand white-knuckled on the hilt of his sword. "If it weren't for my men—men you call enemies—your sister would be a mangled corpse for the crows to pick at. Do you honestly believe your 'loyal' Northmen, in the blood-frenzy of a charge, would have paused to check if the girl in their path was their liege's sister before cutting her down?"
Robb froze. The image struck him unbidden—Sansa, small and fragile, swallowed by a sea of steel and panicked horses. A cold, nauseating weight settled in his gut. He hadn't known. He hadn't even considered that she had been in the direct path of his own men's treason. The realization that he had almost been the architect of his sister's death made the bronze crown feel like a leaden weight on his brow.
"I...I didn't know that," Robb stammered, his voice breaking. The Young Wolf looked, for the first time, like a boy who had lost his way. "I never intended for her to be in danger."
"Your intentions mean nothing to the dead!" Joffrey shot back. "You were her brother. You were supposed to be her protector, and yet she was safer behind my walls than she was within sight of your banners. Which is why I am done playing nice."
The silence that followed was heavy with Robb's shame. He looked down at the churned earth, unable to meet Joffrey's eyes.
"What are your terms?" Robb asked, somehow managed to find his voice.
"You will lay down your arms," Joffrey said plainly. "You will surrender your crown and bend the knee. You will instruct the Riverlands and the Trident to do the same. In return, I will keep to the original terms I offered you. You will return North as the Warden and Lord of Winterfell. You will safeguard the realm from the threats beyond the Wall."
"What about my family?"
"In exchange for my uncle Jaime," Joffrey replied, "your father and sister Arya will be returned to you unharmed. You may escort your father to the Wall yourself. He will take the black, but he may stop at Winterfell to say his farewells, but he will head north to the Wall."
His words were firm and left no room for argument. Robb bit down on his lower lip with frustration. Although he understood it was the only amount of mercy Joffrey could give his father after openly denying his legitimacy and trying to seize the throne for Stannis, it didn't make it any easier to swallow.
"I want Sansa as well," Robb demanded, a final spark of defiance in his eyes.
"No." The refusal was immediate.
Robb's temper flared. "I am not leaving here without both my sisters!"
"And I will not surrender my future Queen!" Joffrey stepped forward, his chest nearly brushing Robb's. "She is not a bargaining chip to be tossed back and forth as you see fit!"
For a breath, it seemed steel might yet be drawn. Joffrey exhaled first, forcing his heart rate to slow.
"How about this," he said, his voice lowering once more. "We'll let her decide."
Robb blinked. "What?"
"We'll give her the choice. If she wishes to return North with you, I will not stop her. If she chooses to remain, you will accept it."
Suspicion flickered in Robb's eyes. "And you will honor her decision?"
"I swear it. Before the Old Gods and the New." Joffrey paused. "And you? Do you swear to do the same?"
Robb looked back at his army. They were pale with exhaustion, leaning on their shields, their strength spent. He looked at Joffrey—a man who had protected his sister when he had failed to. He could feel the literal weight of history pressing down on him.
"I swear it," Robb said.
As he looked over Joffrey's army and all he could see was conviction and will a stark contrast to his own weary and anxious men. That's when Robb understood what his pride couldn't deny: this battle was over before it even began.
He felt the overwhelming weight of it settle upon his head—crushing and immense. He had ridden south crowned in glory, undefeated in every clash and battle. He had sacrificed alliances, comfort, even honor for the promise of victory and northern freedom.
And yet here he stood, facing an obstacle he couldn't overcome.
"How did it come to this?" He thought bitterly
It was fleeting. Since there was no room for self-pity in a king, only duty. Then he remembered the words Joffrey had spoken to him two days earlier during their parley.
"We perform our duties to the best of our abilities…even if we are hated for it or how much it disgusts us, we do it because it is our duty to shoulder that hate. That is the true role of a king as you well know my friend."
Another memory rose with it—Torrhen Stark before Aegon the Conqueror. The King Who Knelt. A ruler who chose the lives of his people over pride when faced with dragons.
Robb had no dragons before him, but he had seen something close enough
Slowly, Robb drew his sword. Behind him, Northern soldiers stiffened gripping their swords and axes. Across the field, black-armored spears angled subtly forward. Robb slowly turned the blade horizontal. Then, with measured deliberation, he bent the knee.
Joffrey stepped forward and accepted the sword, lifting it so both armies could see. Robb then slowly reached up to remove his crown, when Joffrey stepped forward and stopped him.
"Not here," Joffrey said, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
Robb looked up confused as Joffrey helped him to his feet but kept the sword, smiling slightly.
"Tomorrow afternoon," Joffrey said, placing a firm hand on Robb's shoulder. "You will enter my city with your fellow lords. There you will present your crown and swear your fealty before my court. We will break bread and salt, and you, my friend, will be reunited with your family."
"What of my men?"
"They will remain outside the walls," Joffrey said firmly, "but tents will be provided. As well as food and drink."
Robb nodded. It was more consideration than he had expected. His face remained composed, though his breathing was still ragged, as if he had just finished running a marathon.
"Very well."
Robb then mounted his horse and rode back toward the treeline, while Joffrey returned to his Kingsguard and handed Robb's sword to Ser Barristan Selmy.
The old knight regarded it thoughtfully. "What shall be done with it, Your Grace?"
Joffrey's lips curved. "Add it to the chair."
Understanding dawned in Barristan's eyes, and he gave Joffrey a signature grandfatherly smile. Behind them, the gates of King's Landing opened. The Royal Guard reformed and marched inward in disciplined columns.
The field grew quiet. History would forever know this as the day the Young Wolf bent the knee to the Young Lion—without another drop of blood staining the earth.
o-O-o
Night fell heavy over King's Landing, a vast dark canopy stretched above the city like a velvet shroud. Yet within the skeletal ruins of the Dragonpit, there was a light that rivaled the sun.
The great dome still lay broken, its reconstruction an open wound against the stars. Scaffolding clung to ancient stone like ribs rebuilding around a titan's heart. Sections of wall had been cleared, though jagged edges remained where dragons once roared and tore the sky apart. Now, only one flame ruled here.
Braziers burned in tall iron cradles along the circumference of the arena, and torches flared in the hands of thousands. Their light flickered against blackened stone, casting long, shifting shadows that made the ruin feel alive with the ghosts of the Targaryen dragons.
Three hundred funeral pyres filled the center of the pit, ordered in ranks like a silent phalanx. Atop each lay a fallen Royal Guard. The Silent Sisters had performed their grisly rites with meticulous care; the bodies were washed clean of the day's slaughter, stripped of their dented steel, and dressed in pure white shifts of fine linen. Their hands were folded across their chests, fingers locked around the hilts of their short swords.
Over their eyes, two small funeral stones—painted with the unblinking pupils of the Seven—stared upward. The symbolism was a sharp blade: death was not an ending, but the opening of a more glorious eye.
Around the pyres stood five thousand Royal Guards—those not currently manning the battlements. They stood in simple doublets, stripped of the vanity of rank and armor, equal in their mourning and their blood-oath. They stood at attention, a sea of five thousand men as silent as a crypt.
Then, the new iron-bound doors of the Dragonpit groaned open.
Joffrey entered alone. A mourning cloak of midnight black trailed behind him, stirring in the heat rising from the pits. He wore no crown tonight—only a simple blade at his hip. The firelight played across the sharp, predatory lines of his face as he walked the length of the arena. He passed row after row of his fallen brothers. Men who had bled for his name; men who had become the foundation upon which his throne would sit.
He stopped at the vanguard of the dead and stood for a long moment, the silence stretching until it was taut as a bowstring. When he finally turned to face his living army, the firelight revealed the shadows in their eyes: anger, guilt, and a grief that bled like an open vein.
"Do not shed tears for your brothers' passing," he said, his voice carrying through the ruin with the clarity of a bell.
A tremor of shock went through the ranks. Men stiffened, their brows furrowing in the orange light.
"Do not feel anger for their absence. Do not regret their deaths."
Confusion flickered across hardened faces. Joffrey's voice suddenly rose, turning from a whisper to a thunderous crack. "Instead, you must rejoice!"
The word struck like a hammer blow against an anvil.
"Rejoice that your brothers achieved the highest grace a warrior can crave!" His voice filled the hollow dome, echoing off the ancient stones. "They did not die in their beds of age and rot! They did not wither in the dark! They stood side by side, a wall of iron that the North could not break! They died in the service of their King, and their names are now etched into the very bones of this realm!"
The men straightened. Shoulders squared. The heavy air of mourning began to spark with something more volatile.
"Pray," Joffrey continued, stepping forward until he stood at the very edge of the first pyre, "that when the Stranger comes for you, he finds you with such glory in your hands. Your brothers have proven themselves worthy of the Father's golden halls! Even now, they feast at the high table of heroes, looking down upon us to see if we are worthy of their sacrifice!"
Several men struck their fists against their hearts—a dull, rhythmic thud.
"So I command you—do not disgrace them with weeping!" Joffrey's voice rang like steel on steel. "Raise your voices! Let the gods in their heavens and the kinslayers in the dirt hear that we honor our dead not with sorrow—but with the pride of the Warrior himself!"
He extended his arms wide, his silhouette cast massive against the stone. "What say you all?!"
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. Then—the roar.
It began as a low growl and erupted into a unified howl that shook the Dragonpit to its foundations. Fists pounded chests; boots struck stone in a thunderous cadence. It was not a cry of mourning, but a primal scream of triumph that carried over the walls of the city and chilled the blood of the Smallfolk in their beds.
After a long moment, Joffrey raised his hand. The thunder subsided into a heavy, expectant hum.
"Let it be recorded," he declared, "that this night marks the Royal Guard's first battle, and let the names of the brave three hundred be written in letters of gold, never to fade while the realm of man remains."
A torch was brought forward. Joffrey accepted it, the flames dancing in his emerald eyes. He turned to the nearest pyre, lifted the brand toward the sky, and then lowered it into the oil-soaked wood.
Immediately, the pyre ignited. One by one, the officers stepped forward, mirroring the gesture. Soon, three hundred fires burned in unison, turning the Dragonpit into a second sunrise. Heat rolled outward in staggering waves. Sparks drifted upward like ascending spirits. The scent of cedar, oil, and incense filled the air, thick and intoxicating.
Joffrey stood before the inferno, his face unmoving. He watched until the white robes were consumed and the steel of their short swords began to glow orange in the heat. Only when the mortal forms were lost to the light did he turn.
"Bring the feast."
Servants entered carrying casks of Arbor gold and heavy ale. Tables were laden with roasted boar, dark breads, and sharp cheeses. Musicians stepped forward with drums and horns, striking up a low, rhythmic war-march.
Joffrey took a silver goblet and raised it high. "To the Three Hundred!
"To the Three Hundred!" The Guard thundered back.
Wine was poured freely. Ale flowed like a river. Men who had stood hollow-eyed hours ago now clasped forearms and laughed—not from forgetfulness, but from a fierce, desperate defiance of the grave. They spoke the names of the fallen with wine on their lips. They recounted the bravery of their brothers until the stories themselves became part of the flame.
Drums beat a steady, pulsing rhythm like a titan's heart. The firelight danced against sweat and steel. It was no longer a wake; it was a consecration. Grief had been reforged into a terrifying unity. Fear had been burned away, and in its place stood something harder—something almost religious.
Joffrey moved among them, a priest-king in his element. He clasped shoulders, drank from shared cups, and memorized the faces of his men. He felt the shift solidify in the air.
Tonight, the Royal Guard ceased being merely soldiers. They became a brotherhood bound not by coin or duty, but by a shared communion of glory and death.
At the far edge of the arena, three hundred black and gold urns waited. When the fires died, the ashes would be gathered and placed within a sacred chamber in the Red Keep—a Hall of Heroes that would grow with every slaughter yet to come.
As the flames roared high and the men sang their war-hyms into the night, the citizens of King's Landing did not hear the sounds of a city in mourning. They heard the terrifying joy of an army that did not fear death.
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