A/N: As usual, you're all awesome. Thanks for the encouragement. Warnings for all the things mentioned in Ch 1. It's going to continue to get darker from here. Joffrey is one messed up individual but not without reason.

Chapter 35 – Eyes of Ice and Hair of Fire

...

When Joffrey awoke, his head felt as though it had cracked open. He was splayed out across his bed, breeches half-open and small clothes disheveled. He did not recall how he'd gotten there nor how his clothing had gone askew. Something about this realization made him feel a sensation like hundreds of snakes were wriggling inside his stomach. Too afraid of opening his eyes to the light of day, he pulled himself along the mattress and promptly got sick over the side of the four-poster. Unlike the time he'd thrown up in front of Uncle Tyrion, this gave him no sense of relief. He continued to vomit until the red, stinking snakes had all been ejected from his guts. He lay there, clumsily searching for any trace of memory of the prior evening.

Wine. That much was obvious, he knew, retching. He remembered having a few goblets. A blonde handmaiden had brought a large flagon of dark red and Joffrey had watched her pour the very first serving. She set it alongside his supper, a plate of grilled fish and boiled potatoes with a side of meat pie. He had snarled at her to be gone, that he also remembered. He wanted to be completely alone. He hadn't touched the food, he recalled.

Joffrey continued to try and retrace his steps. He remembered downing a cup of wine in several gulps while watching the rain beating down outside his chamber window, thoughts of Margaery's bloody face swirling in his head. Her wide doe eyes and curled smile, dark head of hair bobbing at his thighs and then it had all gone wrong. But why? The answer seemed just below the surface, like putting on a suit of armor and suddenly getting a terrible itch at the small of his back. Wine. More wine. There had been a lump growing in Joffrey's throat and he did not wish to think more about Margaery's mouth or her bleeding lip and so instead he emptied another goblet of wine. Then another. Then another.

He'd remembered how disturbed he'd been by her spitty lips, how he'd imagined her with red hair and blue eyes. Had he imagined her as Sansa? No, Sansa did not turn his insides to rot. He hadn't wanted to think any more and so instead, he had continued to drink. After that, the world had gone completely black. Perhaps he preferred it that way.

King Joffrey finally gave up on piecing together his evening. Instead, he lay across the bed and let the thoughts come. Dark and pretty pictures streamed through his head. Sansa's mouth open and the sound of her choking. Margaery swiveling her head, her throat coated in blood. Rain falling, horses squalling. Swords smacking. The pictures flew and changed.

And suddenly, he found himself thinking backward. The thoughts rushed in like men on quick horses and though Joffrey wanted to run ahead of them, he couldn't manage it. Not this time. He'd been avoiding this void, this dark pit of secrets, for years and years now. He'd been told to forget it, and he'd listened without question for once. But it was too much. It all came back to him there on the vomit-drenched bed, and he felt the hot sickness running through him but there was nowhere for him to hide.

Nine Years Ago

. . .

Summer lightening flickered in the humid air, trailing across the pink and blue sky like veins. Myrcella shrieked, her wide, green eyes filling with tears. Tommen followed her example, of course, emitting a timid squeak of a scream as well. His fat cheeks grew pale as he made noise.

"Shut up," Prince Joffrey said haughtily. "It won't hurt you. Don't be stupid." He was newly seven years old and had decided he was very grown-up particularly compared to his siblings. Myrcella was four years old now. Tommen was even littler, only two. Father said he had to be nice to Myrcella and Tommen but Joffrey hated them more and more with every day. Myrcella was bad enough, timid and tedious. Tommen was loads worse, a real squalling little pig of a baby.

They were good for some things. It was certainly funny to scare them or play jokes on them but Joffrey was often bored with their company, with their tears and protests. There were some children at court, except Joffrey wasn't permitted to play with them because they were common and he was a prince. Mother said he was too good for their friendship, that princes only needed other little princes and princesses to play with. She may have been right but that did not make his siblings any more tolerable.

Joffrey fixed his emerald gaze back upon the large tree in the courtyard, took another rock in his fist and launched it at the very top of the branches. The birds let out cries as they flew off. Myrcella squeaked and Joffrey sent her a loathing glance. He was glad that Myrcella wasn't going to be his queen.

Last week, Uncle Jaime was talking about how Myrcella and Joffrey should be married. Joffrey liked to eavesdrop on anyone and everyone, and he'd spied on Mother and his uncle discussing how sweet it would be if they were wed, how perfect a match it would be. From behind the curtains, Joffrey had considered their words. Mother had already talked to him about when he would be king and how his lady queen would bear his children. Myrcella was stupid but if she was his queen, she'd belong to him and have to do everything he said. He liked that idea.

He decided he'd like to teach her the things he knew, the night things. So he'd crawled into Myrcella's bed and pressed his hand over her mouth while she writhed underneath him. Everything had gone well until Joffrey pushed his knee hard against the space between her legs and took his hand off her so he could kiss her on the lips. Myrcella had started to scream right then.

Father had caught them and he'd been very mad. As was the usual routine when Father got angry, Joffrey talked fast. He told Father Myrcella was going to wed him and so he was just showing her what to do. Father seemed baffled. "We're not the damned Targaryens" he'd shouted, "and you ought not play like this with your sister!" Joffrey had said, "Well, Mother and Uncle Jaime want us to so I was only listening to them." Father grabbed Joffrey by the arm and shoved him back in his room. The next morning, Mother sat down with him and stroked his hair while she spoke in a slow, serious voice. Father watched them from the corner of the room, glaring.

Joffrey had a distinct feeling that Father didn't like him anymore. Therefore, Joffrey knew he'd have to act really good and impress him so that he'd love him again. Mother, in contrast, was always on his side and needed little to no convincing of Joffrey's innocence. He'd begun to realize how his parents worked. Against each other.

"Joffrey," Mother had said, "were you listening in on me and Uncle Jaime?" Joffrey said nothing, just stared at her through dead eyes. What was the point? She knew he had been. Why have to admit it aloud? "We were only talking. You aren't going to marry Myrcella. Some families have wed brother and sister. Your father thinks it would not be best." She said "Father" like it burned her tongue.

"Good," Joffrey had said. "I hate Myrcella."

"You only say that," said Mother fondly, smoothing his curls.

"I. Hate. Her." Father let out a sigh and left the room, apparently satisfied enough with the exchange. When he was gone, Mother lowered her voice.

"Why did you go to her chambers?" Her tone was sweeter now. "Did you like being alone with your sister, Joffrey?"

"No," Joffrey hissed. "We were just playing a game. I was showing her how to be my queen." He could tell her he was showing her the things he'd learnt in the dark, but Mother didn't like to hear it. Not to mention, the redhead girl forbade him from saying anything.

She gave a light laugh. "That isn't how you should show her. She was frightened. You mustn't hurt her. You must be kind and gentle to her—"

"That is not fun," said Joffrey, and pulled out of his mother's grasp. Her hands in his hair were making him feel funny. She had told him he shouldn't do the Bad Things but when she played in his hair he felt all warm and twisty inside. Mother didn't let him kiss her like the girl let him do even when he tried, and she told him he ought not to kiss the nursemaids like that, either.

That girl did not come as often as she used to, not anymore. He hadn't seen her since his last Name Day, not after Mother went mad and went into a fury and Father swore a lot. Mother stopped sleeping with Joffrey soon after that and the nights went back to normal. But Joffrey was almost disappointed, though he did not know why. He wanted to feel it, he wanted to feel her do the night things but she was nowhere to be found. Now to get the good feeling inside, he had to find other ways to release. Rubbing his pillow, sticking his fist in Myrcella's mouth… Joffrey knew that soon he'd get to show Tommen how to feel it, too. He could show him where to rub, what to do.

"I love you with all my heart," Mother said, "no matter what you do."

That was how the conversation had ended. From that point on, no matter where Joffrey went, the Burned Man was there. Now was no exception. The Burned Man stood several paces back from Joffrey's siblings, his face twisted in a sullen expression. Father had made certain to tell Joffrey that the Burned Man was going to guard his sister's bedroom door. He said his name was Clegane, that people called him the Hound, and he was there to watch them. Joffrey did not care. He was the prince. If he wanted inside Myrcella's room, the man wasn't going to stop him. So far, the man did not seem to care what Joffrey did or did not do. He only stood near by, looking angry. He did not even try to make Joffrey stop killing the birds, like the nursemaids used to do. For that, Joffrey was glad. Although Joffrey didn't like anyone much, he liked the Hound more than the others.

When Joffrey finally struck down a bluebird and sent it sailing to its death at the foot of the tree, Tommen began to cry so hard his breath came out in wails. Joffrey strode over to the bird, cackling all the way.

"Don't, Joff!" pleaded Myrcella, but she went silent when Joffrey turned to curl his lip at her. No doubt she remembered just what he could do to her when he got her alone and Gods be good, she'd better never forget. Joffrey's gaze slid to the watching man. He did nothing, not even when Joffrey stomped on the bird so hard that its bones crunched underneath his boot. The sound made his heart pound excitedly. His knees buckled. But Tommen and Myrcella ruined the blissful noise by crying in unison like a pair of rabbits being slaughtered.

Angrily, Joffrey collected another stone from the ground and turned back to them. He raised the rock in his fist in front of Tommen and then everything blurred. Joffrey was now being suspended in the air. The Hound had lifted him in one strong arm and plucked the rock from his grasp, letting it drop back down to the ground.

"Not of that, your grace, none of that," said the Hound and Joffrey was too stunned to argue. Tommen and Myrcella were sent inside to take lessons while Joffrey continued to kill songbirds, the Hound staying at his heels and encouraging him with hoarse laughter.

. . .

It was around that time that the girl, the night phantom with eyes like ice and hair like fire, came back to Joffrey as he slept.

"It is me," she said, half-singing. She woke him with her hand inside his clothes and his eyes fluttered open, hard and cold. Joffrey said nothing to her at first. As usual, he was half-asleep as she went to work on him, the thoughts in his head a woozy, sleepy haze. "I am here," she said. "It's Lil." Lil. Her name. She'd told him once before. Once he'd asked where she'd come from and she said she'd been sent for.

He was silent for some time and then finally spoke. "Where were you?" he asked defiantly, mouth opening and closing with her motions. "And how did you get back in here? My father has someone guarding the hallway now, you know-" But that was only near Myrcella's chambers, he remembered. The Hound stood there now to keep Joffrey out. He knew because he'd tried again and the Hound had to put him back to bed. Father had slapped him good and hard across the head that time.

"So many questions," she said, the familiar smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. "How is my prince? How is my future king?"

"You ought not be here," Joffrey said coldly, but his knees buckled at her touch the way they'd done when he killed the birds and visited his sister. The waves of heat made his face feel flushed. "My mother says no one's allowed to touch me. Not unless I say so. And she says you've done a bad thing-"

"You told her about me?" Her voice was sharp and disapproving. She looked less nice like that.

"No. You said I couldn't tell," he said quickly. "So I didn't tell." He didn't want to fear her, but before she'd stopped coming she'd been annoyed with him and she'd struck him hard. He didn't like that. It ruined the good feeling, left a hot and miserable feeling burning on his face.

"Good," she said. "Good boy-"

"I'm not a dog," Joffrey said hotly. He thought about the Hound and wished he was here now. But what would he do?, Joffrey wondered, helpless.

"No. You are a prince. A handsome prince," she replied, and her hand kept going down. "Besides, there is nothing wrong with this. This is what I am here for, this is what boys need to learn to do." She sounded so insistent, so matter-of-fact, that it must be true. "Haven't you missed me?" she asked and giggled.

"Maybe," Joffrey said, eyes narrowing. Maybe, yes, no. Words were nothing when she was around. They spilled out of his mouth and made little sense and her words made even less. But he hadn't missed her. He'd only missed the good feeling.

He settled back and let his head spin. She used her mouth next and he thought about the garden. His siblings' cries, fumbling on top of Myrcella... He thought of Uncle Jaime and Mother, and Father's anger, and he drifted in and out of realness. The sounds were revolting and hypnotizing. Her eyes never stopped watching him, cold and blue. She was pretty but the sucking and sniveling offended him. The spit dripped off her lips, making her mouth a wet hole. A hole that would swallow him up if he wasn't careful, just like the dragons down in the Red Keep. He stared upward at the canopy, imagining what it would be like to just disappear.

There was a clatter and her mouth went away. Joffrey snapped his eyes forward and she was sitting up on the bed, holding her arm over her bare breasts. He couldn't say how it happened but suddenly, his redheaded ghost girl was wide-eyed and chattering sorries to someone he couldn't see lurking in the shadows of his chambers. She looked young then. She looked small and afraid when the hands came out through the darkness to meet her.

Joffrey watched without blinking as the hands tightened around her neck. Lil stopped saying sorries. She started making awful sounds instead, sounds like when her mouth was on him but much worse. Retching and choking, coughing and sputtering sounds. He watched as, wordlessly, the familiar figure pulled at the the redhead girl until her face was near as blue as her eyes. She was only a few feet from him as she struggled and quivered. There was a purple silken scarf gripping her small neck, held tight by the white hands. He could see the blood pooling in her empty eyes before she stopped gasping and her head went limp. She dropped forward and crumpled onto the bed at Joffrey's toes.

He stared at her without feeling. Joffrey knew about death and that was exactly what she was now, dead, just like the rhyme the stable boy sang aloud:

My lady went South and the king cried, 'Your head!' My lady spit treason. My lady is dead.
I wept yet I knew what the king chose was best. Keep your tongue free of treason or you burn like the rest.

Interesting. Dead meant gone, that he knew from Father's talk of war but Joffrey had never gotten to see a dead person before as much as he'd begged to. He'd only seen dead animals and that was only fun for awhile. This was a real dead girl, a girl he'd known.

Greedily, he stared and ignored the embrace he was given. She was violet-faced, he noted, and her eyes were open and still teeming with blood. Her nose bled, too. The crimson river dripped onto his maroon coverlet and made a wine-colored lake. The scarf pooled at her scarred neck. Her soft hair spilled over her naked shoulders. And there was her cruel, legendary mouth: wide, slack and still so pretty. Forever still now. It was a little funny.

Then, breathy words interrupted the observation. "My Joffrey. Listen to me. She will never touch you again."

Present

. . .

There in the stillness of the red-walled room, Joffrey suddenly remembered what he'd forgotten. It was a curious feeling, almost like seeing an unlikable person and trying to avoid him to no avail. With a deep feeling of dread, Joffrey realized that although he'd remembered a few choice fragments he'd long since buried, he had no idea how the pieces all fit together. He did not know who the red haired girl was, or exactly when this had happened. He remembered her dead but he did not know what had happened with her afterward. The ill feeling within him grew.

Why hadn't he remembered this until now? What had happened after? Why couldn't he recall? It was a very scary feeling to be so unsure about his own life and Joffrey's confusion was compounded by his throbbing head. Elevated nerves gave way to anger, and he knew one thing was certain. He had to speak to the only person he knew could tell him what had really happened when he was only a boy.

As much as he loathed the thought of it, he had to speak to Mother.