"Come on, Joffrey!" Robert shouted, cheering on his firstborn. The King was echoed by courtiers and minor lords who had arrived in the capital on their own business. "Come on, like that! Give him a real blow! Smash him into the ground!"
Cersei glanced with contempt at her husband, who was waving a wine horn, after which all her attention focused back on the arena where her son was fighting at that moment. Joffrey tossed his long blonde hair from his face, adjusted his grip on the hammer, and lunged at an enemy who was about twenty years older than him. His opponent, despite the age difference, felt exhausted, while the crown prince, who was not yet fourteen, was fresh and full of strength. Only the beads of sweat on his forehead suggested that the Baratheon was not made of iron and could also tire.
"You are much stronger than you look, my Prince," the Queen's guard said, dodging a strike.
"Holy gives me strength," Joffrey replied, knocking the warrior to the ground with a backswing of his hammer. "And I have won."
Acknowledging his defeat, the guard cast his sword aside, drawing a general roar of delight from the spectators. Satisfied with the victory, the Prince proudly thrust the hammer above his head, his green eyes gleaming triumphantly, but a smile never touched his lips. The young Baratheon smiled very rarely, and some servants even joked that the Prince's real father was not King Robert at all, but his eternally surly brother Stannis, Lord of Dragonstone.
"Excellent, my boy!" a pleased Robert stepped into the arena and slapped his son on the shoulder. "You fight like a true Baratheon!"
"Thank you, father," Joffrey nodded respectfully.
"Three victories in a row!" the King continued to exult. "This must be celebrated!"
"I doubt Mother would like it if I started drinking wine," the Prince remarked.
"Pff, as if we're going to ask her," Robert waved it off. "You are my son, and today you and I shall drink properly to celebrate your future victories. And no one in the whole world, including your mother, will dare stop us!"
"Then I'll clean myself up first," Joffrey replied, "for I reek like a draft ox."
"Get used to it," Robert took a pull from the horn, suddenly becoming more serious. "It is stench, blood, and filth that accompany warriors everywhere, not feasts and endless amusements like those idiot minstrels love to sing about. Those fools haven't seen a single battle, and so they're always composing some nonsense."
"I'll remember, father," the Prince nodded, then turned to the approaching Clegane. "Let's go, Dog. Tell me what you thought of today's fight."
"As you wish," Clegane replied dryly, his voice sounding more like a saw cutting into wood.
Joffrey handed the training hammer to a scurrying servant and headed to his chambers, occasionally giving a short nod to any lord he encountered on his way. The Dog followed him loyally, looking around with a terrifying gaze that made particularly sensitive servants shrink away. Just in case.
"Well, what do you say?" the Prince asked when they reached his chambers. The servants, frozen like statues, had already prepared a bath and clean clothes for the heir. Feeling no modesty before them, Joffrey quickly undressed and climbed into the water, washing away the sweat.
"Those aren't opponents, they're a pack of idiots," Clegane snorted, habitually scanning the room's furnishings: the tables, as always, were piled with books and scrolls; a lute rested on a wooden stand, on which the younger Baratheon would sometimes play melodies. "Paint stripes on frogs, but it won't make them tigers."
"You believe they have no place in the Lannister guard?" Joffrey asked, wielding a long-handled brush. Summoning a servant with a large pitcher, he ordered him to add hot water.
"Their place is among the night-soil men," Clegane smirked. "Shoveling shit is just right for them."
Joffrey said nothing to this statement, merely closing his eyes and lounging in the bath. The Dog also fell silent. Every courtier in the palace knew that at such moments the Prince should not be touched or disturbed over trifles. If he needed anything, he would say so himself. Despite the fact that Joffrey looked nothing like his crowned father, he had a rather harsh temperament, befitting a true Baratheon. He absolutely could not tolerate stupid or slow servants, demanding unquestioning obedience. The sluggish and witless did not last long here.
As far as Clegane himself could judge, until about the age of five, the crown prince had grown up a spoiled boy whose endless whims were indulged by his mother. He was constantly demanding things, throwing tantrums, and immensely irritating everyone with his whining, as if he even enjoyed it. Robert was indifferent to his firstborn's upbringing, evidently completely disappointed in him, and so Queen Cersei enjoyed her son's undivided attention. No one in Westeros doubted that when the boy grew up, everyone around him would howl at his actions and foul character.
Everything suddenly changed when Joffrey turned five.
The young Prince surprised everyone without exception when, right in the middle of a formal dinner held in honor of his name day, he loudly asked the King to show him the hammer with which Baratheon had slain Rhaegar Targaryen at the Battle of the Trident. Clegane, present in the hall as the Prince's bodyguard, still remembered the astonishment that appeared on the faces of the King and Queen. No less surprised was the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, who froze with a fork at his mouth. All the other lords present at the dinner began to animatedly discuss Joffrey's new whim.
Robert, washing down his surprise with Arbor wine, was clearly delighted by his son's interest and, ignoring Cersei's disgruntled objections, led Joffrey straight to the armory. The Dog, consumed by curiosity, trailed after them. There, on a separate stand, rested a massive spiked war hammer, so heavy that only a few could lift it, while Robert himself had once wielded it with one hand. All these difficulties did not stop Joffrey from grabbing the long handle and trying to lift the fearsome weapon. The boy grunted from the strain, drenched in sweat, but could not even budge the hammer; however, the Prince did not think of giving up, showing a stubbornness unusual for him. Watching these futile efforts, Robert laughed loudly, rejoicing in his son's behavior for the first time. But Joffrey's next words sent the King into total ecstasy.
"Teach me how to fight with it," the Prince said, and in that same instant, he was swept up into his father's arms.
"Now those are the words of a true Baratheon!" the King exclaimed. "It's about time, my boy!"
From that very day, ignoring all the screams of Queen Cersei, the Prince practiced daily with a training hammer, while not forgetting swords and spears. With a monstrous speed that amazed all the hired teachers, the young Baratheon absorbed new information: the techniques shown to him by his mentors came to him with unprecedented ease, leading the teachers to praise Joffrey to the King incessantly, which only gave Robert more reason to be proud of his firstborn. Previously, he had had no reason for it.
And then came the loudest scandal the Red Keep had ever heard. The Greyjoy Rebellion broke out; Robert Baratheon immediately gathered an army and was about to set off for war when Joffrey volunteered to go with him. The King was simultaneously taken aback and delighted by such a decision, while Cersei was in overt horror. The royal spouses argued all day and all night, insulting each other without any restraint so that the soldiers who heard it all felt their ears wither, after which Cersei began throwing everything she could get her hands on at Baratheon. No one had ever seen the Queen in such a rage, but Robert, by all appearances, was very pleased with what was happening. What made him so happy, no one could understand, but in the end, the King agreed that a five-year-old boy had no place at war. Joffrey was upset, but in return, he demanded to be allowed to practice with a blunted sword.
Again there were shouts and arguments, but this time Robert, as they say, dug his heels in. Since his son couldn't go to war, let him get at least something in return. True, as soon as he left the capital with the army, Cersei forbade all training entirely and tried to give Joffrey a lecture.
"It is too early for you to fight," the Queen said sternly, looking into her son's green eyes. "Leave war to the cutthroats and those madmen who are always rushing into battle. You are meant to rule Westeros, and for that, other talents are needed—first and foremost, the ability to think."
"If that is so, then I need teachers and books," the Prince replied unexpectedly, looking far too serious for his age. "And immediately."
Such stubbornness from the Prince was no longer new to those around him, but the reason this time was somewhat unusual.
"Joffrey, there is no need to rush so," Cersei changed her tone to a more affectionate one, deciding that her son was behaving this way because of his mother's strictness. "You still have plenty of time to learn everything needed to govern the state."
"I'm not allowed to train, it's too early to study," Joffrey summarized. "Fine, and what am I to do? Bang my head against the wall from boredom?"
"You'll have to give the boy either one or the other, dear sister."
Cersei pursed her lips. The last thing she wanted was to listen to advice from her younger brother, who was slowly sipping wine from a glass; a nearly empty pitcher stood beside him. Visiting the capital for a short stay, Tyrion Lannister, nicknamed the Fiend, looked with a smirk at his grimacing sister.
"The boy craves knowledge," the dwarf continued. "That is commendable for a future sovereign, and to be honest, his education should have been taken up long ago. And don't glare at me like that; you know yourself it's the truth."
"And I believe there is time," Cersei countered. "A child should have a childhood. The conversation is over."
The conversation was indeed over, but only until the King returned to the capital in victory. Young Joffrey wholeheartedly congratulated his father and the lords who arrived with him on their victory, after which he simply and plainly complained about his mother, throwing her into shock. She had not expected such an act from him at all and at first even decided that the Prince had been put up to it by his ugly uncle.
"My wife has an amazing quality," Robert hissed after hearing his son's complaints. "She knows how to ruin even the most joyful day. From this moment on, son, you may practice as much as you like, with any weapon you wish. And no one, NO ONE," the King emphasized, casting a murderous look at Cersei, "has the right to forbid you. Is that clear to everyone?!"
"And I also need mentors to help me learn how to rule the country in the future, for I was forbidden that as well," Joffrey declared. Tyrion Lannister laughed loudly, the Dog gave a short grunt, the Kingslayer raised his eyebrows in surprise, and Cersei turned pale as Death.
"You shall have teachers as soon as tomorrow," Robert assured his son, then addressed the lords of Westeros. "Unfortunately, I gave in to my wife's persuasions and did not take Joffrey with me, believing the boy had no place at war. Now I see that an even greater mistake was leaving him in the palace, in the 'caring' hands of his mother!"
Renly Barateon laughed loudly, but Tywin Lannister frowned. It was hard to say what Lord of Casterly Rock disliked more—the King's biting words or his daughter's behavior. Robert's words were a practically undisguised insult that Cersei could not endure. Jumping up from her seat, she shot a look full of hatred at the King and immediately retired to her chambers.
"The Seven be my witnesses," Tyrion muttered, "this boy is already smarter than most of those present. What will happen when he grows up?"
Years passed, the boy grew up, spending all his time either on training or on lessons with the teachers sent to him. Joffrey buried himself neck-deep in books and scrolls concerning everything necessary for a future king. Clegane didn't need to see the titles of the books to know what they were about. Many of them concerned the topic of religions spread both in Westeros and Essos, but what was interesting about that, the Dog did not understand. The Prince continued to rest in the bath; the servants were silent. Everyone was lost in their own thoughts.
***
How much time had passed since Arthas Menethil had felt such freedom? It seemed like thousands of years since he had set out for Northrend and found the cursed blade among the ice there. Had he been free since then? It had seemed so to him. It took dying to realize how many chains he had actually been bound by. And only at the moment when Frostmourne shattered into pieces did the fallen prince fully feel the shackles that had bound his soul for so long. Only with Arthas's death did they finally fall, allowing Menethil's spirit to journey to the Shadowlands.
What had he left behind? Almost certainly nothing good. Who knows what became of Azeroth when the Scourge was left without its king. Perhaps the dead destroyed all the Alliance Kingdoms. Or perhaps the Scourge itself had long since been exterminated. In any case, Arthas no longer cared. All that interested him upon arrival in the Shadowlands was where the exit was. He had not the slightest desire to stick around forever in this gloomy, nightmarish place. This desire became especially strong after the spirit of Varian Wrynn, King of Stormwind, famous for his bellicosity and far from the best temperament, showed up in the realm of the dead. Menethil had not the slightest desire to listen to his endless accusations.
The escape succeeded only when something happened in the material world. Something incredible happened there, in the world of the living, causing even the world of the dead to shudder to its darkest depths. An incredibly powerful force shook the Shadowlands, gaps formed in the very fabric of reality, and Arthas fled through one of them without hesitation, only to end up in the Great Dark Beyond. His spirit, drawn by an unknown force, raced forward, unable to stop, until it was sucked into an unknown world, which Arthas entered with the first cry of the newborn Prince Joffrey.
And here he was, once again a crown prince; even his appearance was similar to the previous one, though the name was different, but that was no trouble. Most importantly, he was alive again: his heart pumped blood through his veins, air filled his lungs, and the cold that had bound his soul for so long finally receded. Only the memories of what he had done continued to remind the Prince who he truly was.
True, there was one more oddity that troubled Arthas in his new life: a faint, yet familiar breath of Death brought by the winds from the far North. He did not know its source, but he felt that sooner or later the truth would be revealed, and he would not like it one bit.