Joffrey 1

293AC

Joffrey picked at his chicken.

He did not think he was suited for war, not as his father intended him to be at least. He could hold a sword now, better than he had been able to at least. His father had made sure of that, but it was all the other things. The voyages, two weeks stuck with a constant need to vomit, and having to put up with a tiny room to his own.

He knew that most of the men had less, but he was a prince and they were smallfolk, and his father slept in a room that was at least tall enough to lay flat across.

His dead cousin must have designed these galleons to be uncomfortable for everyone except the Captain. That was sensible.

What was worse, he had the cabin across from his uncle, who always seemed to look at him with cold disdain, everywhere he went, probably because he couldn't measure up to his cousin.

How often was he reminded of that?

His cousin made cannon, his cousin made ships, his cousin had as much gold as casters rock without a gold mine. His cousin was lost chasing a crazy mass-murdering barbarian from the Iron-Islands, while he only sat in the palace.

His mother told them that it wasn't true, that he was more beautiful, better than his cousin, but he knew she was lying to him. He could hear the truth in their words, especially when it was his father that spoke them. It all built up in a frustrating tornado inside of him, because he didn't have power over anything, anyone. There was no way for him to match his cousin when he could hardly even leave his room without a dozen guards. Where was one supposed to even learn of Ships and Cannons? The servants could not tell him anything useful, that was why he beat them. Pycelle was a doddering old fool who knew nothing about them.

Now he had seen the ships, and even the cannons, and he disliked both of them. The ships were uncomfortable, the cannons ugly.

He was glad to leave them and his dour uncle behind. His other uncle was much more cheerful, though he still felt that Renly didn't like him much, he was always at least polite, as befit a prince of his status. He and the reach men seemed the best of the camp anyhow, aside from the four Kingsguard that accompanied his father.

He wished that Ser Jaime had come, as he was always kind to him, but then, he hadn't wanted to come in the first place.

"Finish your food, Joffrey." His father said, snapping him out of his thoughts, and he nodded, tearing into the chicken with haste. He had learned quickly once they were at sea that his father was more than willing to smack him about in training should he fail to live up to his obligations as Robert saw them. It made sense, he was a king after all, and Joffrey would never tolerate such things as a king.

His father nodded at the haste with which he ate and turned back to Lord Eddard, or Ned as he called him.

Joffrey didn't know what to make of the Northern Lord. His father loved the man and had always told stories of his friendship with him, so Joffrey had always thought he would be a big man, like his Father or Uncles, or even like the Mountain, but Lord Eddard was a normal man by appearances if a northerner, and it seemed odd that his father would be friends with him.

Then again, across the whole of the camp, Lord Eddard had been the only highborn lord he had talked to who had not immediately begun comparing him to his cousin. That at least stood in his favor, even if he was not the titan that Joffrey had always imagined.

He listened quietly as the two continued talking. They were speaking of supply lines and deployments and which lord or knight should command what group since their current commander had fallen sick. It was all quite odd. Joffrey had always thought of war as being very simple. Whoever had the more men or the better ones tended to win the battles, but the men talked about these seemingly superfluous things as if they were of grave importance. It was nothing like the camp of his Uncle Renly, which was all lances and polished armor and splendorous knights.

Something scratched at the back of his mind from their conversation, and he resolved himself that the next time his father took him to the field for training he would ask him about what all of it meant. If that was part of war then shouldn't he know of it? He was a prince after all. Wasn't he going to be King someday?

A King needed to know how to fight wars, didn't he?

He finished his chicken off and passed the plate to a servant as he thought on the mystery before him.

War seemed to be a very confusing business.