Revenge - Game of Thrones

Revenge

The sound of battle was drowned out by the walls of The Red Keep, blocking out the fearful cries and shrieks of the men who fought bravely for their Kings. The only difference was, one King joined with his men on the field, the other hid where he believed himself safe. News of Robb Stark’s march South had shadowed the Capital for days, no man truly believing that The Young Wolf would make it to the mighty gates of Kings Landing. But the sense of men was of poor worth, for The King in the North had made it this far, and wouldn’t cease until his revenge had been taken. King Joffrey sat nervously upon his chair, biting his nails on one hand whilst the other brushed against the sharp surface of the Iron Throne. His throne. ‘It is no one elses. It is mine, and Robb Stark can’t have it.’ He thought, his anger writhing inside him as he tried to hate the man Ned Stark’s son had become. Joffrey feared death, every part of it. He feared what would become of his name, his body, his crown. His mother had told him that the wolves and stags of the woods would bow before him, but oh how wrong had she been. Stupid woman, he thought. In the hallway just outside the throne room, his Kingsguard stood sworn to protect him. He would be safe. The sounds of sword-on-sword was audible now, the ring of metal almost mocking him in his own home, calling for his blood to be spilt. “If it’s a fight Robb Stark wants, it is a fight he shall get. I’ll kill him.” Said Joffrey to himself. He spoke quietly, his desire to shout had suddenly disappeared. As the noise from outside began to die down, Joffrey slumped in his throne. The intruders must be dead, I am safe.

Then the heavy wooden doors to the throne room swung open.

Alone, Robb Stark entered the room. With each step he took the metal from his armour shook, the ring of it echoing through each ancient and deserted crevice in which the skulls of the Targaryen dragons used to reside. The shiny, silver steel reflected little now; its vision blurred with the crimson liquid of those who tried to stand in his way. The dark grey cloak that fell over his back was also stained with red, the pelt of a wolf clinging to his shoulders as if it were his friend. Padding in behind him was his real friend, his loyal Grey Wind who remained at his heels. Robb stopped in the centre of the throne room, his pale blue eyes gliding over every detail, every pattern, every colour, before finally meeting Joffrey’s. It had been years since the two had last met, back in his home. Back in Winterfell. Both were mere boys then, what were they now? Killers.

Joffrey squirmed awkwardly in his chair, wishing he could melt into the iron that forged the uncomfortable seat. Robb’s mouth curved into a smile as he raised a brow, his right hand resting on the pommel of his longsword and his left stroked the nape of his direwolf.

“The wolves have arrived, Your Grace.” Robb smirked, as he announced himself. He could almost taste revenge, its vile tricks and sweet justice dancing before him as if he could reach out and grasp it. Joffrey abruptly stood and drew his sword, it’s point sharp and slender: Hearteater, he called it. He would let Sansa Stark taste her brothers blood. “After I kill you, your wolf will make a beautiful trophy.” He jested with what little courage he had left. Robb’s smile only grew.

He marched towards Joffrey then, and Grey Wind did not move an inch. Robb slowed his pace just before he reached the southern ‘King’, really studying his face and searching for his fathers friends face. Robert Baratheon was no where to be found, only Lannister. Joffrey also did not move right away, struck with sudden fear, but he soon made a prod for the traitor Ned Stark’s son. Swiftly avoiding the thrust of the blade, Robb stepped aside and hastily drew his own sword. “It is treason to draw steal to your King! You will die for this, Stark!” Screamed Joffrey. “Will I?” Replied Robb, still smirking as suddenly he lunged towards him and their swords met. The clash of metal to metal sounded through the empty hall, as if they were the only two left in the world besides the giant wolf observing them. Grey Wind did not stir, only watched the fighting commence; he seemed rather amused. Their swords swung back and forth; Robb’s hits were refined yet brutal, Joffrey’s more of an aimless set of strikes that didn’t even come close to hitting his competitor. The longer they fought, the more obvious it became that Robb was playing a game with Joffrey like a cat would a mouse, a wolf and a lamb. Robb almost seemed to push Joffrey back towards his throne, cornering him in his own home. “You can have the North!” Screeched Joffrey, pleading with the man who intended to see him dead. With a single bash of his shoulder, Robb sent Joffrey sprawling backwards and stumbling on his feet. His golden crown rolled to the floor, ringing as it hit the cold stone bricks. “Aye, but I can’t have my father.” Said Robb, his tone vengeful. He stood quiet for a moment, his sword hanging at his side and stained with the blood of Lannisters. Joffrey also regained his stature, and observed as he saw the only weakness in Robb, that was his family. His father, his mother, his sister, they all meant so much to him.

A malicious smile grew upon Joffrey’s smug face once he thought he had won. “Your traitor father.” He mocked, slanting in his stance and holding his sword up once more. “Your whore sister begged for his life, you know. Mercy, she said. And I gave him mercy… His head shouldn’t have been the only thing on a spike.” He said. But before he could begin his tormenting laugh, Robb abruptly stepped forward and drove his sword straight up through his chest and out through his back. Joffrey’s smile quickly vanished and his eyes grew wide. “And not a soul to hear.” Robb venomously recited the final lyrics from the Lannister tune, pulling his blade swiftly from Joffrey’s body. The blood poured out and dripped to the floor, his body fell limp, and he dropped. Sheathing his sword, Robb abandoned Joffrey’s body and ambled down the steps from the Iron throne. He turned and stood for a moment, admiring the throne in all its glory, free for the taking.

But just like his father had done before him, he turned away from the mighty throne and marched out from the hall, Grey Wind at his heels. Robb Stark, the King in the North.