The Young Lion Remastered

Disclaimer: Just in case nobody realized I don’t own nor do I claim ownership of Game of Thrones, all characters and worlds belong to their real world respective owners. I’m just having some fun, that's all.

The Young Lion

Act 2 Ch 34: End of the War

“It's about fucking time you showed up.”

The thought echoed through Joffrey's mind as he leaned heavily against Ser Barristan, as his legs threatened to give out.

Blood continued to run down his face from the cut near his eye, dripping off his jaw and onto his armor.

His hands throbbed with a pain so intense it made his teeth ache:the flesh where he'd gripped Lightbringer's blade was blackened and blistered. The smell of cooked meat still hung in the air.

But he was alive, and Stannis was dead.

That was all that mattered.

The remaining Stormlander soldiers - those who hadn't already thrown down their weapons or died in the fighting - saw the approaching cavalry and their faces transformed.

Despair gave way to hope, as they began running toward the incoming horsemen, their arms raised, their voices crying out in desperate relief.

"Reinforcements!"

"The gods have answered!"

"We're saved! We're—"

The first line of cavalry hit them like a hammer.

Swords flashed in the firelight, cutting down fleeing men before they could even raise their hands in surrender.

Horses trampled over bodies, their hooves crushing bone and flesh into the blood-soaked ground. The screams of joy became screams of agony, hope turning to horror in the span of a single heartbeat.

The Stormlanders tried to scatter, to run in different directions, but the cavalry was everywhere.

They wheeled and turned with practiced precision, cutting off any escape routes, and herding the fleeing soldiers like sheep to slaughter.

Men fell by the dozens, then by the hundreds, their blood adding to the already saturated ground.

At the head of the charging army rode a figure that made even Joffrey's exhausted mind take notice.

The knight was dressed in armor of brilliant emerald green, so bright it seemed to glow in the light of the distant fires. The breastplate was ornate, decorated with intricate engravings that caught and reflected the light.

But it was the helm that truly drew the eye - adorned with golden antlers that swept back from the crown.

It was Renly’s armor.

One of the fleeing Stormlander soldiers - a young man, barely more than a boy - stopped running and stared at the approaching figure.

His face went pale, his eyes wide with shock and confusion.

"King Renly?" he asked.

The emerald knight's sword came down in a brutal arc, catching the boy across the neck. The head separated from the body in a spray of blood, tumbling across the ground while the corpse remained standing for a moment before collapsing.

The knight didn't slow, or pause; he just continued forward into the mass of fleeing soldiers.

Joffrey watched the slaughter with a detached sort of numbness.

Part of him wanted to call off the slaughter, feeling a tinge of pity for the fleeing soldiers.

But another part of him, buried beneath layers upon layers of exhaustion and pain, felt nothing.

Just cold pragmatism.

These men had come to kill him, and sack his city. And now they were the ones dying instead.

That was war, and the price of losing.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting Barristan support his full weight, and took a shuddering breath. When he opened them again, two riders had separated from the main cavalry force and were making their way towards him.

They rode through the carnage with the easy confidence of men who'd never truly been tested, their armor pristine and horses fresh.

As they approached the shield wall of Royal Guards still holding formation, they slowed, their eyes widening slightly at the sight of the black-armored soldiers standing in perfect ranks, their spears still dripping with Stormlander blood.

The Royal Guards didn't move or speak. They stood like statues carved from obsidian, their faces hidden behind their helms.

The two riders stopped a few feet from the shield wall, clearly uncertain how to proceed.

Joffrey straightened slightly, pulling away from Barristan just enough to stand on his own feet. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, but he forced himself upright.

"Let them through." He ordered, his voice rough but carrying enough authority to cut through the chaos of the ongoing slaughter.

His soldiers obeyed immediately. The shield wall separated down the middle, the soldiers stepping aside in perfect synchronization, creating a straight path directly to their king.

The two riders exchanged glances, then cautiously urged their horses forward. They rode slowly between the rows of black-armored soldiers, their eyes darting left and right, clearly unnerved by the silent warriors who watched them pass.

The Royal Guards' spears remained at the ready, the tips still pointed slightly forward, still dripping blood onto the ground.

When the riders reached Joffrey, they stopped and dismounted.

Both men were young - probably not much older than Joffrey himself - with the kind of aura that spoke of lives spent in comfort rather than on an actual battlefield.

"Your Grace," they said in unison, bowing from the waist.

Joffrey looked at them with his one good eye, the other was still blurred with blood. When they didn't immediately continue, he raised an eyebrow.

"Who are you?" he asked, his tone flat.

"Oh! My apologies, Your Grace."

The one on the left straightened and lifted his visor, revealing a round, boyish face with bright blue eyes and a nervous smile.

"I am Ser Erwin Brax of House Brax, in the service of House Lannister." He gestured to himself with obvious pride, as if the name alone should mean something.

The one on the right followed suit, lifting his own visor to show a longer face with a pointed chin and brown eyes that sparkled with barely contained excitement.

"And I am Ser Theo Durwell of House Durwell, in the service of House Tyrell." He gave a small, proud tilt of his head, his smile wide and eager.

"We have come to answer your call for aid, Your Grace!"

They shouted together, their voices ringing with enthusiasm.

“Thank you, Varys,” Joffrey thought, a flicker of genuine gratitude cutting through his exhaustion.

"A bit late to the theater, don't you think?" He actually said as he gestured to the massacre all around them.

The words came out dry, but with an edge sharp enough to cut. And the effect was immediate.

Both knights' faces fell, their enthusiasm deflating like punctured wineskins. Ser Erwin's mouth opened and closed a few times, no sound coming out. Ser Theo's smile vanished entirely, replaced by a look of dawning horror as he actually looked around at the battlefield for the first time.

"O-oh. Right." Ser Erwin stuttered, his face going red. "Yes. You're... you're correct, Your Grace."

"Y-yes, absolutely correct," Ser Theo concurred, his voice small and embarrassed.

Next to Joffrey, Ser Barristan shook his head slowly, his expression one of pure derision.

The old knight had seen a thousand young fools like these two in his long life—boys who thought war was glorious, who believed showing up was the same as fighting, and had no concept of what a real battle actually looked like.

Joffrey let them squirm for a few more seconds, then sighed.

"Did you bring anything to report, or what?" The question betraying his annoyance.

"Actually, yes!"

Ser Erwin perked up immediately, clearly grateful to have something useful to contribute.

"Your grandfather, Lord Tywin, has asked me to relay to you that he should be arriving here on the morrow, along with Lord Mace Tyrell."

“That's different from the show,” he thought.

In his memories- or rather, in the memories of the show he'd watched in his previous life - Tywin and the Tyrells had arrived during the battle itself, turning the tide at the crucial moment.

But here, the battle was already won. And he'd won it himself.

"Very well."

He said aloud, his voice taking on the tone of authority that became second nature to him.

"I want you to relay my orders to your troops. Any surviving Stormlander lords and soldiers who wish to surrender are to be taken into custody without incident and brought to me. Those who show any resistance, deal with as you see fit. Is that understood?"

Both knights straightened immediately, their hands going to their chests in salute.

"Yes, Your Grace!" they shouted in unison.

"Good. Now go."

The two knights bowed quickly, mounted their horses, and rode back through the corridor of Royal Guards, who closed ranks behind them with the same perfect precision they'd shown when opening.

As soon as they were gone, Joffrey let out a long, tired sigh. The brief surge of energy that had allowed him to stand straight and give orders was fading fast.

"Your Grace," Barristan said quietly, his voice gentle but concerned. "Are you sure that's wise?"

Joffrey turned his head to look at the old knight.

"What do you mean?"

"These men came here to kill you and sack your city," Barristan continued, his weathered face troubled. "They would have shown you no mercy if they had won. Should we really bother sparing any of them?"

It was a fair question, and it made him think for a moment before he slowly gazed upon the battlefield and the thousands of corpses decorating the ground. The dead were mostly Stormlanders but there were some of his own men among them.

The burden of all of those lives weighed heavy on his head.

"I think we've had enough death for one night, wouldn't you agree, Ser Barristan?"

The old knight studied his face for a long moment, then slowly nodded.

"Yes," he said softly. "Of course, Your Grace."

Barristan moved closer, once again draping Joffrey's arm around his shoulders, taking most of the young king's weight.

"Come. Let's get you treated by the maester."

They began walking toward the city gate, Joffrey's steps unsteady, his boots dragging slightly across the ground. Each step sent jolts of pain through his body.

As they approached the gate, the Royal Guards who'd been standing in formation suddenly moved as one.

They turned to face the gate, their backs straightening, while their spears came up to rest against their shoulders in perfect vertical lines. Then, in a single fluid motion, every soldier brought his right fist to his chest in salute.

The sound of hundreds of armored fists striking breastplates echoed through the tunnel like thunder.

Joffrey straightened his back as much as he could, trying to walk with some measure of dignity despite leaning heavily on Barristan.

He wouldn't shame their salute by stumbling past like a common drunkard.

As they passed through the gate and into the city proper, Joffrey looked up at the walls. There, staring down at him with clear concern, were his uncles Tyrion and Jaime.

Tyrion's mismatched eyes were fixed on Joffrey's face, specifically on the deep cut that ran from above his right eye down to his cheek.

"Your Grace!" Tyrion called down, his voice carrying across the space between them. "What are your orders?"

Joffrey stopped walking.

For a moment, he just stood there, swaying slightly, Barristan's arm the only thing keeping him upright.

His body screamed at him for rest, but he couldn’t. At least not yet. Not while his soldiers were watching. He took a deep breath and moved away from Ser Barristan, standing on his own with his back straight.

"I want everyone to focus on treating our wounded."

He paused, making sure every man could hear him.

"If you are injured and are able to walk, then take yourself to the healers. If you are unable to, then have one of your brothers assist you."

He took another breath, steadying himself.

"After that, I want the bodies of our fallen brothers gathered and taken to the Silent Sisters to be prepared for their journey into the next life." His voice grew harder, more intense. "They are to be handled with the utmost respect. Is that understood?!"

"Yes, Your Grace!" The response came from hundreds of throats at once, a thunderous affirmation that echoed off the stone walls.

"Good!" Joffrey shouted back. “Rejoice, the war is over!”

His men cheered while his legs gave out. He nearly fell forward before Ser Barristan was on him. The old knight caught him under his arms.

"I have you, Your Grace," Barristan murmured, his voice gentle. "I have you."

Looking down at the bloodied and beaten young man who had seized victory through impossible odds, a small proud smile spread across the old knight's weathered face.

"Come, Your Grace," he said softly. "Let's get you somewhere safe."

"Thank you, Ser Barristan." The words came out barely a whisper.

As the Kingsguard helped his king into the city, Tyrion watched from the walls. His eyes followed their backs until they disappeared around a corner, his expression troubled.

The cut on Joffrey's face had been deep. Very deep. It would scar, certainly. Might even affect his vision in that eye. And his hands... gods, his hands had looked like charred meat.

But he was alive. Against all odds, his nephew was alive.

Tyrion nodded to himself, then turned to face the Royal Guards who were beginning to move, following their king's orders.

"You heard him!" he shouted, his voice carrying surprising authority for someone his size. "Let's get to work, men!"

The Royal Guards slammed their spear shafts against the ground in unison—a sharp, percussive sound that signaled acknowledgment—then began moving out.

Some headed into the tunnel to search for wounded. Others began the grim work of gathering the dead. All of them moved with a purpose, following the orders their king had given out.

Tyrion watched them go, but his eyes kept drifting back to the path Joffrey had taken. The concern on his face was evident, impossible to hide.

"He'll be fine."

The voice came from beside him. Tyrion turned to see Jaime approaching, his white cloak billowing slightly in the breeze coming off the river.

"We have the best maesters in the Seven Kingdoms," Jaime continued, coming to stand beside his brother. He looked down at Tyrion, his green eyes serious. "He'll be fine."

Tyrion nodded slowly, wanting to believe it. "Did you see his hands?"

"I saw."

"And his face?"

"Hard to miss."

They were quiet for a moment, both brothers looking out at the battlefield, and the thousands of dead enemies.

"He actually did it," Tyrion said quietly, almost to himself.

"I know." Jaime's voice held a hint of disbelief.

Tyrion shook his head slowly, a small, incredulous laugh escaping his lips.

"The boy has balls, I'll give him that. Balls the size of dragons' eggs."

"Bigger," Jaime said, and there was something like respect in his voice. "That took more than courage, that took something else."

"Madness?" Tyrion suggested dryly.

"Leadership," Jaime corrected. "His men would follow him into the Seven Hells after tonight."

Tyrion already knew that. He’d spent months in the city and with the black armored soldiers. He’d seen the way they looked at him and followed his commands. Like they were scripture from the Seven themselves.

"Gods help us all," Tyrion muttered. "We've created a monster."

“Indeed,” Jaime chuckled.

Before Tyrion could continue, he remembered something.

He turned and scanned the area until he spotted Podrick standing nearby, looking uncertain about what he should be doing.

"Pod!" Tyrion called out.

The boy hurried over, his face eager. "Yes, my lord?"

"I need you to go to the Maiden's Vault, and inform them that the battle is over and that we have won. Tell them King Joffrey lives and is being treated by the maesters. Can you do that?"

"At once, my lord!" Podrick said, his voice filled with determination.

He turned and ran off toward the holdfast, his feet slapping against the stone.

Jaime watched him go, then raised an eyebrow at his brother.

"A new squire?"

"Yes," Tyrion confirmed, a small smile playing on his lips. "Young Podrick Payne. Distant cousin to our dear Ser Ilyn."

"And how is he working out?"

"He's a good lad. Loyal. Eager to please." Tyrion's smile widened slightly. "And most importantly, he has a steady hand for pouring wine."

Jaime barked out a laugh. "Well, that's the most important quality in a squire, isn't it?"

"Absolutely essential," Tyrion agreed, his own laughter joining his brother's.

For a moment, they just stood there, two brothers laughing together on a battlefield soaked in blood, surrounded by the dead and dying.

The laughter eventually faded, and they both turned to look out at the carnage again. The fires were starting to die down, and in the distance, they could see the Lannister and Tyrell cavalry still rounding up the last of the fleeing Stormlanders.

"It's over," Jaime said quietly. "The war is actually over."

"This war," Tyrion corrected. "There's always another war."

"Ever the pessimist."

"I prefer realist."

They stood in comfortable silence for a few more moments, both processing what had happened, and what it meant for the future, before a familiar voice cut through their thoughts.

"Are you two done with your gawking, or do you feel like actually helping?"

They turned to see Ser Jacelyn Bywater approaching, his armor dented and bloodied, and his face streaked with soot and sweat.

Tyrion and Jaime exchanged glances. Then, almost in unison, they looked back at Ser Jacelyn and nodded.

"Lead the way, Ser Jacelyn," Tyrion said.

The three men moved forward together, joining the Royal Guards in their work. There were still wounded to tend to, dead to gather, and a city to secure.

The battle was over.

But the work was just beginning.

o-O-o

The wooden doors of the Maiden’s Vault burst open with such force that they slammed against the stone walls, the sound echoing through the chamber like a thunderclap.

Every head turned, every conversation stopped.

The noble ladies and their handmaidens—who had been huddled together in small groups, their faces pale with fear and exhaustion—jumped at the sudden intrusion.

Some gasped, others clutched at each other, and a few of the younger girls let out small shrieks of fear.

The guards stationed throughout the chamber reacted instantly.

Steel sang as swords were drawn from scabbards in a chorus of metallic whispers.

The Hound's blade came out first, the massive bastard sword gleaming in the torchlight as he stepped forward, his burned face twisted into a snarl. The other guards followed his lead, forming a defensive line between the door and the cowering nobles, their weapons raised and ready.

They expected Stormlander soldiers.

They expected blood and violence.

And what they got was Podrick Payne.

The young squire stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his face flushed red from running. He looked around at the drawn swords pointed in his direction, at the terrified faces of the ladies, at the guards ready to cut him down; his eyes went wide.

"Wait!" he shouted, his voice cracking slightly. "Wait, don't—I bring news!"

The Hound didn't lower his sword. His eyes narrowed, studying the boy, looking for any sign of deception or threat. The other guards remained tense, their weapons still raised.

"Speak quickly, boy," one of the guards growled. "Before we decide you're not worth listening to."

"The battle is over!" he yelled, his face breaking into a wide grin. "His Grace won! His men threw those wretched Stormlander dogs back into the sea!"

For a moment, there was absolute silence.

Then the chamber erupted.

The ladies began screaming—not in fear this time, but in joy and relief. They threw their arms around each other, weeping openly, their bodies shaking with the force of their emotions.

Some fell to their knees, their hands clasped in prayer, thanking the Seven for their protection. Others simply stood there, their faces blank with shock, unable to process what they'd just heard.

The guards lowered their weapons slowly, exchanging glances of disbelief and cautious hope. The Hound sheathed his sword with a sharp motion, his expression unreadable as he watched the celebration unfold around him.

"We're alive," one of the younger handmaidens sobbed, clutching at her friend's dress. "Gods be good, we're alive!"

"The king saved us," another woman said, her voice trembling. "King Joffrey saved us all."

The noise level in the chamber rose steadily as more voices joined in. But through the chaos, one figure moved with a different purpose.

Sansa stood up from where she'd been sitting in the corner, her hands smoothing down the front of her dress. Her face was pale, her blue eyes wide and intense as she made her way through the celebrating crowd.

Noble women moved aside for her without thinking, creating a path as she walked toward the young messenger still standing in the doorway.

Podrick saw her coming and straightened even more, clearly pleased with himself for delivering such welcome news.

Sansa stopped directly in front of him. Her hands were clasped together at her waist, her knuckles white from the pressure. When she spoke, her voice was steady but tight.

"And what of King Joffrey?" she asked. "What has become of him?"

Podrick's smile faltered slightly at the intensity in her gaze, but he recovered quickly, his chin lifting with pride.

"Ah!"

He gestured broadly, as his voice took on the tone of someone recounting a great tale.

"Our king himself went out and faced his treacherous uncle alone. He slew the traitor in single combat!"

The words hung in the air for a heartbeat, before Sansa darted forward.

Her hands shot out and grabbed Podrick by both shoulders, her fingers digging into the fabric of his tunic with enough force to make him wince.

Her face, which had been pale before, went completely white.

"What?!"

The word came out as a shriek that cut through the celebration like a knife. Several of the nearby women stopped rejoicing and turned to look.

"Is he all right?!"

Podrick's head snapped back as Sansa began shaking him, her grip surprisingly strong for someone her size.

"Was he injured?!" Sansa demanded, still shaking him. "Tell me! Tell me now!"

"He—" Podrick managed to get out between shakes. "He suffered some injuries in the battle but—"

Sansa shook him harder, her face now inches from his, her eyes blazing with fear and fury.

"But what?!"

"Ser Barristan Selmy himself is taking him to get treated!" Podrick finally managed to shout.

She stopped shaking him, her face flushing with anger.

"You should have opened with that from the beginning, you imbecile!" she screamed.

Before Podrick could respond, Sansa released his shoulders and shoved him hard. The young squire stumbled backward, his arms windmilling as he tried to keep his balance.

Sansa rushed past him. She gathered her skirts in both hands and ran for the door, her feet moving so fast they barely seemed to touch the ground.

"My lady!"

Shae called out, scrambling to her feet from where she'd been sitting nearby. The handmaiden's Lorathi accent was thick with concern as she hurried after her mistress.

"My lady, wait!"

But she didn’t wait or slow down. She continued through the doorway and disappeared down the corridor with Shae in tow.

"My lady, please! You don't even know where you're going!"

Their voices faded as they moved deeper into the Red Keep, leaving behind the celebration that continued in the Maiden’s Vault.

The ladies kept weeping and embracing, while the guards relaxed their stances, some even allowing themselves small smiles. Podrick slowly pulled himself to his feet, rubbing his sore shoulders and looking thoroughly bewildered by what had just happened.

And in the back of the chamber, standing in the shadows where the torchlight didn't quite reach, Ser Ilyn Payne watched.

His eyes, dark and cold and utterly empty of anything resembling human warmth, were fixed on the doorway where Sansa had disappeared.

Then he moved.

He walked along the edge of the chamber, staying in the shadows, avoiding the clusters of celebrating women. None of them noticed him, too caught up in their relief and joy to pay attention to the silent figure gliding past them.

When he reached the doorway, he paused. He looked back once at the chamber behind him, his gaze sweeping across the scene with detached interest.

Then he turned and followed the same path Sansa and her handmaiden had taken.

o-O-o

The corridors of the Red Keep were a maze of stone and shadow.

Torches lined the walls at regular intervals, their flames casting dancing shadows that made the passages seem to shift and move.

Ser Ilyn Payne moved through the corridors with the confidence of someone who knew every twist and turn of the castle.

He followed the sound of footsteps ahead.

Ilyn kept his distance. He stayed far enough back that they wouldn't hear him or sense his presence. He pursed with his hand close to his dagger’s hilt.

He rounded a corner and saw them ahead—two figures standing at a T-junction, their backs to him. The taller one was gesturing to the left while the shorter one pointed to the right. Their voices carried clearly in the empty corridor.

"I'm telling you, my lady, the maester's chambers are this way," Shae said.

"No, I remember coming from that direction when we went to the vault," Sansa insisted. "It has to be this way."

"But my lady—"

"I'm not arguing about this, Shae. Joffrey is hurt and I need to go to him."

Ilyn stopped listening. He began to move forward, his steps still silent as his right hand slowly drew the dirk from his belt.

Suddenly a hand clamped around his wrist like an iron shackle.

Ilyn's eyes went wide. He spun around and found himself staring into the burned, ruined face of Sandor Clegane.

The Hound's expression was calm, almost pleasant. But his eyes were filled with something cold and dark. Before Ilyn could react, before he could even think, Sandor's free hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat.

Sandor began to walk, dragging Ilyn with him like he weighed nothing. He moved quickly, pulling the struggling man into a side corridor just as Sansa and Shae turned around at the sound of the scuffle.

"What was that?" Sansa asked, her eyes scanning the empty hallway behind them.

"I didn't hear anything, my lady," Shae said, though she looked uncertain.

"I could have sworn—" Sansa shook her head. "Never mind. Come on, we're wasting time."

They turned back to their argument, their voices fading as they moved down the left corridor.

In the side passage, Sandor slammed Ilyn's body against the stone wall with enough force to crack the mortar. The impact drove the air from Ilyn's lungs.

Sandor lifted him higher, until Ilyn's feet were dangling several inches off the ground.

"Hello, you ugly fucker," Sandor said, his voice almost friendly.

Ilyn thrashed, his legs kicking wildly, his hands clawing at Sandor's arm. But it was like trying to move a mountain. The Hound didn't notice his attempts to break free.

He then released Payne’s wrist and reached down, drawing his own dagger. Then with one motion he drove it into the mute’s heart.

Ilyn's eyes went wide. His mouth opened even further, blood poured out in a thick stream, splashing across Sandor's pauldron.

Sandor held him there for a moment, watching the light begin to fade from those cold, empty eyes. Then he pulled him closer, until their faces were only inches apart.

"You shouldn't have tried to touch the girl, shithead," Sandor said quietly, his voice dropping to barely a whisper.

He pulled his dagger out, making the mute’s body convulse once before going limp.

Sandor held him there for a few seconds before dropping him on the ground like a sack of flour. He looked down at the corpse for a moment. Then calmly reached and wiped his blade clean on the man’s breeches, before sheathing it.

He stepped over the body and walked back out into the main corridor, his movements unhurried. He paused at the entrance to the side passage and looked both ways.

“Empty,” he thought. “Good.”

He turned left and began walking, following the same path Sansa and Shae had taken.

o-O-o

He found them about fifty feet down the corridor, still standing at another junction, still arguing.

"I'm telling you, we should go back," Shae was saying, her voice rising with frustration. "We're just getting more lost!"

"We can't go back," Sansa insisted. "We have to find him. He could be—" Her voice caught. "He could be dying, Shae."

"My lady, please—"

"You ladies lost?"

Both women spun around at the sound of Sandor's voice. He stood a few feet behind them, his massive frame filling the corridor, his burned face half-hidden in shadow.

Shae took an involuntary step backward, her hand coming up to her chest. Her eyes were wide, her breathing quick and shallow.

But Sansa's reaction was completely different.

Her face lit up with relief; she even smiled—a genuine, warm smile.

"Sandor!" she said, and there was actual happiness in her voice. "Yes, actually we are. Do you know how to get to the maester's chambers from here?"

Sandor felt something uncomfortable twist in his chest at that tone. He wasn't used to it. He wasn't used to people—especially highborn ladies—speaking to him like he was a person instead of a monster.

But not Sansa.

She'd been around him for months now, and she'd never once flinched at his appearance. She just treated him like anyone else.

Frankly it was a little unsettling.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough and harsh in the quiet corridor.

"This way," he said gruffly, turning and starting down the left hallway without waiting to see if they'd follow.

Behind him, he could hear the lighter footsteps of the two women as they hurried to keep up.

"Thank you, ser," Shae said from behind him, her Lorathi accent thick with nervousness.

"I'm not a knight, woman," he responded, his voice hard and cold.

Shae backed up several steps, her face turning pale. Sansa immediately moved to her handmaiden's side, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"We appreciate your help regardless," Sansa said calmly, her voice steady and diplomatic. "Please, lead on."

Sandor grunted and turned back around, resuming his walk.

They walked in silence for several minutes, navigating through the maze of corridors.

The Hound led them with confidence, taking turns without hesitation, clearly knowing exactly where he was going. The women followed, Sansa keeping one hand on Shae's shoulder the entire time to offer silent comfort.

Neither of them noticed the fresh blood on Sandor's pauldron as they trailed behind him.

o-O-o

The Grand Maester's chamber was located in one of the older sections of the Red Keep, accessible through a series of winding corridors that seemed designed to confuse anyone unfamiliar with their layout.

The door was heavy oak, reinforced with iron bands, and bore no marking to indicate what lay beyond.

Ser Barristan knew the way by heart.

Beside him, Joffrey walked like a man in a dream.

The young king's steps were mechanical, each one requiring visible effort. His right arm was draped across Barristan's shoulders, the old knight supporting most of his weight.

Behind them, Ser Balon followed at a respectful distance, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his eyes scanning every shadow and doorway they passed.

The battle might be over, but a knight of the Kingsguard never stopped being vigilant.

They reached the door.

Barristan didn't bother knocking. He simply pushed it open with his free hand and guided Joffrey through.

The chamber beyond was exactly as he remembered it—cluttered, warm, smelling of herbs and alcohol and something sharper that might have been vinegar or some alchemical compound.

Grand Maester Pycelle sat hunched over his desk in the far corner, his quill scratching across parchment.

His chain of office - heavy links of different metals representing the various disciplines he'd mastered - clinked softly with each movement.

His head snapped up at the sound of the door opening. His mouth opened, clearly preparing to deliver a sharp rebuke to whoever had dared enter his sanctum so rudely—

Then he saw who it was.

The rebuke died on his lips.

"Your Grace," he breathed, and whatever irritation he'd felt vanished completely.

He rose from his chair with surprising speed for a man of his years, his rheumy eyes widening as they took in the scene before him.

The king, barely able to stand, leaning heavily on Ser Barristan. Blood running down his face.

He crossed the chamber in quick strides, his chain rattling, his eyes never leaving Joffrey's face.

When he reached them, he stopped and performed a rapid visual assessment.

The facial wound was obvious. Deep, but clean, and not immediately life-threatening. The way the king held his side also suggested broken or bruised ribs. Painful, but again manageable.

But it was the hands that made Pycelle's expression change.

Even with only a glance, he could see that something was terribly wrong with the king's hands.

"Ser Barristan," Pycelle said, his voice taking on the authoritative tone of a healer in his domain. "Bring him to the table. Quickly now, but be careful."

Barristan guided Joffrey across the chamber. When they reached the table, Joffrey didn't so much sit as collapse onto it.

Pycelle moved immediately to his side, his gnarled hands surprisingly steady as they began their examination. He leaned in close, studying the wound on Joffrey's face with intense focus.

"The blade that did this," Pycelle murmured, more to himself than anyone else, "was very sharp. Very sharp indeed."

His fingers probed gently around the edges of the wound, feeling the depth, assessing the damage. The cut was clean—no tearing, or ragged edges. That was good. It would heal with proper treatment.

"You are fortunate, Your Grace," Pycelle said, his voice taking on a more somber tone. "One inch higher and you would have lost the eye entirely. As it is..."

He paused, considering the course of treatment.

"There will be scarring, of course. Significant scarring. But the eye itself is undamaged, and the wound should close cleanly with proper stitching and salve."

Joffrey said nothing. He simply continued to breathe, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his jaw clenched tight.

Pycelle straightened and turned to the two Kingsguard standing nearby.

"The armor must come off," he said firmly. "All of it. I cannot properly examine his grace's injuries through steel plate."

Ser Barristan and Ser Balon moved to comply.

They worked with practiced efficiency, their hands moving to the various buckles and straps that held the king's armor in place.

Joffrey remained passive throughout, allowing them to strip him of his protection like a child being undressed for bed. His arms hung limply at his sides.

Pycelle moved closer again, his eyes scanning the king's exposed form, looking for other injuries.

His gaze traveled down from the facial wound, across the chest, down to—his eyes stopped at the king’s hands.

Before he could move to examine them more closely, the chamber door swung open again.

This time, Pycelle did voice his irritation.

"By the Seven!" he exclaimed, spinning toward the door with surprising agility. "Is my door to be battered off its hinges today? This is a place of healing, not a—"

He stopped mid-sentence.

Three figures stood in the doorway: a young woman with auburn hair and striking blue eyes, her face flushed and her chest heaving as if she'd been running; a shorter woman with dark hair and foreign features, clearly a handmaiden; and behind them both, the massive, burned form of Sandor Clegane.

Sansa's eyes swept the chamber frantically, searching, desperate—then they found Joffrey.

"Joffrey," she breathed.

She moved forward without thinking, her feet carrying her across the chamber in quick, unsteady steps. Shae followed close behind, one hand reaching out as if to steady her mistress should she stumble.

Sandor remained in the doorway, his burned face expressionless, his dark eyes taking in the scene with cold assessment.

Sansa reached the table and stopped, her hands hovering uncertainly, as if she wanted to touch Joffrey but was afraid of causing him more pain.

"Is he—" Her voice broke. She swallowed hard and tried again. "Will he live?"

The question came out as barely more than a whisper. Ser Barristan stepped forward, his weathered face softening slightly.

"He will live, my lady," he said gently. "His grace is strong, he’ll recover."

"The king has suffered injuries," Pycelle added, his tone more clinical but not unkind, "but none that threaten his life. With proper treatment, he will heal."

Ser Balon nodded his agreement, his hand still resting on his sword pommel.

Sansa's shoulders sagged with relief.

"Thank the Seven," she whispered. "Thank the gods, thank—"

"My lady," Pycelle interrupted, his voice taking on a note of impatience, "I appreciate your concern for his Grace, truly I do. But I must continue my examination, and I cannot do so with you standing directly in my way. If you would be so kind as to move aside?"

Sansa flinched slightly at the rebuke, then nodded quickly.

"Of course. I'm sorry, I just—" She stepped back, moving to stand beside Ser Barristan and Ser Balon. "I'm sorry."

Pycelle turned back to his patient, dismissing the observers from his mind. He moved down the table, his attention now focused on Joffrey's hands.

He reached out and gently lifted the king's right hand, bringing it closer to his face.

His expression changed immediately.

The professional detachment that had characterized his demeanor until now cracked, replaced by something that looked almost like horror.

"Your Grace," he said slowly, his voice tight with controlled alarm, "what in the name of the Seven did you do to your hands?"

He turned the hand over, examining both sides.

"Did you... did you stick them in a lit brazier? Hold them over an open flame?"

Joffrey's eyes finally moved from the ceiling. He looked down at his hand in Pycelle's grasp, then up at the old maester's face.

A ghost of a smile—bitter, exhausted, but somehow still defiant—touched his lips.

"Something like that," he said, his voice rough.

Pycelle set the right hand down carefully and picked up the left, subjecting it to the same intense scrutiny. His face grew more troubled with each passing second.

The palms of both hands were a ruin of burned and cut flesh. The skin was blackened in places, red and blistered in others, with deep lacerations running across the burns where something sharp had cut through the damaged tissue.

In some spots, the flesh had been seared so badly that it had split open, revealing the raw meat beneath.

"This is..." Pycelle trailed off, searching for words. "Your grace, this is severe. Very severe. The burns alone would require immediate treatment, but combined with these lacerations..."

He looked up, meeting Joffrey's eyes.

"If I do not take immediate action you may lose the use of your hands entirely. Do you understand what I am saying?"

"I understand," Joffrey said quietly.

Pycelle set the left hand down with careful gentleness, then turned and moved to his equipment cart. His movements became quick and purposeful.

He selected a mortar and pestle from the cart, then moved to his shelves and began pulling down various jars and containers.

Dried willow bark went into the mortar first, followed by crushed poppy seeds, ground nettle root, and several other herbs. He ground them together with practiced efficiency, the pestle moving in smooth circles.

Next came the liquids.

He selected several glass beakers and began mixing compounds—alcohol for cleaning, oil for salves, various tinctures. His hands moved with the confidence of decades of practice.

Finally, he took a glass flask filled with wine—a deep red vintage—and set it on a metal stand positioned directly over the flames of the brazier.

The wine began to heat immediately, small bubbles forming at the bottom of the flask and rising to the surface.

Sansa watched all of this with growing dread. Her hands, still clasped at her waist, were trembling now.

"What..." Her voice was barely audible. "What are you going to do?"

Pycelle didn't look up from his preparations.

"I must debride the dead flesh from his grace's hands," he said matter-of-factly. "Remove all damaged tissue before it can spread corruption to the healthy flesh. Then I must burn out any remaining corruption with boiling wine—heat kills the foul humors that cause wounds to fester. Only after that can I apply salves and wrap the hands in clean linen."

He glanced up briefly, his eyes meeting Sansa's.

"It is a painful process, My Lady. Very painful. But necessary if his grace wishes to keep his hands."

The wine in the flask was beginning to bubble more vigorously now, steam rising from its surface.

Sansa's face crumpled, fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

Joffrey saw it.

Despite his exhaustion, and the pain—he saw her distress, and something in his expression softened.

He took a breath, gathering what little strength he had left, and spoke.

"Sansa."

His voice was quiet, but it carried clearly.

"You should go," he said gently. "You don't want to see what comes next."

She shook her head violently.

"No," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "No, I'm staying. I'm not leaving you. I won't—"

"Sansa—"

"I won't leave you!" The words came out louder than she'd intended, almost a shout. "You're hurt, you're—" Her voice broke again. "I'm staying."

Joffrey looked at her for a long moment. He saw the determination in her eyes, yes, but he also saw the fear of what came next.

And he didn't want that for her.

He turned his head slightly, his eyes finding Sandor still standing by the door.

"Sandor," he said, his voice taking on a note of command despite its weakness. "Take the ladies back to their rooms. Please."

Sandor's eyes narrowed slightly. He looked at Joffrey, then at Sansa, then back to Joffrey. Understanding passed between them.

The Hound tilted his head, before moving forward.

"No!" Sansa tried to pull away. "No, let me go! I need to—"

"Come on, little bird," Sandor said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "King's orders."

He began walking toward the door, pulling Sansa with him. She struggled, her feet dragging against the floor, her free hand reaching back toward Joffrey.

"Please!" she cried out, her voice breaking. "Please, I just want to—"

"You too woman," Sandor said, glancing at the handmaiden.

Shae hesitated for only a moment, then hurried after them, casting one last worried glance back at the king.

Sansa continued to struggle all the way to the door, her voice rising in desperation.

"Joffrey, please! Don't make me leave! I can help, I can—"

Then they were through the doorway, and Sandor kicked the door shut behind them with his boot. The heavy wood muffled Sansa's protests, reducing them to indistinct sounds that gradually faded as the Hound led her away down the corridor.

Silence fell over the chamber.

Joffrey closed his eyes briefly, his jaw clenching. That had been harder than he'd expected.

He opened his eyes and looked at Ser Barristan and Ser Balon.

"Guard the door," he said quietly. "No one enters. No matter what they hear."

The two Kingsguard exchanged glances. Ser Barristan's weathered face was troubled, his blue eyes filled with concern.

"Your grace—" Barristan began.

"Guard the door," Joffrey repeated, his voice firmer this time. "That's an order, Ser Barristan."

The old knight's jaw tightened, then he bowed his head.

"As you command, your grace."

Both Kingsguard moved to the door, their white cloaks swirling behind them. They stepped through and pulled it shut, the heavy wood closing with a solid thunk.

Now it was just Joffrey and Pycelle.

The Grand Maester had continued his preparations throughout the exchange, and now everything was ready. The wine in the flask was boiling vigorously, steam rising in thick clouds.

Pycelle turned to face his patient.

"Your grace," he said, his voice taking on a gentler tone, "I must ask you to move to the chair. I will need better access to your hands, and the table is too high for the work I must do."

Joffrey nodded and pushed himself up from the table. His legs trembled slightly as they took his weight, but he managed to stay upright. He walked a few steps to the sturdy wooden chair with wide armrests—and lowered himself into it.

He positioned his hands on the armrests, palms up, the damaged flesh clearly visible in the light from the brazier.

Pycelle wheeled his cart closer, positioning it within easy reach. Then he reached into a drawer and pulled out a small glass vial filled with a milky white liquid.

"Milk of the Poppy, your grace," he said, holding it up. "It will dull the pain significantly. I recommend—"

"No."

"Your grace, I must insist that you reconsider. What I am about to do will be extraordinarily painful. The debridement alone will—"

"No Milk of the Poppy," Joffrey said, his voice hard as steel.

"But your grace—"

"I said no." Joffrey's green eyes locked onto Pycelle's.

Pycelle stared at him for a long moment, then he sighed and set the vial aside.

"You are as stubborn as your father," he muttered.

He reached into another drawer and pulled out two leather straps with buckles attached.

"Very well, your grace. But I cannot have you moving during the procedure. If you jerk or pull away at the wrong moment, I could do more damage than I can repair. So I must restrain your arms."

Joffrey just nodded.

Pycelle moved to the king's right side and wrapped the first strap around his forearm, he pulled it tight and buckled it, securing the arm firmly to the chair's armrest. Then he moved to the left side and repeated the process.

Joffrey tested the restraints briefly. They held firm. His hands trapped in position, palms up.

Pycelle reached into the drawer one more time and pulled out a thick piece of wood that had been wrapped in leather to protect the teeth.

"Bite down on this, your grace," he said, offering it to Joffrey. "Bite down hard."

The king opened his mouth and accepted the wood, positioning it between his teeth.

Pycelle stepped back and looked at his patient—the young king who had just fought and won a battle against impossible odds.

"You are very brave, Your Grace," Pycelle said quietly. "Or very foolish. I have not yet decided which."

Joffrey's eyes met his, and he tilted his head slightly as if to say just do it.

Pycelle nodded once. Then he turned to his cart and selected a scalpel—a small blade with a wickedly sharp edge.

He moved to Joffrey's right side and positioned himself carefully. His left hand came up and gently grasped the king's wrist, holding it steady. His right hand brought the scalpel down, the blade hovering just above the burned and blistered flesh of the palm.

He looked into Joffrey's eyes one last time.

The king's jaw was clenched tight around the wood. His breathing was controlled, steady.

Pycelle took a breath.

Then he pressed the blade down and began to cut.

Outside the Grand Maester's chamber, Ser Barristan and Ser Balon stood at attention listening to the muffled screams of their king through the wooden door.

Ser Barristan's jaw tightened. His hand clenched around his sword pommel, the knuckles going white. Ser Balon's eyes closed briefly, his face twisting in an expression of pain.

"Seven hells," Balon whispered, his voice barely audible.

Barristan said nothing. He simply stood there, his eyes fixed straight ahead at the wall opposite the door.

The king’s muffled screams continued long into the night.

If you like the story and want to read ahead 10 chapters are already available for Patrons.

Just go to google and search RoguePrince69 and click the first link then enjoy.