VII

Joffrey Baratheon stood silent in the middle of the dark bedroom, an unloaded crossbow hanging from his hand. The dancing fires of the chandeliers reflected in his wide open eyes as he watched the redheaded girl squirming in agony in front of him, bound and pinned to his bed and shaking in pain.

The sight was absolutely mesmerizing.

The King exhaled quietly as his eyes focused on Ros’ hips with two feathered bolts sticking out of her flesh, one precisely between her thighs and another one just a bit higher. Slowly, Joffrey put his free hand to his mouth and wiped his face, unable to take his eyes off the girl. Her bare thighs twitched once again around the feathered bolt, and Joffrey felt that his costume was clearly too tight around his hips.

He blinked and looked away, only just now noticing the dryness in his throat. Fighting the temptation to look at the whore again, Joffrey turned around and walked hastily to the table, dropped the crossbow onto it and poured some wine into the cup. The drink went down his throat in one gulp, and the young King slammed the cup down onto the table and reached for the lever, noticing his own hands shaking from the excitement. This whole experience was so surreal. Even in his wildest dreams, he had never thought it would be so thrilling.

The lever crashed down onto the table with a clang, and Joffrey whirled around with a loaded crossbow and a feathered bolt in his hands, facing the girl. Ros was howling quietly, shaking and staring down at the floor, the bottom of her tunic colored dark red and feathered bolts sticking out of her body. An unbelievably captivating sight, Joffrey thought once again, slowly approaching her. Like a work of art. A painting.

All it needed was one final brush stroke.

“Look at me,” he commanded. No reaction followed. Ros kept staring at the floor, whimpering quietly, her limbs twitching.

“Look at me!” Joffrey yelled, gripping the frame of the crossbow impatiently. The girl shuddered barely noticeably, then slowly raised her head.

Joffrey felt a faint chill run down his spine. Her eyes… He had never seen eyes so devoid of any emotion. He could not see any fear in them, yet there was no anticipation, either. Her empty eyes were piercing right through him, staring past him into the distance. There was something deeply disturbing in this gaze… and at the same time, something incredibly hypnotizing. Joffrey could feel his heart starting to beat faster in his chest and blood rushing to his face as he kept looking into her eyes. It was something otherworldly.

The memory of that evening when Margaery had visited him in this bedroom wandered into his mind again. What were her words as she was holding the crossbow, Joffrey tried to recall?

“I imagine it must be so exciting to squeeze your finger here and watch something die over there…”

The tightly drawn string of the crossbow brushed along the reinforced frame, and the feathered bolt plunged into Ros’ left breast with force. A sharp high-pitched gasp broke the silence as the girl twitched, all of her muscles contracting at once. Her throat produced a quiet wheeze as a few more cramps ran up and down her body, her pupils dilating as she kept staring past Joffrey into the darkness behind him. Suddenly, her muscles appeared to relax all at once, and one more twitch gently rocked Ros’ body before her head slowly lowered and hung lifelessly from her neck. Her spine seemed to have lost its rigidity, and her whole posture on the bed became soft as her body leaned forward just a bit more, hanging by the hands from the knot at the top.

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One by one, minutes were passing by, but Joffrey kept standing in place, his stare fixed on the whore in front of him. She looked so… serene, Joffrey thought. The sight of the girl’s motionless body seemed so strangely, inexplicably peaceful. It was such a stark contrast with all the kicking and screaming… It was beautiful, Joffrey suddenly realized. Beautiful – in its own way.

He took a few slow steps back and gasped quietly when his leg touched the table. Unable to take his eyes off Ros, he dropped the crossbow clumsily onto the tabletop and slowly sat down onto his soft seat, then reached to the jug of wine blindly. What a strangely captivating sight it was, he marveled… Her screams and her blood and her body shaking in pain was something on the other level entirely; all of that was exciting and enticing and stirring up the desire beyond any expectations, but the finale of it was, oddly, nothing but pure beauty.

It was only now that Joffrey suddenly picked on the sound of the lifted jug of wine clanging against the tabletop, making him notice that his hands were still shaking. He dropped the jug back onto the table and pressed his hand against his face instead, exhaling softly and feeling sweat on his forehead and his upper lip. His vision slowly focused on the unloaded crossbow lying on the table next to the empty cup. He reached to it again and touched its frame gently, then moved his hand along the groove, feeling the metal rivets under his fingertips. With a quiet grunt, Joffrey shifted in his seat and reached to the weapon with both hands to move it onto his lap. He slowly ran his fingers along the frame once again and closed his eyes for a moment, his memory serving him the moments of today’s evening.

Oh, how sweetly Ros had screamed when the bolt had plunged into her hips. How her tears had been streaming down her pretty face this entire time… And she was pretty, Joffrey admitted willingly. He opened his eyes, shaking off the trance, and lifted his head to look at her body. Somewhere deep inside, he could almost feel regret that she was gone. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to bring her into his room once again, he thought, if only that was possible. Just to see the grimace of agony distort her pretty face for the first time again… And to hear her scream for the first time in a wonderful mixture of pain and disbelief. Gods, that was wonderful, Joffrey remembered, feeling the tightness of his costume around his hips again. He could feel the air around him getting denser and hotter. Joffrey wiped his face with his hand one more time, rested his chin on his hand and blinked, finally forcing himself to look away from the red-haired beauty pinned to his bed.

He needed fresh air. And some time alone.

With the crossbow still in his hand, he stood up and headed past the bed into the corner of the room. The heavy wooden door creaked as it slowly opened, and the young King stepped outside, ignoring the two knights looking at him. He took a few steps up the stairs, then stopped and turned his head, staring at the featureless wall to his left. “I don’t need you to accompany me,” he hissed, and the knights behind him took a step back. “And Ser Meryn… I expect that my chamber will be clean when I return.”

VIII

Sitting by the side of the Iron Throne in the empty throne room, Petyr Baelish kept motionless while his eyes traced the intricate contours of the large metal chair in front of him. The swords forming the sculpture, big and small, long and short, had lost their edge a long time ago, yet they never lost their menacing appearance. A suitable sign of power for a seat of power.

“A thousand blades, taken from the hands of Aegon’s fallen enemies, forged in the fiery breath of Balerion the Dread.”

The corners of Baelish’s mouth hinted at a smile when he heard the slimy voice of Varys. The nobleman kept still as the bald master of whisperers, draped in his yellow shapeless clothes, soundlessly approached him, walking across the spacious hall.

“There aren’t a thousand blades,” Petyr spoke with a condescending smile, his eyes still fixed on the seat of the King. “There aren’t even two hundred. I’ve counted.”

“Ha! I’m sure you have,” Varys chuckled as he took one more step closer. “Ugly old thing,” he commented, turning to face the Throne.

“Yet it has a certain… appeal.”

“The Lysa Arryn of chairs,” Varys responded with barely concealed acrimony. “Shame you had to settle for your second choice.”

Petyr turned to look at the bald eunuch, the same condescending smile still glued to his face. “Early days, my friend. It is flattering, really,”—he slowly stood up from his seat and clasped his hands—“you feeling such dread at the prospect of me getting what I want.”

Varys sighed, hiding a smile. “Thwarting you has never been my primary ambition, I promise you.” He tilted his head to the side. “Although, who doesn’t like to see their friends fail now and then?”

“You’re so right. For instance,” Baelish took a step down the stairs leading up to the Throne, “when I thwarted your plan to give Sansa Stark to the Tyrells… If I’m going to be honest, I did feel an unmistakable sense of… enjoyment there.” Petyr slowly approached his interlocutor and stopped by his side. “But your confidante…” He turned to face him, watching the smug expression on Varys’ face turn into a concerned one. “The one who fed you information about my plans, the one you swore to protect… You didn’t bring her any enjoyment. And she didn’t bring me any enjoyment. She was a bad investment on my part.” He turned away and continued on his path further away from the eunuch, hiding a smile playing on his lips. “Luckily, I have a friend who wanted to try something new. Something daring. And he was so grateful to me for providing this fresh… experience,” Baelish turned around, opening his arms wide in a dramatic gesture.

“I did what I did for the good of the realm,” Varys retorted, taking a couple steps towards him. It was not often that Petyr had the pleasure to see those clear signs of anger on the face of his opponent.

“The realm?” Baelish scoffed, looking at him. “Do you know what the realm is? It’s the thousand blades of Aegon’s enemies,” he started to slowly walk back towards Varys, a smug smirk appearing on his face. “A story we agree to tell each other over and over, till we forget that it’s a lie.”

“But what do we have left once we abandon the lie?” Varys stared into the eyes of the nobleman. “Chaos. A gaping pit waiting to swallow us all.”

Petyr squinted his eyes. For a brief moment, his smirk almost appeared evil.

“Chaos isn’t a pit. Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail, and never get to try again. The fall breaks them. And some are given a chance to climb, but they refuse. They cling to the realm… or the gods, or love… Illusions! Only the ladder is real. The climb is all there is.”

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Robin of Langley
2017