Joffrey I

The boy lost a little bit more of the man he'd been every year.

It did not start with pain, as one might imagine, but rather numbness, and the feeling of something wet and warm spreading in his mouth so fast he had to spit it out or choke. For a while, he really had no notion where he was or how he got there. After the passage of an indeterminate amount of time, which could've been seconds, hours, or days, feminine hands gripped the boy with surprising strength and hustled him out of the room.

"Fetch a maester!" cried a woman's voice. He understood most of those words, but what in the world was a maester?

The boy who had once been a man tried to walk, but short, unfamiliar legs struggled to respond to his mind's commands. So he stumbled, quite embarrassingly, almost falling to the ground again at the threshold of a doorway. Angry words from a gruff man chased them, but in his present state, they were entirely unintelligible.

"That beast!" the woman hissed with such venom it made him start. "How dare he lay his hands upon my son, the prince!"

He was a prince?

The numbness had given way to a dull ache, and the boy could feel a few loose teeth with his tongue. Pain concentrated his mind. After the second stumble, the woman, his mother, supposedly, ordered someone else to carry him, and the boy could really look around.

A castle, he observed. It was constructed of red stone, of daunting dimensions, and left him with the impression of lived-in authenticity. This was no world heritage site, nor a museum, and definitely not a copy constructed with modern methods. He was being carried through a very real castle. Something stuck in his back, and the boy realized the man carrying him was in armor.

That armor wasn't fake either! It was terribly real, thick and heavy, not the kind of thing a Hollywood actor would wear in a period piece laden with historical inaccuracies. Just then, a terrible realization crystallized in the still-concussed mind of the boy.

This isn't my world.

Even if it was uncomfortable, he made himself go perfectly still in the arms of the armed man. This could still be a dream. He willed himself to wake, but still, the metal pressing into his back felt uncomfortably real.

"Your Grace?" the man, the knight, asked in alarm. They'd stopped walking.

After an awkward beat, the boy who was once a man realized he was being addressed. "M'fine," he forced out.

"Of course you are! Of course you are!" Those feminine hands, white with long, thin fingers, stroked his hair and wiped a spot of blood at the corner of his mouth. "My good boy, my strong boy, my brave boy," she gushed in a voice both kindly and half-mad. "Mother is here. Mother knows. You're safe now. That beast shall never lay his filthy paws on you ever again!" she swore.

Their sudden closeness gave the boy his first good look at the woman. She was beautiful, shockingly so, with high cheekbones, a delicate mouth trembling with equal parts grief and fury, and long blonde hair done up in an elaborate bun.

"Mother," he repeated her words, then again, with more confidence. "You're my mother." If the man who was no more didn't know it, the boy did. Calling the beautiful woman his mother just felt right.

"Yes, darling boy! The maester will be here soon to see to your hurts."

"What's a maester?" he dared to ask.

Mother frowned at his question, and for a moment, he feared he'd revealed himself, but then anger, green and terrible, flashed in her eyes. "How I hate him!" she ranted. "Robert hit you so hard he addled your wits!"

"It was quite uncalled for, Your Grace," the knight carrying him interjected.

"If your opinion is wanted, Ser Meryn, it will be asked for. Elsewise, be silent!" Mother said coldly, her rebuke making the man stand straighter, but the metal of his gauntlets only dug deeper into the boy's back when they started walking again.

Vainly, he searched his surroundings for some indication of unreality, something that didn't belong. Finding none, the boy attempted to do math in his head, which he could, easily. Seven times three was definitely twenty-one. He had work tomorrow, or thought he did, but the details were already slipping away.

There was a man, once, but he had gone to sleep and woken up in a boy's body. It was like something out of a story! But this was no story. The castle was real. The knight holding him was real. Above all, the pain was real. That troubled him most of all. Try as he might, the boy, definitely not the man anymore, couldn't recall feeling pain in a dream, not like this.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Where are we?" the boy asked. Maybe he could feign delirium to explain away his total cluelessness.

"In Maegor's Holdfast, of course," his mother answered easily. "Worry not, little lion, help is on the way."

They kept walking, every step jostling the boy uncomfortably. One of the loose teeth in his mouth was just about ready to fall out. He could tell with his tongue. Something hit him hard. This was not a world where he was safe, he realized with fear. Even if he was a prince, maybe the king had multiple wives, and abused the lesser ones who displeased him. There were places like that. The boy needed more information, quickly.

"Mother, I don't understand," he stated, loud and strong. If anyone was on his side, it would most likely be her. She was the only one he could trust. "I don't know where that is. My mind is blank. Explain to me where I am, exactly. Please!"

They stopped walking instantly, and his mother turned to him. "You are in the Red Keep, in King's Landing," she explained slowly. "Never fear, my love, this is but a spell that will pass. Once Maester Pycelle has a look at you, you'll be right as rain."

The boy looked around. The Red Keep? Not a terribly creative name, but it fit. King's Landing? Never heard of it. He was blind, totally blind. This could be any world, with unfamiliar customs, and it looked like he was stuck. Not ideal, not ideal at all.

"And who am I?" he pressed. Before his mother could balk, he swiftly added, "Please, mother. Just humor me. What is my name and position?"

As the words left his mouth, he chastized himself for not phrasing the question in a more childish way, but his mother seemingly took no notice. Rather, she smiled. "You are Prince Joffrey, of houses Baratheon and Lannister, my little lion. You, my love, are crown prince and heir to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Crown Prince," was just about all he understood. Seven Kingdoms? Iron Throne? It all sounded like a bunch of fantasy nonsense. The man from before was never a fan of the genre. Being heir had its advantages, but likely meant more pressure for him. More threats, too.

"Who hit me and why?" he continued his questions.

This time, his mother really did look displeased. "Ah, well, you presented your father, the king, with a cat."

"A cat?" This made no sense at all. Did these "Seven Kingdoms" have a taboo against cats? Like some sort of reverse Egypt? "I don't understand."

"You don't need to, little lion," the woman said sweetly with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Your father, the king, misliked the cat and struck you like a savage," she spat. "You'll be a better king than him one day, I'm sure."

Already lying to me, Mom? He didn't know the details, but his bullshit detector was really going off. Well, she had still given him something, and he was a kid. Maybe something political she didn't think he would understand was going on. The boy smiled back, showing his bloody teeth.

Once they reached the end of the hall, the knight carried him into a room and sat him down on a table to be examined.

Maesters, it turned out, were some manner of medieval doctor, if his guess about the tech level turned out to be correct. Or perhaps they were an order of monks who served the same purpose. The old man certainly dressed the part.

Pycelle, who jingled and jangled with more bling than any rapper he'd ever heard of, poked and prodded the boy in what seemed to be a systematic manner, paying special attention to his mouth and making him follow a finger with his eyes.

"Some of those teeth will have to go, Your Grace," the old man said sadly.

"As I feared," his mother replied. "Robert backhanded poor Joff with all his strength! We are fortunate that my son only lost a few teeth!"

"Baby teeth at that, Your Grace." Pycelle turned to the boy, Joff, and spoke in a kindly manner. "Worry not, my prince. Your teeth will grow back soon enough, but I fear you'll be supping on nought but soup and softened bread for some time."

"Joffrey is a lion!" his mother declared. "Lions eat meat, Pycelle!"

Joffrey, then. Joffrey was his name. It sounded right.

"Cooked slow, meat should be fine," Pycelle acceded to her demands instantly. "For the nonce, Prince Joffrey must keep to tender food. I'll inform the cooks."

"See that you do," his mother said shortly. Her tone meant dismissal, even Joffrey could tell. Pycelle took the implied command with good grace and left them alone without another word.

Joffrey considered bringing up his lost memory, but thought better of it. He was a child. Watching and learning would be more effective.

These "Seven Kingdoms" were an absolute mystery to him, but if he wanted to stay alive, Joffrey would have to learn quickly.