Holy Shit, Ruling Westeros as Joffrey Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm is a Lot Harder Than It Seemed At First, and By The Way, When Is My Fucking Back Going To Get Better?
Warm… Moist and warm…
This breakfast pastry my chambermaids presented to me must have only left the kitchen oven but ten minutes ago! Flakey, buttered bread satisfyingly crunches beneath every bite, a syrupy filling complementing the tart of the cherries within. I lick my fingertips clean, beaming at Phoebe.
“A wonderful beginning to start my name day. I’ll receive many gifts today, I’m sure, but yours shall have been the first.”
That makes Phoebe melt, her eyes getting red and puffy.
> “I- I’m honored, your grace, truly!” She stammers out, averting her gaze to hide her tears.
“Why don’t you all take the rest of the day for yourselves? I am sure I shall not see these chambers until the early hours of tomorrow morning.”
Phoebe brightens up, nodding, > “I’ll tell the ladies, your grace! Thank you!”
She hurries towards a side door out of my bedchamber, leaving me alone. Earlier, when I had arisen, I was greeted by all of my maidservants, who were the first to wish me a happy name day and pray together for my luck and health. A piping hot draught of milk of the poppy awaited me, along with all the helping hands to pull me out of bed and get me dressed that any man with an injured spine could ask for. That last part pricked me somewhat- only yesterday I was able to rise out of bed unassisted, but over the course of the day I had been stomping all over the Red Keep in a fit of indignant rage, incrementally undoing the healing my back had undergone after two weeks of meticulous caution. That and the ill-fated sword exercise with Sandor, I remind myself quickly, trying not to remind myself that the more recent incident in my privy last night was a far likelier culprit for my renewed back pains.
Surely, I did not have a worse day than Ser Meryn Trant on the other hand, who found himself beaten, terrorized, and ousted from the Kingsguard as a result of his impertinent tormenting of Lady Sansa. Had I not the insight to begin to staff a new order of guardsmen loyal only to me, I’m sure my effort to oust him would have been thwarted by my Lady Mother, to whom he owed his station in the first place. Thankfully, my new Stag Guard, carefully recruited from among the dregs of King’s Landing, had the gumption to impose my will, even when I did not have the words to speak it. Trant’s dismissal, and the Stag Guard that enforced it, are but the first of many changes to this world’s fate that I intend to execute, and paltry though they be, I shall remain steadfast in cultivating the authority, loyalty, and gold required to save the poor, misguided people of Westeros from their own short-sighted follies.
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RasterlyCockID:RXOFGRFJ06/07/26(Sun)06:13:55
I exit through my antechamber and find Sandor Clegane, the Hound and my Sworn Shield, standing vigil outside of my door. He is accompanied by the rest of the Kingsguard, sans Ser Meryn Trant and my uncle Jaime, who is still incarcerated at Riverrun. Everyone except for Sandor erupts into a greeting, Ser Preston Greenfield thumping my back with his hand while Ser Boros and Ser Arys begin chanting a traditional name day song. When the revelries subside, Ser Mandon steps forward.
> “Your lady mother bids you join her in the Great Hall to break your fast. She asks that I remind you that given the totality of the day’s festivities, there is little time to waste.”
I nod, starting to walk towards the spiral steps at the end of the corridor, saying, “Well, I shan’t keep her waiting, then!”
The Great Hall of the Red Keep is much bigger than I had imagined it, reading of it in my old life. The first time I set foot in it as King Joffrey, I felt a niggling pit in my gut as I stared up at it’s ceiling, feeling an uncanny dread at the extreme scale of its construction. The unease was quickly inoculated when I held court for the first time, the ennui of administration proving to be even larger than the impossibly high ceiling and breadth of the Throne Room of King’s Landing. Now though, as I enter it, the tables set up and down the hall along with the crowd of visiting lords and ladies, supplicants, and even servants eating from the well-stocked tables seems to diminish the disquieting scale of the Great Hall. The first man to see me stands up from his seat and cheers, quickly followed by those around him, and then their neighbors, until the cheering compounds into a raucous cry that bounces off the stone walls of the hall. I make my way towards the throne, to the single table laid perpendicular to all the rest- my Lady Mother sitting in the middle. Well-wishes and congratulations delay my arrival, but I do eventually arrive at the end table, my Kinsguard in tow- as they are.
> “Good *morrow,* Joffrey!” Cersei exclaims, standing when I arrive, > “Thirteen years- I can scarcely believe it! Look at you! King of Westeros- man grown!”
A man grown to be sure, but not of age that you do not share in my absolute power, mother.
“Mother! You unduly honor me! Until I am ten and six, I am not a man grown in the laws of Gods and Man!”
She leans over the table to take my arms, which I readily offer, hugging me over the food on the surface in an awkward, but still sweet, embrace.
> “Come, sit!” She commands, not insolently, > “We’ve all your favorites, and many more. Bacon, beef, a whole school of fish.”
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RasterlyCockID:RXOFGRFJ06/07/26(Sun)06:14:56
I walk around the table, my Kingsguard dispersing as soon as I am in my Lady Mother’s presence- all except Ser Moore and Sandor, who shadow me and stand five feet behind me when I take my seat at my mother’s side. I look across the Great Hall, and though it is well beneath maximum capacity, it’s still stunning to regard the sheer number of men and women who are present, despite the war that’s on. I suspect the servants are only present to aid the impression of a large attendance. I cannot imagine my mother suffering dining in the same room as the help without a sufficiently superficial cause such as that. Not that I care myself. All the better they may enjoy the fine dining.
> “Your maidservant Priscilla tells me,” My mother begins in a low tone, not even allowing me a first bite of fried bread, > “That you had given her a fright in your bath, yesterday.”
I groan, biting down on the bread and granting myself the time to chew and swallow before replying, “It was nothing, mother. I had drunk poppymilk and let my mind wander. She was being hysterical.”
> “To hear her tell it, you did not respond to her until she slapped you in the face.”
I give Cersei a dark look, putting my bread down and saying, “I sincerely hope you have not reprimanded her for that.”
Cersei’s jaw gapes, as if the thought of her being so petty is completely fantastical, insisting, > “I did NOTHING of the sort! I know how fond you are of her, and after yesterday’s dramatics with Sansa, I would hope you think me not so witless as to presume to think- talking of Sansa, I have not seen her all morning. Why is she not present at the first feast of her King’s name day?”
I give a dismissive wave and turn to start shoveling meat and cheese and fruits onto my plate.
“I gave her leave to spend my name day in her apartments.”
I hear Cersei scoff beside me, but I focus on cutting my meat and gorging myself on it.
> “Is that wise, sweetling? People should start whispering to each other if they mark your Lady Sansa’s absence,” Cersei says after I refuse to explain further for several moments.
“Let them whisper,” I say with a mouthful of pork, “I would rather they speculate on the happiness of my betrothal than regard Lady Sansa’s sour face beside me and have no room for doubt.”
> “Worry not, my son, we shall find you a more worthy wife,” Cersei says, tending to her own food. I do not respond.
> “Your back, my son- I hear it is paining you to climb out of the bath, and into bed,” She says again, and it’s all I can do to suppress a cry of rage.
“I am fine, mother. I strained it yesterday when I found out of the torment Lady Sansa had to endure.”
Cersei scoffs, > “And yet, you’ve a parade scheduled for right after this feast. You have not been ahorse since your fall, my sweet, do you think it’s wise to flirt with further injury astride your mount?”
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RasterlyCockID:RXOFGRFJ06/07/26(Sun)06:15:56
“I want the people of Kings Landing to regard my Stag Guard. It is a parade in their honor as much as my own.”
> “All I am saying, my son, is perhaps you ought to allow them to march IN your honor, without participating yourself.”
I groan inwardly. As much as my gut instinct is to defy my mother in all things at all times, she may have the right of it here. Loathe as I am to admit, I have been dreading this parade since yesterday, imagining how the bouncing stride of even a trot would play havoc on my spine. I gulp down a swig of wine and sigh.
> “Perhaps you’re right, mother, I’ll defer the parade to my stags.” > “My back may be wounded, but the people of Kings Landing needn’t know! I would march with my stags, mother.”
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AnonymousID:hc+giMgq06/07/26(Sun)07:58:11
>>6424532 > “My back may be wounded, but the people of Kings Landing needn’t know! I would march with my stags, mother.”
I'm sure we can get Pycelle or someone to make some sort of jury-rigged back brace or something for us. Or perhaps there's achariot or open-topped carriage hidden away in the bowels of the Red Keep we could use instead of riding horseback.
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AnonymousID:7ZrqNUkv06/07/26(Sun)10:34:37
>>6424532 >> “Perhaps you’re right, mother, I’ll defer the parade to my stags.”
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AnonymousID:oDGpzF1g06/07/26(Sun)12:23:37
>>6424532 I'm also thinking horse-drawn chariot or rickshaw with suitable fancy embellishment.
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AnonymousID:B7SlbtxC06/07/26(Sun)20:31:18
>>6424532 >> “My back may be wounded, but the people of Kings Landing needn’t know! I would march with my stags, mother.” time to destroy our back.
We should write down our dreams—and Martin's memories.
“My back may be wounded, but the people of Kings Landing needn’t know! I would march with my stags, mother.”
Cersei screws her face, but maintains a pained smile that draws her lips thin. > “As you please, Joffrey. I only pray this folly does not extend your suffering.”
So far, it already has.
I pull a plate of fish toward me and try to ignore her. Whenever Cersei wants something from me, or does not want me to do something, I am subject to a nigh endless fusillade of pitiless harping, until I either protest in such a particular way that places my personal honor or the honor of House Lannister at stake, or more often, concede. If memory serves, she had a greater deal of difficulty in haranguing Joffrey before he fell off of the wallwalk, simply because he found it easier to fly into a petulant rage than I do. I ought consider playing that card some time- I am supposed to keep playing the part of the wretched boy king, after all. The few times I have been forced to hold court have proven that Cersei Lannister is not one to take a calm and determined rejection sitting down, and the only reason I can imagine she has yielded the point so soon is that today is my name day. Still, a long trot down a cobbled path on a warhorse that I quite remember as still being a mite larger than is suitable for my still-growing body does not sound ideal. I beckon Ser Mandon when Cersei is distracted by her tablemate and whisper instructions to him.
Mercifully, mine and my mother’s attentions are occupied for the time being by the other guests at the table, and halfway through the feast my own time becomes monopolized by all of the guests at the other tables, who stand from their seats to approach me and pay homage and present gifts. Ever the courteous king, I make an effort to show gratitude towards all of my benefactors, and for some of them I don’t even have to pretend it. It is not difficult to feign appreciation for all the gaudy boons I receive, such as ill-forged gold goblets and jewelry with singular tiny gemstones, exotic materials that were indeed expensive to import but nonetheless vexing in how I would use them, such as a flask of olive oil from Meereen, and Yonkish textiles that have been out of style since summer last, along with more humble pittances from lordlings, such as a barrel of their fief’s specialty ale in one instance. All of the smaller gifts come early enough that I can maintain my farce of unyielding gratitude convincingly until it transmutes into the genuine article when the good gifts start appearing. In particular, Lancel presents me an ornate crossbow on behalf of his father. Furnished in cherrywood, its working parts are fashioned out of polished steel, the prods gilded, except for an ornament at the end of the riser made of solid gold- a lion’s head, ferocious roar an open hole for the quarrel to shoot through. It comes with a cranequin for faster and easier loading.
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RasterlyCockID:RXOFGRFJ06/09/26(Tue)21:37:01
As gifts come from guests seated closer to my table, their value is proportionate to the esteem of the gift-giver, and though by the time my fast is broken I’m armed with a new castle-forged sword and a far sight richer than when I arose from my bed, I treasure the crossbow above all else. I almost don’t blame Joffrey for trying it out on hares and hungry smallfolk. When the festivities end, I make my way down the alley of the Great Hall, my mother, my Kingsguard, and other tablemates accompanying me, and those that we pass falling in behind us until I emerge onto the Middle Bailey at the head of a train. The Master of horse awaits me at the bottom of the steps, my white Destrier tacked and saddled. Halfway down the steps, Ser Mandon returns to my side.
> “Right, your grace, we’re hard for options. Far as Pycelle knows, the only chariot that would serve is in the Great Sept of Baelor, reserved for the High Septon. There is a Meeresh sedan chair, but, er, it doesn’t sound very dignified, to hear the old man tell it.”
“What of my family’s litter?”
> “One of the litter’s poles broke the other day, apparently some of your kin have been using it to go worship in the Great Sept.”
A flash of aggravation overtakes me. That’s right, my mother’s guests have been using that litter nigh on seven days a week to avoid the stags I’ve kept in the Red Keep’s sept.
“Well, how bad could the sedan possibly be?”
As it happened, quite bad. I was waiting by my destrier while my master of horse procured my Kingsguards’, my lady mother’s, and select familys’ mounts from the stables when a pair of servants carried the sedan out of a postern door along the walls of the castle. Not very dignified was an understatement- the Meeresh chair must have been sitting in the bowels of the Keep since before Aerys’s time. Its garishly bright teal paint was chipped and faded, the yellow paint of the strange symbols it was covered in faring no better. Above all else, it was outrageously miniscule- Just looking at it as it approaches is enough to know my knees would be flush against the fore wall of it.
> “My word- what on earth is THAT for?” I hear my mother say under her breath in a ghastly tone.
I look at my destrier, then at the sedan.
> Fine, it is more important to be seen among my men. [Take the Sedan] > Some indignities are worse to suffer than a sore back. [Mount the Horse]
We're gonna fuck our back. But this is. . . kinda worse.
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AnonymousID:B7SlbtxC06/09/26(Tue)23:31:41
>>6425834 >> Some indignities are worse to suffer than a sore back. [Mount the Horse] LOL
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AnonymousID:oDGpzF1g06/10/26(Wed)00:25:27
>>6425834 welp >Some indignities are worse to suffer than a sore back. [Mount the Horse] Double poppy dose
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AnonymousID:pY7TXSaS06/10/26(Wed)00:42:39
>A flash of aggravation overtakes me. That’s right, my mother’s guests have been using that litter nigh on seven days a week to avoid the stags I’ve kept in the Red Keep’s sept. A temporary problem that shows it self in how many little things it touches. Still.
Until the Battle of Black Water Bay is done, we cannot afford to start building an expansion of the Red Keep for create the Stag Guard Barracks. Best be safe before starting construction, and make sure King's Landing survives, Uncle Stannis loses and preferably dies. Too risky for us otherwise. Just need to wait a bit more time, then we give the order to begin building the Barracks right away.
We will have to deal with the remaining wildfire too once that battle is over. But its a bit far ahead for now. We have to deal with our back being a problem (we really need to see about pestering Pycelle about some creams, and maybe see if we just rest more we get better; the milk of the poppy, the hot water, and that other drug have helped but we need more. Without rage episodes. Massages too maybe ?), seeing how many additions in the Stag Guard might enter from the Tournament winners at our decision, and if we want to use the Tournament also for recruit 1 new Kings Guard and also a Master of Arms since we lack both of them. Littlefinger likely prepared a really good gift (could he even outdo Varys giving us fresh cavalry for our Stag Guard?) and maybe even Janos might be here wanting to do something. Cersei was thrown off a bit by the sedan so thats good, but she might want to do something. Shouldn't be about Sansa, since we put her in check about that.
There is also the dreams but those only happen when we sleep. I have no counter-measures for those (maybe we could pester septons ? or see about finding practicioners of magic in the Crownlands ?), except write them down alongside Martin memories, and check our bedroom for any weird objects like Targayens bad juju objects.
Also we could sell this sedan. It don't think anyone will ever use it again.
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AnonymousID:7ZrqNUkv06/10/26(Wed)02:12:59
>>6425834 >> Some indignities are worse to suffer than a sore back. [Mount the Horse]
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AnonymousID:oDGpzF1g06/10/26(Wed)12:10:22
>>6425901 Wasn't there the unused vault with dragon bones deep in the Red Keep? Completely unused and vacant except for the bones.
Stick some beds in and keep them there.
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AnonymousID:B7SlbtxC06/10/26(Wed)13:34:51
>>6426073 It's an underground level called the Cellar of Skulls, where the great dragon skulls and bones are stored. I am not sure how suitable it is for 77 guards, who have increased in numbers again with the gifted cavalry (and will likely grow again with the Tournament).
But if we don't care about the dragon skulls and bones, we could use the space there. After some work is done to prepare the place and make it suitable for our Stag Guard (we could make it similar to the Gold Cloaks Barracks that exist right now in the Castle).
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RasterlyCockID:RXOFGRFJ06/10/26(Wed)23:25:03
I wait for one of the servants carrying the sedan to make eye contact with me, then shake my head and make a throat slash with a flattened hand. He nods and immediately steps back without informing his carrying partner, which causes them both to tumble onto the dirt, the sedan crashing on top of them and drawing the attention of all those close by.
I turn and step on the wooden block, holding the saddle of my horse and placing my other foot into the stirrup. Here we go. Tensing my abdomen, I strain as I start to lift the other leg over the back of my destrier when a pair of huge hands grab my waist and lift it clear over the top of the mount. Reflexively, I swing my leg over the other side and am placed astride the horse. I turn to see Sandor standing beside me, his torso easily clearing the top of my gigantic war horse. He gives me a quiet nod, which I am unable to return without a giddy grin.
Looking around, I can see the retinue that will accompany me in the parade in varying states of progress mounting their horses, so I impatiently give mine a squeeze with my ankles to start him walking towards the bailey gate. Already open, I pass under it and stride into the outer yard, which is even more crowded than the middle bailey. Among the gold cloaks, Lannister bannermen, and servants all scrambling about the yard like bees on a comb, my Stag Guard stands still in rank and file at the middle of it all. There uniforms are fresh and clean, armor polished, and real weapons hang from their hips and backs for the first time since the company’s founding. At the head of each column is a Sergeant, sporting a bronze Stag Guard badge in place of the regular iron, and they each wear a steel helmet with antlers on top. Each one of them shall have one in time, but the blacksmith was quite insistent that he would not have 77 of the ornamented helms in time for my name day parade. Getting him to agree to the antler design at all was a trial in and of itself. Only when I brought up the ridiculous designs that some champions of the last Tourney of the Hand had sported did he finally relent on the impracticality and danger of stag horns fixed to helms. That’s what the leather straps are for, you old fool!
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RasterlyCockID:RXOFGRFJ06/10/26(Wed)23:26:17
Atop my large horse, I am quick to be noticed by the stags, and they cheer their well-wishes for my name day as my destrier strides up to the front of the ranks, the Hound and Ser Mandon afoot beside me. With all of my (present)Kingsguard having greeted me at my chamber, it occurs to me they must have been waiting like this for a while.
“Did Ser Mandon order you all to formation and leave you stranded out here like a bunch of marooned pirates?” I bellow to them, receiving a chorus of farcical indignance from the ranks.
One voice rises above the rest. > “Nay, my lord, our gallant Ser Mandon would never- it was Ser Arys!” Raucous laughter follows the jape.
“Bah, don’t hold it against poor Ser Arys! With my back as it is, I required all the strength of my Kingsguard just to help me mount my steed!”
The laughter doubles in volume at their king making light of his injury. It is my name day. A little lax in decorum ought to be fine- so long as they’re disciplined enough for the march.
“Well, we’ll be marching down the King’s Way and God’s Way this morn, the first King’s Landing shall see of you all. I trust that you shan’t embarrass your liege on this monumental occasion?”
“Nay’s” and “Never’s” rise up from the crowd. I smile and nod.
“Good! You all must needs save embarrassing your liege for the feast this evening!”
That had the intended effect, which was the loudest rouse so far, fists striking up into the air and hard pats on the backs of their adjacent fellows. Perhaps it was a mite too far, because after a moment Ser Mandon steps forward, and the cheering dies down, each man stepping back into his proper formation.
> “We shall be at the head of the procession today, in front of the Kingsguard, followed by his grace and royal family, with the gold cloaks at the back. Remember what I have told you all about propriety- you are to ignore any heckling or applauding from the people of the city. Eyes forward.” Ser Mandon says, the stags voicing their compliance with less enthusiasm.
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RasterlyCockID:RXOFGRFJ06/10/26(Wed)23:27:58
It’s another half hour before we finally exit the King’s Gate into the square outside the Red Keep. By now, all of my Kingsguard are mounted, the Hound and ser Greenfield on either side of my mother and I, Ser Oakheart in between us and the back end of the Stag Guard’s columns, and Boros Blount between my lesser esteemed family and the front of the gold cloaks. Ser Mandon rides at the front of the entire procession, having been the one to drill the stags on marching. Right away, we are greeted by a surging crowd that stands shoulder to shoulder, just as crowded as it had been on the day of the Stag Trials, save for the lane cut down the middle of the road and maintained by gold cloaks, shields and spears keeping the crowd at bay. Flower petals fusillade our retinue from either side in clumps, and once we move under buildings with two stories they rain down on us from above as well. Myrcella seems to enjoy the assault, grasping at the purple and white debris as it flutters down beside her, but Cersei gives her a scornful look and puts an end to that.
For my part, the petals are not so bothersome- I’m more taken with how fine my back feels. When I had first mounted my destrier, a lifetime of riding experience from a life that was not my own gave me the confidence to ride off into the outer yard unprompted. I’m sure if Joffrey had the misfortune to wake up in my true body, he would feel the same about a bicycle. My anxieties about riding with my back seemed ill-put as well, even on the incline of Aegon’s High Hill, my horse’s minute pace does not aggravate my spine in the slightest. I wear my relief on my face in a kingly smile, waving gallantly at my subjects as they sing my praises from the sidelines.
As the parade proceeds however, I begin to feel a stiffness in my thighs and buttocks, dangerously close to the small of my back. No cause for concern. This IS my first ride in this new life, and I’ve been here for two weeks without very much athletic activity. I shift uncomfortably, trying to work out the stiffness, which draws the attention of my mother.
> “Does your back trouble you, my son? Shall we turn around?” She does her best to ask discreetly, but the rancor of the crowd demands a certain volume even to speak to one beside you.
“No, mother, it’s my legs. It’s been too long since I’ve ridden, I fear, and I must needs get reacclima-“
A weight flies out of nowhere and against the side of my head, a wet *squelch* ringing into my left ear as bits of red fly in all directions, knocking me off of my horse.
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RasterlyCockID:RXOFGRFJ06/10/26(Wed)23:28:59
FUCK! FUCK! YOU’RE DEAD! WHY DID YOU WANT A PARADE FOR YOUR DUMB JUMPED UP SELLSWORD BRIGADE?!
My mother screams out in terror. The ground flies upward, then stops suddenly when Ser Oakheart reaches out to grab me by my collar. The soles of my boots scrape against the street as they wobble down under me, and the white cloak waits for them to come to a rest before he sets me down.
> “Your grace, are you hurt?!” He barks at me as I touch my face in a confused daze.
“I- I-“ I stammer, looking at my hand. There’s red on it, but it’s not blood- I look down beneath my horse and see a rotten tomato on the pavement. Suddenly, I understand. Peeking over the top of my destrier, I see Sandow dismount his black stallion and start rushing into the crowd, which is doing its best to part, but the dense clump of smallfolk cannot make way for him before he barrels into them. Through the veil of heads, shoulders, and arms, I see a man that is not facing the street, who is doing everything in his power to claw his way through the mass of people and slip into one of the many alleys of King’s Landing. He isn’t as bulky or fearsome as Clegane is though, and it’s plain that the Hound is closing in on him.
> “SANDOR! DON’T!” > Stand and watch > “Stag Guard! Escort me back to the Keep!”
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AnonymousID:oDGpzF1g06/11/26(Thu)00:36:01
>>6426260 "ARREST THAT FIEND" > “Stag Guard! Escort me back to the Keep!”
God excuse to return.
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AnonymousID:ubZA7YmK06/11/26(Thu)00:47:46
>>6426260 Hmm. sparking a panic will just cause a riot. Fleeing from a thrown tomato isn't gonna help us either.
Demand calm and half a crown for that man's arrest, Then about face and return to the castle. Play it as a parade ruined and some generosity to the smallfolk for the aid of their king.