Act 2 Ch 33: Old Stag Vs Young Lion
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The Young Lion
Act 2 Ch 33: Old Stag Vs Young Lion
“You fucking sly bastard.”
Joffrey's knuckles went white as he gripped the stone battlements harder, the rough edges biting into his palms.
Blood from his fists mixed with the dirt beneath his fingers. He stared down at Stannis standing on that bridge, his magic sword glowing like a beacon of his potential doom.
He had everything to lose, and almost nothing to gain.
The thought circled in his mind like a vulture, to the point he had to admit he didn't want to fight him.
He didn't want to face the man who'd held Storm's End through starvation, who'd broken the Greyjoy fleet, and survived two rebellions and come out harder for it.
A man who now held a sword that burned with unnatural fire.
His eyes shifted, scanning the faces around him.
The Royal Guards stood at attention, but their gazes weren't on the battlefield anymore. They were on him. Waiting and watching. Silent questions in every set of eyes. What will our king do? Will he fight or will he hide?
Immediately he understood he’d been forced into a corner.
That Stannis had done to him what he'd done to Stannis's army, forced him into a space where every choice only meant another type of defeat.
The silence stretched, and the battlefield almost seemed like it was holding its breath.
"Joffrey."
Tyrion's voice cut through the tension. His uncle stepped closer, one hand raised as if to touch his arm but stopping short.
"Pay this fool no mind. He's desperate, his army is seconds from being routed. He's just trying to goad you."
Joffrey said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on Stannis.
"Joffrey." Jaime's voice now, firmer, more insistent. "Tyrion’s right. You've already won. Don't throw it away on some, some arbitrary notion of honor. Let your men handle this."
Still, the king remained silent. His jaw worked, teeth grinding together hard enough to ache.
To his right, Ser Barristan stood like a statue. The legendary knight's face was carved from stone, but his eyes betrayed his anxiety.
The old knight said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes.
Suddenly there was movement on the battlements.
One of the Royal Guard archers, a young man with a scar across his cheek, slowly raised his longbow.
The motion was smooth, as he nocked an arrow, drew the string back halfway, and aimed down at the bridge.
Directly at Stannis’s body
The battlefield seemed to hold its breath waiting for him to release the arrow. Joffrey's hand shot up.
"Hold."
The word came out quiet but left no room for argument. The archer froze, bow still half-drawn, and slowly lowered it. He stepped back into line, head bowed.
Every eye on the wall turned to Joffrey. Below, on the beach, Stormlander soldiers watched. Across the bridge, Stannis's men watched. Even the dying seemed to pause, waiting to see what the young king would do.
The weight of all those eyes pressed down on him.
Slowly he closed his eyes and breathed.
He took a deep breath in through his nose, slowly filling his lungs. He let the fear, anger, and doubt swirl through him like smoke.
He exhaled through his mouth.
When his eyes opened, something had changed in them. The fury was still there, but it had turned into something else, something colder.
Something that looked almost like acceptance.
He turned his head, breaking his stare with Stannis for the first time since the challenge.
"Uncle." His voice was steady now, void of emotion. "Hold the wall."
Tyrion's eyes widened. "Joffrey, you can't—"
"Jaime." Joffrey spoke over him. "Guard him."
"Your Grace—" Jaime started.
Joffrey raised one hand, and both men fell silent.
He turned to one of his Royal Guard officers, a grizzled veteran with gray in his beard, and extended his hand.
The officer's face went pale, but he didn't hesitate. He reached behind him and lifted something that had been resting against the battlement—a helm, black as midnight, polished to a mirror sheen despite the smoke and ash in the air.
Joffrey took it with both hands.
The helm was a work of art and engineering both.
Barbute-style, with a sleek, rounded design that would deflect blows rather than catch them. The facial opening extended down the jawline, offering maximum protection while keeping his eyes clear through a wider visor.
Along the top ran a rigid, triple-crested comb design, three raised ridges that would turn a downward strike away from his skull.
And at the base, forged directly into the steel, was a golden crown—a perfect replica of his own circlet, complete with square-cut rubies that caught the firelight and gleamed like drops of blood.
He turned the helm in his hands once, feeling its weight, then looked to his right.
"Ser Barristan." His voice was quiet. "With me."
He turned and walked toward the stone steps leading down from the battlements.
"Joffrey?"
Tyrion's voice called out behind him, confused at first, not quite understanding.
Joffrey kept walking.
Ser Barristan fell into step beside him, the old knight's white capelet billowing in the smoke-filled wind.
"Joffrey!" he shouted.
Fear was evident in his uncle's voice, fear of a man watching someone he cared about walk toward death.
The king didn't turn, or acknowledge his uncle’s words.
He just kept walking, one step after another, down the stone stairs, past the Royal Guards who pressed themselves against the walls to let him pass, their faces a mixture of awe and terror.
The Mud Gate tunnel stretched before him, dark and reeking of death. Bodies lay everywhere.
Stormlander corpses piled three and four deep in places, their blood running in rivers along the stone floor. His boots squelched in it as he walked, the sound obscene in the relative quiet.
He stepped over a man whose face had been caved in by a mace. He moved around another whose guts had spilled out across the floor in gray-pink coils. Past a third who'd died clutching at the spear through his throat, his fingers still wrapped around the shaft.
The tunnel seemed to stretch forever.
Behind him, he heard the Royal Guards moving. They didn’t follow - they knew better than that - they repositioned. Reacting to their king's movement with the instant obedience he'd drilled into them.
Outside the gates, the sound of shields locking together echoed through the tunnel. The testudo formation broke apart, and began reforming into something else.
When he finally stepped out, he realized just what they had formed.
A shield wall.
They were creating a corridor, a protected path from the gate to the bridge.
Putting themselves between their king and the remaining Stormlander soldiers.
The weight of it settled on his shoulders, along with the reality of what he was about to do.
A duel.
One-on-one, and to the death.
And against a man who'd been fighting wars before Joffrey was even born. A man who'd survived sieges and rebellions and naval battles, and now wielded a sword that was apparently the weapon of a prophesied hero.
His heart hammered against his ribs. His hands wanted to shake, he had to consciously tighten his grip on the helm to keep them steady.
Even against the Greatjon, he'd had backup.
Sandor had fought by his side, and Barristan too. And nearly a hundred Royal Guards who stepped when things went wrong.
He'd never really faced an opponent of this caliber by himself.
And now he would have to.
Just him and Stannis and their swords, and one of them wouldn't walk away.
His breathing had gone shallow without him noticing. Quick, shallow breaths that weren't getting enough air into his lungs, the kind of breathing that came with panic.
He forced himself to stop.
To close his mouth and take deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth.
Over and over until his heart slowed down.
It was a technique he'd learned in his past life, when he lived in another world, when he and his men would have to go into countries they couldn’t be seen going into.
Box breathing, they'd called it.
The Royal Guards had held their shield wall perfectly, standing at attention, watching their king as he passed.
Joffrey's boots crunched on sand mixed with ash and blood. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the weight of the crown on his helm was growing with every step.
He reached the front of the makeshift bridge and stopped.
Ser Barristan, who had walked beside him in silence the entire way, finally spoke.
"Your Grace." The old knight's voice was rough, strained. "Don't sully your hand on this pretender. Let me deal with him."
The king turned to face his Kingsguard and saw the fear in the old knight's eyes.
Fear that he was about to lose the only king he’d ever been proud to serve. Joffrey nodded before handing him his helm before he reached up to unclasp his brocade cloak.
"It's not your burden to bear, Ser Barristan." He handed the cloak over as well, then took the helm back. "Fall to command."
The king reached out and clasped his shoulder, feeling the tension in the old knight's muscles.
"Have some faith, my friend." Joffrey's voice had been quiet then, meant only for Barristan's ears before the madness began. “I was trained by the best, after all.”
Ser Barristan had nodded solemnly, accepting his king’s command. Joffrey’s fingers brushed the silver-and-wood wolf pendant beneath his armor—realizing that if he fell, Sansa fell with him—his bravado slipped.
“Though if I should fall... please take Sansa and—”
"No."
The word had come out sharper than the old knight intended, cutting through the smoke of the early battle.
"Don't think about anything but your opponent's sword and your sword. Nothing else exists. Not the battle, not the throne, not—" Barristan had stopped himself, his grip tightening on Joffrey’s pauldron.
"Nothing but the fight. You understand me?"
Joffrey held the old knight's gaze for a long moment, then nodded.
"Thank you, Ser Barristan. For everything."
He turned away before the old knight could respond. The battlefield stretched before him, almost like it was frozen in time.
Stormlanders and Royal Guards alike had stopped fighting, all eyes turned toward the duel between their kings. Even the fires seemed to burn quieter.
Joffrey raised his voice, projecting it across the beach, the water, and to every man who could hear.
"I want you men to know—" He paused, making sure every word carried. "—I would never order any of you to do something that I'm not willing to do myself!"
The men remained silent as he continued.
"So rather than risk any more of your lives, I will deal with this traitor myself!"
The Royal Guards straightened, their grips tightening on their weapons. Some of them struck their spears against their shields in a rhythmic salute. The sound echoed across the battlefield like thunder.
On the Stormlander side, men shifted uncomfortably. Some looked at each other. Others looked at Stannis. A few - just a few - lowered their weapons slightly.
Joffrey placed the helm on his head.
The world narrowed to what he could see through the visor, tunneling his vision to focus entirely on what lay ahead of him. The weight of the crown forged into the steel pressed down on his skull, a constant reminder of what he was fighting for.
His hand went down to his sword, Fury.
The Valyrian steel blade whispered as it left its scabbard, the smoky black metal seeming to drink in the light rather than reflect it.
Ripples of darker and lighter gray ran through the blade like storm clouds, and the edge gleamed with the unnatural sharpness that only Valyrian steel possessed.
Joffrey turned back to the bridge and started to climb.
The makeshift bridge bobbed beneath Joffrey's feet as he reached its highest point, the current of the Blackwater Rush pulling at the wreckage like invisible hands trying to tear it apart.
Each step required conscious adjustment, the wood was soaked through, slick with river water and the blood of men who'd fallen into the gaps between ships.
Ahead, standing in the middle of the second ship's deck, Stannis Baratheon waited.
The man was large, several inches taller than Joffrey, broad-shouldered with a robust, sinewy frame that spoke of the same bloodline that had produced Robert and Renly.
He wore boiled leather armor reinforced with gray steel plates across the chest, shoulders, and forearms.
A half-helm sat on his head, its crown fashioned with points shaped like twisting flames that caught the firelight from across the river.
At the center of his breastplate was his chosen sigil—a crowned stag enclosed within a red heart, surrounded by flames. The sigil of a man who believed himself chosen by prophecy.
In his hands, he held Lightbringer.
The bastard sword was massive, a two-handed weapon with nearly a foot of reach advantage over his own sword.
At the center of its hilt sat a ruby the size of a plum, blood-red and gleaming. But it was the blade itself that drew the eye.
It glowed with an inner fire, colors shifting and dancing along its length - orange bleeding into yellow bleeding into red, the air around it shimmering with heat like the space above a forge.
Even from a distance, Joffrey could see the ripples of heat radiating from it.
As he drew closer, something else caught his attention.
Stannis looked... old.
Joffrey's memories told him it had been a little over two years since he'd last seen his uncle. But the man standing before him looked like he'd aged a decade.
His hairline had receded significantly, exposing more of his high forehead. His once thick brown beard was shot through with gray. Deep lines ran from his nose to the corners of his mouth, while his eyes sat in hollows that spoke of sleepless nights.
Whatever Melisandre had done to produce his shadow child, the magic had clearly taken its toll.
On the other side of the deck, Stannis was equally shocked.
The last time he'd seen his nephew—his brother's false son—the boy had been a thin, golden-haired little shit with a conceited attitude and a cruel streak.
He was soft and pampered, a clear product of Cersei's coddling and Robert's neglect.
The man walking toward him now bore almost no resemblance to that boy.
Broad shoulders and a wide chest filled out the black armor. The body beneath moved with the controlled grace of a trained warrior, not a spoiled prince.
Joffrey reached the center of the deck and stopped, leaving perhaps ten feet between them. The ship swayed beneath them both, the wood creaking and groaning.
He reached up with his left hand and lifted the visor around his mouth, exposing his face.
"Hello, uncle." His voice carried across the space between them, light and mocking. "You're looking frail."
Stannis's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond immediately. He just stared at this stranger wearing his nephew's face.
Joffrey tilted his head slightly, the gesture almost playful.
"What's wrong? No words to share with your beloved nephew?"
"You're not my nephew."
The words came out cold and flat.
"You share no blood with me. You're a bastard. An inbred abomination that must be put down for the good of the realm."
Joffrey's smile widened.
"Wow." He let the word hang in the air for a moment. "That's quite a bit of judgment coming from a kinslayer, don't you think?"
Veins bulged along Stannis's neck. His knuckles went white around Lightbringer's hilt.
"Enough talk."
He lifted the bastard sword slowly, raising it with both hands until it was positioned high over his head. The flames along its blade burned brighter, casting dancing shadows across his face.
"Okay."
Joffrey lowered his visor with a sharp click, the world narrowing to what he could see through the opening.
Then he mirrored Stannis's movement, raising Fury into his preferred high guard stance. They began to move toward each other.
The ships continued to bob and sway beneath them, the current pulling at the wreckage, debris occasionally bumping against the hulls and sending small tremors through the deck.
Once they were finally within each other’s range, Joffrey made the first move.
He lunged forward, closing the distance in a heartbeat, and unleashed a barrage of attacks.
A high slash aimed toward the neck was blocked by Stannis , before Joffrey switched to a low cut at the thigh which he parried. One attack after another, each fast and powerful.
Each impact of blade on blade sent red-hot sparks flying into the air, molten droplets that hissed when they hit the wet deck.
Lightbringer's blade was still superheated, as if it had just come from the forge, and every clash felt like striking an anvil.
Stannis's eyes widened slightly—surprise breaking through his usual stoic mask.
The power behind each blow was shocking, sending vibrations up through his arms and into his shoulders. His bones ached with each impact.
He gave ground, stepping backward, focusing entirely on defense. The young king hammered at his guard from every angle, giving him no time to counter, no space to breathe.
Joffrey pressed forward, his boots splashing through puddles of water and blood, and drove a straight thrust toward Stannis's breastplate.
Stannis twisted his body, moving to the outside of the blade, flanking to Joffrey's right. The thrust went past him, missing by inches, and suddenly Joffrey's neck was exposed.
Stannis brought Lightbringer up in a rising cut, the glowing blade arcing toward that vulnerable gap between helm and gorget.
Joffrey's body reacted before his mind could process the danger.
His right arm snapped back, bringing Fury up and over his shoulder in a reverse grip. The blades met with a shower of sparks, Lightbringer's edge stopping inches from his neck.
For a moment they were locked there, close enough that Joffrey could feel the heat radiating from Stannis's sword, and see his own reflection in the older man's eyes.
Then both fighters disengaged simultaneously, pushing off and creating distance. They circled slowly, resuming their stances, the deck swaying beneath them.
Joffrey's breathing remained steady.
He analyzed what he'd just learned, Stannis's defense was solid, built on decades of experience. The man didn't panic under pressure, didn't make rash decisions.
And that sword... that fucking sword had nearly a foot of reach on Fury. Every exchange would be fought at Stannis's preferred distance unless Joffrey could change the dynamic.
He thought back to his training sessions with Sandor, where Ser Barristan had watched and offered corrections. The Hound was taller than him, had longer arms, used a longer blade. And Barristan had taught him how to deal with that.
"Get in close. When your opponent is taller and has the longer blade, get as close as you can. That is the safest place you can be. Inside his reach, his advantages become liabilities."
Joffrey narrowed his eyes behind his visor and steadied his hands.
He raised Fury high and came forward with a powerful overhead strike, putting his full weight behind it.
Stannis raised Lightbringer horizontally to meet it, blocking the blow. The impact sent sparks cascading down between them, and for a moment their blades were locked together, Joffrey's pressing down, Stannis's holding firm.
Exactly what Joffrey wanted.
He forced both blades down and to the side, then stepped past Stannis's sword, moving inside his guard.
His left hand flashed to his belt and came up with his Valyrian steel dagger, the blade driving toward Stannis's exposed neck.
Stannis saw the knife at the last second.
He brought Lightbringer's hilt up in a sharp motion, the pommel slamming into Joffrey's left wrist with bone-jarring force.
The dagger tumbled from Joffrey's suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering across the deck.
Stannis immediately brought his blade up and around, going for a slash that would open Joffrey from shoulder to hip.
Joffrey barely got Fury up in time, the blades meeting with another explosion of sparks.
They locked together again, edges grinding, both men pushing against each other. The heat from Lightbringer was intense this close, making sweat run down Joffrey's face inside his helm.
Joffrey saw an opening.
He reached across the locked blades with his left hand and grabbed the top edge of Stannis's breastplate, his fingers gripping the leather straps. Then he yanked Stannis towards him while driving his helmeted head forward.
The crown of his helm smashed into Stannis's face with a wet crunch.
Stannis stumbled backward, his eyes unfocused, blood spraying from his nose and running down into his beard. The world spun for a moment, his ears ringing.
But he was a veteran of a dozen battles; pain was an old friend.
He gritted his teeth, tasted copper, and stepped forward through the daze.
His hands moved on instinct, bringing Lightbringer around in a series of rapid slashes—high, low, diagonal, horizontal. No finesse now, just raw aggression, forcing Joffrey to give ground as he parried and deflected.
Stannis saw Joffrey's blade dip slightly after a particularly hard parry. He forced Fury down and away, then brought Lightbringer's pommel up in a rising strike.
The steel pommel caught Joffrey square in the face, right where his visor met his cheek guard.
Joffrey's head snapped to the side, the world exploding into stars and ringing bells.
He stumbled backward, his boots slipping on the wet deck, and his back hit the ship's railing. He leaned over it, the Blackwater rushing past below, his vision spinning, everything tilted at wrong angles.
His ears rang like cathedral bells.
For a moment - just a moment - he teetered on the edge of consciousness, before rage flooded through him.
He gritted his blood-stained teeth and let out a roar that was more animal than human. He spun away from the railing and launched himself at Stannis with a brutal onslaught of cuts and thrusts.
Stannis gave ground, his arms aching, his defense solid but being tested with every exchange.
Around them, the soldiers of both armies watched in tense silence. On the Stormlander side, men shouted and screamed for their king.
"Stannis!”
“Kill him, Your Grace!”
“Put the bastard down!"
On the King's Landing side, the Royal Guards stood in perfect silence.
No one made a sound, and no one cheered. But every man's hand was white-knuckled around his spear, every jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
The two fighters continued their savage exchange, neither willing to give ground, or back down.
The deck beneath them was slick with water and blood, the ships swaying with the current, debris occasionally bumping against the hulls and sending tremors through their footing.
Then Joffrey made his first real mistake.
He saw what he thought was an opening, Stannis's guard was high after blocking an overhead strike.
Joffrey advanced, hammering down with a series of powerful slashes, forcing Stannis's blade higher and higher.
Then he committed to what he thought was a clever feint - a low slash toward Stannis's thigh that he switched mid-strike into a thrust toward the face.
He dropped his blade low, beginning the cut, then shifted his grip and drove forward with a thrust.
Stannis saw through it.
The old warrior had seen a thousand feints in his life. He shifted his body just enough, turning his head, and Joffrey's blade missed his face by less than an inch.
Then Stannis brought Lightbringer down in a powerful descending cut, aimed directly at Fury's hilt.
Joffrey had a split second to decide—hold onto his sword and lose both hands, or let go.
He let go.
Fury clattered across the deck, spinning away, and Joffrey stood weaponless before his enemy.
Stannis was spent, his chest heaving, sweat and blood mixing on his face. But he was still armed, and his opponent was not.
On the walls of King's Landing, Tyrion gasped.
The Royal Guards' faces went pale. Some took half-steps forward before catching themselves.
On the Stormlander side, men cheered and whooped, sensing victory.
Stannis allowed himself a small smirk. He raised Lightbringer high, the blade burning bright, preparing to end this.
Joffrey saw the wide, powerful swing coming and moved.
Spinning with the blade's arc, he let Lightbringer pass within inches of his body, the heat from it singeing the edge of his cuirass. Then, using the same disarming technique Ser Balon had taught him, he trapped both of Stannis's arms with his right arm, locking them against his body.
He raised his left arm high and brought his forearm down like a hammer on Stannis's wrists.
The impact forced Stannis's hands open. Lightbringer fell from his grip, the glowing blade hitting the deck with a hiss of steam.
Joffrey spun, his left elbow coming around in a reverse spin that caught Stannis square in the face.
The older man staggered backward, his vision blurring, blood flowing freely from his already broken nose.
He shook his head, trying to clear it, and his hand went to his belt. He drew his side dagger—a long, wicked blade designed for close work—and immediately attacked.
Joffrey backtracked, his hands up, blocking and deflecting the blade with his armored forearms, twisting away from thrusts, staying just out of reach.
Debris from upstream—a broken piece of ship's railing—came floating down the Blackwater and slammed into the side of their makeshift bridge.
The impact sent a shudder through the entire structure. Both men wobbled, their feet sliding on the slick planks, trying to keep their balance.
The ship tilted, swayed, then rocked back the other way.
Stannis kept coming, kept slashing and stabbing, his dagger a blur of steel. Joffrey tried to defend and maintain his footing simultaneously, but the unstable ground made everything harder.
The ship rocked again, harder this time, and Joffrey's feet went out from under him. He slid across the wet deck like he was on ice, tumbling toward Stannis's feet.
Stannis raised his dagger high and drove it down toward Joffrey's chest.
Joffrey rolled, the blade missing him by inches and sparking off the deck where his body had been a heartbeat before.
The young king scrambled to his feet, but Stannis was already on him. The older man slammed into him, using his weight and momentum to drive Joffrey backward until his back hit one of the ship's support beams. Joffrey struck the beam with such force that it drove the air from his lungs.
Stannis brought his dagger up, aiming the tip for the narrow gap in the young king’s visor.
Joffrey caught Stannis's wrist with both hands, holding the blade back, his arms shaking from the strain.
Stannis drove his helmeted head forward, slamming it into Joffrey's visor.
The impact stunned him, his grip loosening for just a moment.
And that was enough.
Stannis wrenched his hand free and slashed downward, the blade finding the gap between Joffrey's visor and cheek guard. The steel bit into his flesh, cutting a line from the top of his right eye down to his cheek.
“Ahhh!” he screamed.
He managed to force the dagger down and away from his face, then hit Stannis with a backhand that sent the older man stumbling to the floor.
The ship swayed again, and Stannis slid across the deck, rolling away from Joffrey.
Joffrey reached up with shaking hands and unfastened his helmet, yanking it off.
Blood was running into his eyes, making it impossible to see. He wiped at it frantically with the back of his hand, blinking rapidly.
His right eye... something was wrong with his right eye. His vision was blurred, distorted, everything tinted red.
"Fuck!"
He yelled, then turned and saw Stannis charging at him, dagger raised, moving in for the kill. Joffrey caught his wrist just in time, the dagger's tip stopping inches from his face.
Stannis pushed forward, gritting his teeth, using his weight and strength to drive the blade closer.
Inch by inch, it moved toward his face.
Joffrey gritted his own teeth, straining against Stannis's strength, his arms shaking. Blood poured down his face, running into his mouth and dripping off his chin.
Stannis drove his knee up into Joffrey's groin.
The pain was blinding, weakening his grip, his body trying to curl around the agony.
Stannis pushed him backward, slamming him against the beam again, the dagger inching closer and closer to his face. Joffrey desperately held Stannis's right hand with both of his, every muscle in his arms burning.
A thought flashed through his mind, then he locked eyes with Stannis and grinned before flexing his left wrist.
The hidden dagger in his bracer sprang free with a metallic snick, the blade punching through Stannis's right forearm and out the other side.
Stannis's scream was raw and shocked, his face contorting in agony. His hand spasmed open, the dagger falling from nerveless fingers.
Somehow managing to keep his composure, Stannis twisted his forearm, breaking the blade off the bracer before backhanding Joffrey across the face. The blow sent him rolling across the deck.
With shaking fingers, he reached up and pulled the broken blade out of his arm before tossing it away. He turned and saw Joffrey getting back up to his feet.
The boy king spat a wad of blood out onto the deck, before balling up his fists and walking towards him.
No more weapons, just fists and grit.
They met in the center of the deck and began trading blows.
Joffrey quickly gained the upper hand, his old hand-to-hand combat training from his previous life kicking in. Despite his exhaustion, he threw crisp boxing combos, hitting Stannis with crosses and hooks.
Stannis tried to fight back, but his movements were amateurish and untrained, throwing wild swings that Joffrey easily slipped or blocked. Joffrey drove his boot into Stannis's chest with a Spartan kick that sent the older man tumbling backward into the ship's railing.
Both men stood there, chests heaving, trying to catch their breath.
Joffrey wiped blood from his cut, trying to clear his vision. They were both exhausted now. Despite all of Joffrey's conditioning, and Stannis's experience, they were both running on fumes.
Stannis stepped forward and threw a wide right hook.
The king raised both arms, blocking the strike, then wrapped his left arm around Stannis's, trapping it against his body. He punched with his free right hand, the blow catching Stannis in the face, then a right elbow, and finally a headbutt.
Stannis's eyes went unfocused, his legs wobbling.
Joffrey released his hold on Stannis's arm and wrapped both hands around his throat. He drove forward, using his legs, slamming Stannis's head against one of the ship's wooden support beams.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Stannis's helmet finally came off, clattering across the deck, his ears ringing like bells. Joffrey raised his right leg high and brought his boot down on the outside of Stannis's left knee.
A loud crunch filled the air, quickly followed by Stannis’s screams. He collapsed to one knee, his leg unable to support his weight anymore.
Joffrey tightened his grip around Stannis's throat and began to squeeze.
His fingers dug into flesh, cutting off air, trying to crush his windpipe. He squeezed with everything he had left, determined to end this, to strangle the life out of the man who had brought war to his city.
Stannis gurgled, his hands coming up to pry at Joffrey's fingers.
But the grip was like a vise, and he couldn’t peel it off. His vision began to flutter at the edges, darkness creeping in. His lungs screamed for air that wouldn't come.
Out of the corner of his blurring vision, he saw something—a discarded half-helm, just out of reach.
He stretched for it, his fingers fumbling, barely able to reach. The world was going dark while his lungs burned. His fingers finally closed around the helm. He brought it up and slammed the metal into the side of Joffrey's head.
Joffrey's grip loosened, his vision spinning.
Stannis hit him again, harder, and Joffrey let go, falling down to the deck. Stannis dropped the helm and clutched at his throat, coughing violently.
Looking down, he saw Lightbringer just a few feet away.
Joffrey was still on the ground, his head spinning, trying to force himself up to his hands and knees. He shook his head, trying to clear the ringing, trying to make the world stop tilting.
Stannis stumbled to his feet—or rather, to his one good foot and one ruined knee. He hobbled forward and reached down for his sword with his right hand.
His damaged arm couldn't grip it, the fingers wouldn't close. He switched to his left hand, picking up the glowing blade, then laid it across his damaged right arm to keep it steady.
Joffrey gripped the ship's railing and pulled himself up, his legs shaking, his vision still blurred.
He turned just as Stannis drove forward, the glowing blade aimed at his chest. His hands shot out and caught the blade barehanded.
The sudden, blinding white heat and the stench of burning flesh tore a hole straight through his mind, triggering a violent flash of his own death in Ukraine.
No. Focus.
Stannis gritted his teeth and pushed, trying to drive the blade through Joffrey's hands and into his body.
For a moment, Joffrey looked as if he had been backed into a corner, his face twisted in pain, his hands smoking.
Then his expression changed, becoming colder and more focused.
He rose higher on his feet, straightening his legs, his back coming off the railing. Then he pushed back, walking Stannis backward across the deck, step by step, his burning hands never releasing the blade.
In one fluid motion, he changed his grip on the sword, his hands sliding along the blade despite the agony. He turned, spinning his body, and twisted Lightbringer out of Stannis's weakened grip.
The blade came free.
Joffrey completed his spin, the glowing sword still in his hands, and drove it forward.
The blade punched into Stannis's left armpit, sliding between the plates of his armor, burying itself deep in his body.
Stannis's eyes went wide with shock. He looked down at his own sword sticking out from his body, unable to process what had just happened.
Joffrey looked over his shoulder and locked eyes with him—the young king and the old pretender, their faces inches apart.
Joffrey yanked the blade free.
Lightbringer came out in a spray of blood, and Joffrey dropped the sizzling weapon back onto the wet deck, where it hissed and steamed.
Stannis stood wobbling and dazed. He slowly reached up into his armpit with his left hand, his fingers coming away red and slick. He stared at his own blood for a moment, as if seeing it for the first time.
He looked up at Joffrey, his mouth working, trying to form words. Only blood came out, running down his chin, staining his gray beard.
Stannis stumbled forward, his legs giving out, and Joffrey caught him.
The young king wrapped his arms around the dying man, their foreheads touching before the two exhausted men slumped down to their knees.
Joffrey looked into Stannis' eyes as he cupped the back of his neck.
"You fought well, Baratheon."
Stannis tried to speak again, blood bubbling at his lips. Then the light faded from his eyes and his shallow breathing stopped.
The old stag collapsed, slipping limply to his side on the wet deck.
Dead.
Joffrey sat there for a few heartbeats, looking at the dead man's face, then slowly pushed himself up to his feet.
Every muscle in his body screamed in protest. His hands were ruined, the flesh blackened and blistered, and blood ran freely from the cut on his face.
But he was alive.
He had won.
Slowly he walked across the deck, his steps unsteady, and retrieved Fury from where it had fallen. The familiar weight of the blade in his hands was comforting, despite the stinging from the burns.
He made his way to the end of the makeshift bridge, back toward his city, and his soldiers.
The Royal Guard stood in formation, their faces a mixture of awe and relief. Behind them, on the walls, Tyrion and Jaime looked stunned. Every observer looked as if they had aged years in the last few minutes.
Joffrey raised Fury high above his head, the Valyrian steel blade catching the firelight.
A simple universal signal.
Victory.
The Royal Guard erupted in cheers, their voices rising in a thunderous roar. They struck their spears against their shields in rhythmic salute, the sound echoing across the battlefield.
On the Stormlander side, the reaction was very different.
"Stannis is dead!"
"The King is dead!"
"We've got to get out of here!"
Panic spread through their ranks like wildfire. Men threw down their weapons and ran, scrambling back toward the forest, toward anywhere that wasn't here. The retreat became a rout, discipline collapsing entirely.
The Royal Guard began to move forward, ready to pursue, to cut down the fleeing soldiers.
Then the sound of hoofbeats echoed in the distance.
It was faint at first, but then it grew louder.
And louder.
And louder.
Over the horizon, thousands of armored men on horseback appeared, galloping toward the city in a massive wave of steel and horseflesh.
"Enemy reinforcements!" one of the Royal Guard officers shouted.
The Royal Guard immediately reformed, shields locking together, spears bristling outward, bracing for impact.
The remaining Stormlander soldiers saw the cavalry and their panic turned to desperate hope. They ran toward the incoming horsemen, praying that the gods had answered their prayers, that salvation had arrived.
On the bridge, Joffrey leaned down, trying to catch his breath. He was forced to use Fury as a crutch just to remain standing, the last of his strength leaving him like water from a cracked cup.
He was completely spent—the duel with Stannis had taken everything he had and then some.
His wounds needed treatment, and badly
Ser Barristan came running, his white cloak streaming behind him.
"Your Grace!" The old knight's voice was frantic, terrified.
He reached Joffrey's side and quickly assessed his injuries.
None of them were immediately life-threatening, but each one brought pain to the old knight's heart. This boy—this young man he'd trained, who he'd watched grow from a spoiled prince into a king—was covered in blood, burns, and cuts.
Barristan draped Joffrey's right arm around his neck, using himself as support.
"Come, Your Grace! We must get you inside to safety!"
"It's okay, Barristan." Joffrey's voice was a wheeze, barely audible. "They're not our enemies."
The horsemen had gotten close enough now that their banners were visible. Two sigils flew above the cavalry.
One was green with a golden flower in its center and the other was crimson with a golden lion.
Joffrey watched them approach, a bloody smile spreading across his face.
“It's about fucking time you showed up.” he thought.
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