11 Visions of a King

If there was a more emotionless figure in the entire Seven Kingdoms than Stannis Baratheon, Ned Stark did not know of any. A powerful warrior and amazing strategist, but with all the compassion and warmth of a statue. Still, as the King's brother and Lord of Dragonstone - normally a title reserved for the Targaryen Crown Prince, a thought which made Ned's heart catch slightly - the reserved Stormlands nobleman was the honorable choice for the problems that faced the realm.

"And so my idiot brother-in-law killed your aide and left you crippled," Stannis said flatly, as if stating a fact - of which he was. "For the swordsman that killed Arthur Dayne, that seems a bit underwhelming against someone who's claim to fame was stabbing a man in the back."

For someone so emotionless, Stannis sometimes could deliver the best humor. "He had more men, it happens." It had taken a while to get used to the cane, and the resulting soreness in the shoulder. The limp would annoy him for the rest of his life, Ned figured.

Ned's eyebrows furrowed. "The King's life is in peril, and I think it involved Jon Arryn's interest in his bastards." Stannis rolled his eyes. "Considering how Jamie Lannister wanted my investigation stopped, they have to be involved."

"Jamie is too dumb to be involved in such matters. Cersei… the bitch probably is, as is Tywin. The Imp… I doubt it."

"Catelyn says Tyrion Lannister got the knife that nearly killed my boy from Littlefinger, and that I could trust Littlefinger."

Stannis looked at him as if he sprouted two heads. "Littlefinger? I'd sooner trust the cockroaches in my stables. I wouldn't doubt if he killed Jon Arryn, though not with those oily hands of his." Feeling that the Lannisters had poisoned the former Hand, Stannis had fled to Dragonstone just in case - it had taken Ned Stark's intervention to bring him back with twenty-five trusted swordsmen. "And he's getting close to my nephew?"

He nodded. "Aye, angling his options I believe."

"And yet your daughter is still betrothed to Joffrey," the lord deadpanned - anyone but Stannis would have let out a laugh. "Did the incident with the wolf change her mind at all?"

A frustrated chuckle left Ned's lips. "No, she's still as enraptured with him as ever."

"Really?" Stannis snorted. "No one but his mother would like that little golden-haired brat." There was little sentimentality in the middle Baratheon boy - aside from his daughter there really wasn't anyone that Ned suspected he loved.

"Well, Sansa seems to. Calls him her golden lion…" Trailing off, Ned's eyes widened, drawing a puzzled look from Stannis. "Tell me," he finally said. "Do you remember any of your ancestors being fair of hair?"

If Ned's expression puzzled Stannis, the question tumbling from his mouth didn't help matters. "Uhhhh… not to my knowledge. Our grandmother was a Targaryen, yet father remained dark of hair. A Baratheon's seed is strong, that's what he always said…" His eyes widened, catching on. "You can't possibly…?"

Nodding, Ned knew he had to be correct. "Jon Arryn's last words were the same as the old saying your father had."

For someone both disciplined and circumspect, even Stannis' statements were limited to profanity. "Well fuck."

"I've never seen anything like it," stuttered Samwell Tarly, looking over the palm. "You gripped the lantern body, where the flames flicked out?"

Seeing the unmarred skin for the thousandth time, Jon sighed. "Yes, I did. Must you keep asking me that, Sam?" He had answered the question over and over again. Thorne had called him a liar, disputing the entire story told by him about the crazed man in the Lord Commander's chambers. Lead Ranger Royce seemed to believe him, as did Grenn, Finn, and Pyp. Lord Commander Mormont… he seemed out of it the whole time, as if thinking. Same with the Maester, Aemon.

Mormont had been forever grateful for Jon's action - hence the presence of a Valyrian blade on his scabbard. 'Longclaw, oh would Dany love to see this.' Something they shared now, if she kept the blade he gave her.

All and all, the only one who didn't question anything about his story was Sam - the only person who seemed fully on his side since Dany… Jon shut his eyes tightly, willing away memories of her. It would only serve to pull his soul deeper into melancholy, and he couldn't afford it. Far from being the noble calling his uncle made it seem, the Watch was a den of vipers. One that wished to bite him most of all.

"Is Ser Alliser making you doubt it? You had to kill that thing somehow, Jon. And if you weren't burnt doing so…"

"Just forget it, Sam. It's impossible that I could avoid burns, so something else must have happened."

The rotund thinker was unperturbed by Jon's attempts to push him away. 'Another trait he shares with Dany.' Jon couldn't explain why he was drawn to protect the fat weakling that Sam appeared to be as soon as he arrived at Castle Black, but in time the trust and friendship managed to form. "Come on, Snow. This is a mystery. Only those of Old Valyria… if I recall correctly, can possess burn-proof skin. They used it to ride dragons."

A hearty chuckle left Jon's lips. "Please, Sam. I knew… someone," he ground out, fighting back the longing. 'Dany.' "Someone of Valyrian blood. That doesn't apply to me."

"We all know Maester Aemon…"

Jon cut him off. "She wasn't Maester Aemon." Sam was going to weasel it out of him anyway - along with Robb, he could trust him with his life. Even still, he hesitated with the words.

He hadn't counted Sam to be as intuitive as he was. "Well, the only surviving Targaryens besides Maester Aemon are the son and daughter of the Mad King. Did you know them?" At Jon's nod, Sam laughed. "Didn't know you were so worldly, Jon. Essos? And meeting the Mad King's children." He patted Jon on the back. "Next thing I know, you'll be telling me that girl you told me about was the Targaryen Princess…" Eyes widened in recognition. "No… really?" Sam literally squeaked.

Sighing, Jon nodded. "Aye. Daenerys Targaryen. She was the one I mentioned." It had come up while they were both scrubbing the dining tables in the mess hall, the conversation going from their vows to sexual prowess and the fact he had been with a woman once before seemed pertinent. He had kept the identity of his lover a secret, but now it was out.

"You loved her, didn't you? I can tell from your voice that you still do."

"Enough about that," replied the brooding steward, face flushing a dark crimson. This was not something he wished to discuss further - brought too many unwelcome feelings. Dany was gone and he had to live with it. "Did you find out anything about what I faced in the Lord Commander's quarters?" Thorne had been convinced it was a Wilding, and browbeated anyone who thought differently. The old bear seemed to disagree with the assessment, Jon could tell, but he kept it to himself. Thus, Jon convinced Sam to get to the bottom of it themselves.

Nodding, Sam stumbled a bit trying to get something out of a small chest that housed his worldly possessions. Jon couldn't help but smile - Sam was so unsuited to fighting it was comical, but there was no one better to provide advice and analysis. "Um… yes. I think it was a wight."

One eyebrow rose. "A wight? Those aren't anything but myths and legends from the story of the Long Night." Jon remembered being told that story back as a kid, cuddled up with Robb and Sansa - back when the three of them were thick as thieves.

"Not necessarily, Jon. Think about something Maester Aemon once told me. If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth. No human could have survived a sword thrust to the chest."

"Perhaps I didn't hit the heart." Sam raised an eyebrow, casting doubt on that. Jon's thrusts were always true and accurate. "Point taken, but still? A wight?"

"It says in the texts, only fire can kill Wights. Why do you think the Wildings always burn their dead? Think about it, wildling raids to try and get over the wall have tripled in the last year. Your uncle disappeared, but no peep from any wilding bands - they like to show their work off… sorry." Sam had the decency to look apologetic.

Sighing, Jon let it go. He had grieved enough for Benjen, though there was no proof he was actually dead. "Tis fine." A thought came to mind. "There was that deserter my father killed before I left for Essos. He said something about the White Walkers. I thought it was just gibberish…" This whole line of thinking was liable to be foolish, but how else could he explain what he saw?

Sam looked determined. "I'm bringing this up in the next meeting…"

"No!" Jon knew that would be a bad idea. This had to be told, even if it turned out to be a crock. He could just hear Dany's beautiful voice urging him to stand up and take the initiative. "Thorne will have us locked up for madness. It has to be to the Lord Commander. Lead Ranger Royce as well, he has a good head."

"Maester Aemon too."

Jon laughed. "Seems we have a plan then." A shiver coursed through him, under his cloak. Suddenly it just got a bit colder.

It was an interesting sight for Lord Petyr Baelish, watching the small, rosy-cheeked Crown Prince pace nervously. Confined to his quarters after visiting the King's sickbed, upon Littlefinger calling upon him fifteen minutes prior there had been nothing but fear and apprehension written over his face. "I don't like this!" Joffrey cried, running a hand through his hair. "A boar's tusks? Laughable. His enemies did this. My father's enemies tried to kill him because they are afraid of his greatness."

And even the dullest of rocks drew moss on occasion. Sometimes Littlefinger felt that the golden-haired Prince could have some hidden wits about him, but even a minute spent with him killed that hypothesis. It only made the situation perfect for him. With his reputation, it had taken a while for Cersei to stop sending guards to watch his every move with her precious Joffrey. But the Prince liked his counsel, just as he had hoped. "Your father does have many enemies. The Starks could be behind this, trying to put your uncle Stannis on the throne. This could be retaliation for the poisoning of the Dothraki Khal by Targaryen forces, as well." 'Or a move by your mother,' he didn't say, though it was his top idea.

"They will all die once I take the throne!" Joffrey hissed. Suddenly, he turned pale. "But what if they come after me? I must have my guard doubled. Get more loyal soldiers from my grandfather." He did have some decent ideas about military reforms, even if they were practically infeasible and mired in the same megalomaniacal delusions.

"Your grandfather is a strong man, your Grace," Littlefinger opined, lips curved in a winning smile. "However, he wasn't there when your uncle was captured by Catelyn Stark…"

"Fuck my uncle. I wish he died in the Eyre." When Joffrey held a grudge, he kept it.

Littlefinger pulled back slightly. His first instinct wasn't to hitch his wagons to Joffrey, it went against his usual tactic to play sides against the other and keep options open. But Ned Stark was suspicious of him, despite the trust his beloved Catelyn had in him. Stannis hated him. With one side closed to him, Littlefinger was left with being able to cultivate the brash and manipulatable prince. "Of course, his treatment of such a noble young Prince is disgraceful." Some people were susceptible to the most oily of flattery - one of those was the

Crown Prince. He loved when it was so easy. "But your grandfather… when he isn't present, his family ends up in danger. Your mother cannot protect you, young Prince."

He braced for the fury from the boy. "You're wrong!" Joffrey sent a goblet toppling to the floor. "Mother loves me. She will keep the swine back!"

"Like she protected your father?" Time to sink in the knife. "Like how she got Arya Stark punished after she and that commoner attacked you." Littlefinger just managed to suppress his dark smirk at the cringe from his future king. It may have been petty, but King Robert's biting tongue and lack of any affection for his children - legally true, despite Stark and Stannis' hunches that Littlefinger knew to be the truth - cut the Crown Prince deeply. "She loves you, cares for you, but cannot be trusted in a crisis."

A tear fell from Joffrey's eye, fist clenching. "She… she couldn't get justice for me."

"Queen Cersei is a sharp woman, but she is but a woman. Weak and frail." Collapsing to his knees, Littlefinger knelt for his soon-to-be king. "You have my honor and pledge, Joffrey, first of your name. Let me protect you from your enemies."

Staring at such a high lord, one of the wealthiest men in the Seven Kingdoms bending the knee to him - to him - sent an electric thrill through Joffrey's system. He liked this, liked it greatly. There was no better feeling, than ruling. "Rise, Lord Baelish." The Crown Prince took a seat. "So how will you protect me, when my mother can't?"

Littlefinger allowed his smirk to finally show on his face. "Leave that to me, my Prince."

"Unhand me!" For a puissant, Joffrey was kicking and writhing with the stamina of warriors twice his size. It took three Stark guards to heft him out of the throne room, Ned bringing the rear with two others against the Kingsguard - sans Barristan. "You will all be hanged for touching your king!"

"Gag him!" ordered Stannis, running his sword through the chain mail of a city guardsman as if it was paper. It had been hell in the throne room, the armored wedge formation cleaving through the line of Kingsguards but leaving half the combined Stark/Baratheon number down. Cersei had been screaming - to Stannis' rare delight - and Littlefinger promising that you couldn't bet against him, but the King had been secured. Though the Hound slayed ten men to do it. "We need to make haste for the docks, the ship to Dragonstone awaits."

A Baratheon bannerman darted out of an alcove. "My Lord, we're holding back reinforcements at the Red Gate but if they rush us again…" a croak left his lungs, grey blur of a sword passing through his midsection. The bannerman toppled to the floor in two bloody heaps.

Looking above, Stannis couldn't help but growl. "Ser Gregor." Ned noticed the massive hulk as well. 'So this is Baelish's surprise.' The infamous Ser Gregor Clegane, sword drawn and ready to defend his King.

Wordlessly, the Mountain raised his sword and locked it with Stannis', the two beginning an intense duel. "Keep them at bay," yelled Ned, raising his blade and darting into the fray. His cane clattered on the ground, injury stabbing through his system but adrenaline masking the pain for now. Moving to thrust through a gap in Clegane's armor, the Mountain noticed Ned's assault at the last minute and essentially shoved Stannis back, sword parrying the new threat just in time.

Two Stark guards joined the developing melee and it became four to one… momentarily. The Mountain caught a sword in his thick, armored hands, squeezing until the steel snapped like a twig. A second guard charged but found himself brained by the hilt of Ser Gregor's sword, fitted with a small mace at the end for just this eventuality. Back to two to one.

His armor was thick, Clegane managing to use his left arm as a shield to block attacks from whichever of the two Lords wasn't attacking him. Thrust after thrust, parry after parry and neither of the two fighters were any closer to beating back Joffrey's impromptu defender - nor did the Mountain manage to kill them as easily as he could innocent women and children. Nevertheless, time was being eaten up and they had little time.

Stannis snarled and managed to slice open a gash through a join in Clegane's armor. The beast groaned but stayed on his feet, unshaken. Ned hit Clegane's armored fist, slicing off two fingers but still not even shaking the giant from his watch.

"My Lord! They're breaking through!"

"He has my knife!"

Suddenly, Stannis cried out as Joffrey stuck a knife into his side, having managed to use the chaos to break free of his captors. The Lord of Dragonstone batted him aside like a limp rag but it opened his frontal defenses - something that the Mountain used decisively. "Fucking bastard!" left Stannis' lips, his last words before Clegane's sword essentially caved in his skull.

Determined to kill the Mountain, despite the intense pain in his leg Ned summoned the courage to charge his enemy, only to be pulled back, knife at his throat. "I told you never to bet against me, Lord Stark," Littlefinger smirked.

And so it was. Hearing Ilyn Payne stride behind him, feeling the firm, clammy grasp forcing him to the chopping block, Joffrey and the crowd egging him on - Ned Stark knew that it would soon be over. It was a calming effect really. Part of him was glad that his struggles, his pain would soon be over.

But with Sansa's screams in the background, a figure mounting a statue in the distance that Ned felt was his beloved Arya, the promise he made to Lyanna still ringing in the back of his mind, he was also glad for his foresight. That others would keep his honor upright after his failure.

A small, cold prick on his neck - the sharpened blade soon to bring the sleep of death - Ned looked out to see Arya gone. 'Be safe, my child.' Sansa screamed for Joffrey's mercy. 'Be safe, all of my children.' He closed his eyes. 'And now it is your time, Jon.'

The prince who was promised.

Then blackness.

Nuzzling the fluffy, down pillow, King Joffrey moaned in contented bliss. The lad felt on top of the world - of which he pretty much was. King of the Seven Kingdoms, quarters guarded by the elite of the Kingsguard including his personal bodyguard, Ser Gregor. The life and death of anyone and everyone in the Realm in his hands.

It was quite the power trip, How easy it had been to order Ned Stark's death and watch his head tumble from his corpse - and show Sansa where it had been mounted on the city walls. For Joffrey, it translated into the most relaxing sleep of his life.

Out of the corner of his eye, a figure loomed at the edge of the bed. "What is this?" Joffrey moaned sleepily. "I told you that I wasn't to be distur…" A cursory glance with one eye led to both shooting wide open, feet and hands scrambling to push as much to the headboard as possible. "No, you're dead." Standing directly by the massive bed was Robert Baratheon, skin a mottled grey and a red splotch of crimson on his nightshirt.

"Joffrey Waters," the apparition hissed. "Your rule shall be sturdy, standing the test of time as gold. God among men, until the greatest enemy arrives as prophecy told."

Breathing rapidly, blood dripped from his father's eyes and onto Joffrey's bare chest - still youthfully flat, bare of hair. "I am your trueborn son," he said in terror. "And I will rule longer than you."

"Beware the bastard, son of your predecessor. True of birth, but lowly of life." Blood poured out of Robert's orifices, despite the pale death that surrounded him. "Only he will destroy you, the Lord of Light alight."

"Azor Ahai?" Joffrey blinked, remembering something his tutors had said long ago. "He is my greatest enemy?"

Blood poured from the dead monarch's mouth, but his voice was as clear as thunderclaps. "On female flesh his sigil makes it's call, Azor Ahai walks among us, and your reign will fall." A meaty hand reached out and gripped Joffrey's wrist. The King screamed, eyes closing as skin burned from pure cold…

Scuffling boots on wood filled the room. "Your Grace!"

Opening them once again, the burning cold was gone, as was the apparition of his dead father. Joffrey was alone in the bed, guards surrounding him. Meryn Trant was the closest, sword drawn. "Your Grace, I heard your scream. Are you…" He reached for his liege's hand.

Joffrey wrenched it away. "Don't touch me!" He never wanted his guards to see him afraid again. "Bring me my manservant, now!" Lungs sucked in labored breaths. 'I am trueborn. I am trueborn." Hopefully he'd forget the obvious nightmare by the end of the day.