CHAPTER 1: THE BOAR ATTACK
The sun dipped low in the sky, casting elongated shadows that wove through the dense forest, making the undergrowth appear like a shifting mosaic of darkness and light. Joffrey Baratheon, perched high on his horse, exuded an air of arrogant satisfaction. His gaze darted through the thick brush, the thrill of the hunt palpable in his veins. The royal hunting party moved in a loose formation, their excitement underscored by the frantic barking of hounds ahead.
King Robert Baratheon, a towering figure with a hearty laugh that seemed to echo through the trees, rode at the center of the group, surrounded by his loyal men. Their voices, laden with camaraderie, mingled with the sounds of the forest. Beside Joffrey, Sandor Clegane, known as the Hound, maintained a stoic presence. His grim expression was a stark contrast to the young prince’s eager anticipation.
Without warning, the tranquility of the hunt was shattered. A massive boar erupted from the thicket, its formidable tusks catching the dappled sunlight and gleaming like deadly daggers. The beast charged with a ferocity that sent the hunting party into chaos. Men shouted in alarm, horses reared and whinnied, and the hounds lunged with reckless abandon.
Joffrey’s heart pounded with adrenaline as he raised his spear, but before he could make a decisive move, the boar's sudden turn caught him off guard. The beast slammed into his horse with such force that Joffrey was violently thrown to the ground. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, leaving him gasping as he tried to regain his bearings.
The boar, relentless and enraged, was upon him in an instant. Its tusks, glinting with deadly intent, tore into Joffrey’s flesh. The pain was searing and immediate, a raw, visceral agony that overwhelmed him. His vision blurred, and terror clawed at his chest as darkness began to close in.
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RED KEEP, KING’S LANDING
Joffrey awoke with a jolt, his body drenched in sweat and his breath coming in ragged gasps. The canopy of his opulent bed in the Red Keep loomed above him, its rich tapestries and golden embroidery a stark reminder of his royal status. As he lay still, struggling to make sense of the vivid, harrowing experience, his heart raced uncontrollably. The remnants of the nightmare—the pain, the fear, the pungent smell of blood and earth—clung to him, making it difficult to discern reality from the remnants of his dream.
A strangled cry escaped his lips, prompting an immediate response. Sandor Clegane, the Hound, burst into the room, sword drawn and eyes scanning for any sign of danger. His formidable presence, usually a symbol of intimidation, was now a shield of reassurance.
“My prince, are you all right?” Sandor’s voice was a low growl, his expression one of rare concern.
“Out!” Joffrey commanded, his voice trembling yet authoritative. “Get out, Sandor.”
The Hound hesitated, his scarred face a mask of unease, but he complied, retreating from the room and closing the door with a soft click. Left alone, Joffrey lay there for several minutes, his breaths coming in deep, measured gasps as he tried to steady his racing heart. The memory of the boar’s attack lingered with unsettling clarity. This was no mere dream; it felt like a premonition, too detailed and vivid to dismiss.
Driven by a sense of urgency, Joffrey swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. His movements were swift as he dressed, his mind racing with questions. As he stepped out of his bedroom, Sandor fell into step beside him, his presence a grounding force in the midst of Joffrey’s tumultuous thoughts.
The corridors of the Red Keep bustled with the usual activity. Maids and servants scurried about, their whispers and furtive glances a testament to Joffrey’s reputation. Ignoring their curiosity, Joffrey moved with purpose, his eyes fixed ahead as he headed toward the Grand Maester’s chambers.
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GRAND MAESTER’S CHAMBERS
Half an hour later, Joffrey stood before Grand Maester Pycelle, his face a mix of determination and unease. The elderly maester blinked up at him, his watery eyes filled with a trace of confusion. “My prince, how can I be of service?”
“I need books,” Joffrey said, his tone brooking no argument. “Books on dreams and their meanings.”
Pycelle’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Dreams, my prince?”
“Yes,” Joffrey snapped, impatience creeping into his voice. “Dreams. Visions. Whatever you call them. I need to understand what they mean.”
The grand maester’s gaze shifted to Sandor, who stood silently by Joffrey’s side, his presence a silent testament to the gravity of the situation. With a nod of understanding, Pycelle began to shuffle off, his movements surprisingly swift for his age. “Of course, my prince. I will fetch the books you require immediately.”
As Joffrey settled into a seat at a long work table, he could feel Sandor’s scrutiny. The Hound’s usual stoic demeanor now carried a flicker of skepticism, a reaction Joffrey noted with a mixture of annoyance and determination. The prince had rarely, if ever, shown an interest in books, let alone the scholarly texts he now sought. It was a stark departure from his usual disdain for learning.
“Yes, Sandor, I read,” Joffrey said, catching the Hound’s surprised glance. “I just don’t like doing it when I’m forced to,” he added defensively.
Sandor remained silent, though his eyes betrayed his surprise. Joffrey turned his attention back to the table, feeling a knot of unease in his stomach. It wasn’t merely the vividness of the dream that troubled him; it was the realization that he needed to be more than the petulant boy everyone perceived him to be.
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Grand Maester Pycelle soon returned, his arms burdened with dusty tomes and scrolls. He placed them carefully on the table before Joffrey, bowing slightly. “These are the most comprehensive texts we have on dreams and their interpretations, my prince. They include writings from various maesters, scholars, and seers.”
Joffrey nodded curtly. “Thank you, Grand Maester. You may leave us.”
Pycelle hesitated, casting a final glance at Joffrey and Sandor before shuffling out of the room. Joffrey wasted no time, pulling the first book toward him. The old leather creaked under his touch, and the musty scent of ancient pages filled the air.
As Joffrey scanned the pages, Sandor remained vigilant. The Hound had always seen Joffrey as a spoiled, capricious boy, but there was something different now. The determination in Joffrey’s eyes was unfamiliar, and it piqued Sandor’s curiosity.
Joffrey’s fingers traced the text, his brow furrowing in concentration. The first book he picked up was titled Dreams and Prophecies: A Maester’s Compendium. He flipped through the pages, searching for anything that might resonate with his experience. The language was dense and filled with archaic references, but Joffrey persisted.
He paused at a section labeled “Prophetic Dreams and Their Meanings.” His eyes skimmed the text as he read aloud, his voice barely above a whisper. “Dreams of death often signify a great change or transformation. They can serve as warnings or premonitions, urging the dreamer to exercise caution.”
Joffrey’s frown deepened as he continued reading. The accounts of kings and warriors who had experienced vivid dreams before crucial moments in their lives made him wonder if his own dream was a warning. Was the boar’s attack a metaphor for something more ominous? Or was it a glimpse of a future that could be avoided?
He glanced up at Sandor, who stood like a silent sentinel. “Sandor, have you ever had a dream that felt… real? Like it was more than just a dream?”
The Hound’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Aye, I’ve had a few. Dreams can be tricky. Sometimes they mean something, and sometimes they don’t.”
Joffrey absorbed Sandor’s words, turning his attention back to the book. Whatever the dream’s meaning, he was determined to uncover its secrets. For the first time, he felt a flicker of unfamiliar resolve—a desire to understand, to learn, and to rise above the image others had of him.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
As the hours passed and the sun’s light shifted across the sky, Joffrey immersed himself in the texts, his mind buzzing with new knowledge. Sandor remained by his side, a constant, silent guardian.
By evening, Joffrey finally closed the last book, exhaustion evident in his posture but also a sense of accomplishment. “We’re done for now,” he said, standing and stretching his stiff muscles. “Let’s go. We’ve got preparations to make.”
Sandor nodded, falling into step beside him as they left the Grand Maester’s chambers. Joffrey’s mind churned with possibilities and plans. The dream had shaken him, but it had also ignited a fire within him. He would not be caught unprepared again. He was determined to uncover the truth, no matter what it took.
With Sandor by his side, Joffrey felt a newfound confidence. The future remained uncertain, but for the first time, Joffrey Baratheon felt ready to confront it head-on.
As Joffrey made his way through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, a sudden, unexpected sight greeted him: his uncle, Tyrion Lannister, emerging from a nearby alcove. Tyrion’s presence was marked by an air of casual nonchalance, and in his hand, he held a chalice filled with wine of a deep, golden hue. The rich aroma of the wine seemed to follow him, a stark contrast to the tense atmosphere that had enveloped Joffrey.
Tyrion’s mismatched eyes, one hazel and the other green, locked onto Joffrey with a glint of amusement. The corners of his mouth curled into a knowing smile, a smile that seemed to hold a multitude of unspoken thoughts. His gaze briefly flickered over Sandor Clegane, as if the Hound were a mere shadow in his path, but it quickly returned to Joffrey with a renewed intensity.
“Ah, the young prince himself,” Tyrion said, his voice smooth and taunting. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”
Joffrey’s jaw tightened at the sight of his uncle. He had never been particularly fond of Tyrion, whose sharp wit and keen intellect often felt like a personal affront to his own sense of superiority. The presence of the wine, a symbol of indulgence and leisure, only seemed to accentuate the disparity between their moods.
“Uncle,” Joffrey responded with a forced semblance of politeness, though his tone was edged with irritation. “I was merely seeking a moment of respite. And you, it appears, are indulging in your usual vices.”
Tyrion chuckled softly, taking a leisurely sip from his chalice. “Indulging, you say? Is that what you call it? I prefer to think of it as savoring the finer things in life. But please, do tell me—what has driven you to seek the solace of the kitchen on such a fine day?”
Joffrey’s eyes narrowed. He could sense the underlying mockery in Tyrion’s voice, and it only fueled his frustration. “I’ve been reading,” he snapped, “trying to make sense of a troubling dream.”
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued. “A dream, you say? Do enlighten me. What sort of dream could possibly drive the prince to seek out knowledge?”
Joffrey hesitated for a moment, the vividness of the dream still fresh in his mind. He considered whether he should reveal any details to Tyrion, whose sharp mind and penchant for manipulation made him a formidable adversary.
“I’d rather not go into details,” Joffrey replied curtly, turning on his heel as if to end the conversation. “I’m merely seeking answers.”
Tyrion’s smile widened, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Very well, nephew. I shall respect your wish for secrecy. But remember, should you ever find yourself in need of counsel—or a good glass of wine—you know where to find me.”
With that, Tyrion took another sip from his chalice and continued down the corridor, his gait relaxed and his demeanor as carefree as ever. Joffrey watched him go, a mixture of frustration and unease gnawing at him. The encounter had done little to ease his mind, and as he turned back toward the kitchen, he felt a renewed determination to uncover the truth behind his unsettling dream—regardless of any distractions or derisive comments from his uncle.
A few minutes later, Joffrey pushed open the heavy wooden door leading into the Red Keep’s expansive kitchen. The sight that greeted him was a whirlwind of activity. The sizable room, with its high, arched ceilings and stone walls, was abuzz with the clamor of preparation. An uncountable number of maids scurried about, their faces flushed from the heat of the numerous hearths and ovens. They moved with a purpose, carrying trays of raw ingredients, stirring steaming pots, and shouting instructions to one another.
Despite the frenetic pace, the maids slowed their movements slightly as Joffrey entered, their eyes flickering with a mix of respect and apprehension. The kitchen was a realm usually reserved for the lower echelons of the court, and the prince's presence was a stark reminder of the hierarchy that governed the Red Keep.
Mina, the head cook, stepped forward. A middle-aged woman with a sturdy build and a face lined by years of experience in the kitchen, she wiped her hands on her apron before giving a deep, respectful bow. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice carrying the reverence expected in the presence of royalty. “How may I assist you?”
Sandor Clegane, ever vigilant, stood just behind Joffrey, his large frame almost blocking the doorway. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, a constant reminder of the unyielding protection he provided. His eyes, cold and watchful, scrutinized Mina with a degree of intensity that would have been intimidating to anyone less accustomed to the Hound’s presence.
Joffrey gave a curt nod in acknowledgment but offered no immediate response. He glanced around the bustling kitchen, noting the variety of ingredients and the clatter of pots and pans. “I’m here for some peace and quiet,” he said abruptly, his tone betraying a hint of the frustration he still felt from his earlier encounter with Tyrion. “And perhaps a bit of refreshment.”
Mina, ever perceptive to the moods of the court, nodded quickly. “Of course, Your Grace. We’ll have something prepared for you immediately. Please, have a seat.” She gestured toward a small table near the hearth, where a few chairs were placed.
Joffrey settled into one of the chairs, his posture rigid as he tried to shake off the tension of the day. Sandor remained at his side, standing like a silent sentinel, his gaze never wavering from the surroundings. The Hound’s presence was both a shield and a source of discomfort, but Joffrey had long grown accustomed to it.
Mina moved with practiced efficiency, directing a couple of the younger maids to fetch a selection of fruits and pastries. “We’ll have a light repast for you, Your Grace,” she said, her tone soothing as she worked. “Is there anything in particular you would like?”
Joffrey, still lost in thought, waved a hand dismissively. “Anything will do. Just something to occupy my mind for a while.”
As the kitchen bustled around him, Joffrey’s thoughts wandered back to his unsettling dream. The vividness of the boar’s attack and its subsequent impact on him was a constant weight on his mind. He needed answers, and the unsettling encounter with Tyrion had only fueled his desire to uncover the meaning behind it.
Mina soon returned with a selection of fruits, cheeses, and pastries, arranging them neatly on a platter before Joffrey. She gave a final bow and retreated to her duties, leaving Joffrey to his thoughts. Sandor remained close, his presence a steady reminder of the reality that lay beyond the kitchen's confines.
As Joffrey picked at the assortment of food, he found little solace in the distraction. The kitchen, though a brief respite from his earlier tensions, did little to quell the growing sense of urgency within him.
As Joffrey drained the last few drops of golden wine from his chalice, he cast a contemplative glance at Sandor Clegane. The Hound’s usually impassive face seemed to register the prince’s attention, and he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment.
“You have been by my side for as long as I care to remember,” Joffrey began, setting the chalice aside with a clink. “Yet, I know very little about your own family. It seems odd to me that someone so integral to my life should remain such a mystery.”
Sandor's face, usually a mask of indifference, flickered with a hint of reluctance. It was clear that the topic of his family was not one he favored discussing. However, after a moment of hesitation, he shifted in his stance and took a seat at Joffrey's right side. The Hound’s eyes remained cold and distant, but his posture was one of grudging compliance.
“I have a brother,” Sandor began, his voice low and rough. “He’s the one who burned my face. I hate the fucker almost as much as I hate fire itself.” The bitterness in his tone was palpable, each word dripping with unspoken animosity. It was a rare display of personal vulnerability from the usually stoic bodyguard.
Joffrey studied Sandor’s expression, noting the underlying anger that colored his words. “And your father and mother?” he prompted, his curiosity edging into the realm of genuine interest.
“Mother was a whore,” Sandor replied bluntly. “And my father was a knight who thought it his duty to fuck every woman who wasn’t already bound to another. Beyond that, my family isn’t worth spit. I grew up with them, but they weren’t much more than a burden and a source of pain.”
The Hound’s voice was devoid of the usual gruffness when discussing such personal matters, but it was laced with a palpable disdain. The revelations were stark and unvarnished, painting a grim picture of his background.
Joffrey listened, his expression a mixture of intrigue and unease. The stark contrast between Sandor’s grim past and his own privileged upbringing seemed to heighten his understanding of the Hound’s character. It was a harsh, raw glimpse into the life of someone who had always been more of a shadowy presence than a figure of clarity.
“I see,” Joffrey said, his tone reflecting a blend of sympathy and detachment. “It’s clear you’ve endured a great deal. I suppose we all have our burdens to bear.”
Sandor nodded, the brief moment of introspection seeming to close off as quickly as it had opened. He stood up, his posture once again a symbol of unyielding vigilance. “Is there anything else, Your Grace?”
Joffrey shook his head, a trace of newfound respect in his gaze. “No, that will be all for now. Thank you for sharing… what you did.”
As Sandor resumed his position, Joffrey leaned back, his mind still preoccupied with the complexities of his dream and the insights gained from their conversation. The kitchen’s warm, bustling atmosphere seemed to fade into the background as he grappled with the broader implications of his revelations—both about himself and those who served him.