Well, I could deal with all that later. Leaving the candlestick in the bathroom, I walked back through the bedroom to another door. I was pleased to find my coordination flawless—the body felt light, responsive, and full of life, as if it had never been spoiled by bad habits or excesses.
Now I stood in what could only be described as a hall—a large, square room. An impressive table for ten occupied the center, surrounded by high-backed chairs. In one corner stood a smaller table for two or three people, with a jug and a couple of cups placed upon it. Marble columns veined with gray supported the ceiling.
I walked over, picked up the decanter, and sniffed its contents. It smelled of wine—subtle, rich, and invigorating. Unable to resist (they would start killing me a little later), I poured a glass and took a few sips.
I had never tasted wine of such quality and aroma before! It carried the warmth of the southern sun, the sweetness of perfectly ripened, slightly dusty grapes. I wanted to keep drinking and drinking...
Reluctantly, I put the glass down. I had to be careful with alcohol. If this was the kind of wine they had in Westeros, it was no wonder King Robert had drunk himself to death.
Weapons hung on the walls—a pair of swords, an axe, a spear, a shield—and in the corner, displayed on struts, stood a full suit of knight's armor. But above all, there were crossbows. Clearly, my predecessor had a undeniable fondness for this particular weapon.
I couldn't resist picking one up, then another. They were serious weapons—some of them genuine works of art. They would have looked at home in a museum!
Putting the crossbows aside, I continued exploring my new home.
There were several doors leading out of the hall. One opened into a room that turned out to be the royal wardrobe. I stepped inside—and couldn't help but whistle softly.
I'd grown up in an ordinary family. We ate well, dressed neatly. I'd never worn truly expensive clothing, but I'd never gone without either.
This, however… this was something else entirely.
An open wardrobe stretched the length of the wall, crammed with garments—doublets, tunics, cloaks, vests, trousers, leggings, and more, in every imaginable style, color, and fabric. A separate rack displayed boots and shoes—at least fifty pairs.
Another section held berets, hats, and all sorts of accessories. There was even a wardrobe solely for underwear, shirts, and scarves. Of course, I knew Joffrey had never been poor, but to be spoiled this much... well, that certainly explained a lot about his personality.
In the center of the room stood a tall mirror in a heavy metal frame resting on lion-paw legs. I looked at myself again. With a body like that, no wonder Joffrey had no trouble finding clothes that fit him perfectly. The main thing now was learning to match colors properly.
Thinking about my future style and wardrobe preferences, I returned to the hall and approached the door leading to the corridor. My hand rested on the carved metal handle—but instead of opening it, I pressed my ear against the wood and listened.
Almost immediately, I caught the sound of deep, steady snoring. Someone was asleep on the other side. Joffrey's memories supplied the answer: one of the Kingsguard knights was always stationed there during the night.
I pressed lightly on the door—it hit something solid and refused to open. The snoring stopped briefly, then resumed. No longer bothering to hide my movements, I gave the door a harder shove.
"Who's there?" the snoring stopped and a muffled, groggy voice was heard. "In the name of the Seven!" It seemed that whoever had said it had not expected or was not used to the king getting up so early.
There was a scrape as something was dragged across the floor, and the door opened. A medium-sized, bald man stared at me fearfully. His cheeks sagged, his legs were short but powerful, and his chest was broad beneath the white scales of his armor.
"Good morning, Your Majesty," the fat man covered a yawn with his hand while trying to give himself a brave look. "Has something happened?"
"Not yet." Joffrey's memory identified him as Ser Boros Blount—one of the seven knights of the Kingsguard. An insignificant, foolish man whom Joffrey had always despised and never addressed by name.
Presently Ser Boros was kneading clumsily beside his bed. Apparently, he had dragged it close to the door so that no one could enter the royal chambers unnoticed, and then promptly fallen asleep. His helmet rested against the wall beside his sword and scabbard.
I glanced into the dark corridor, then back at him, nodded briefly, and returned to my room. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the knight exhale in relief. It seemed that Joffrey's infamous temper—his penchant for rash cruelty or unreasonable and stupid humor—had kept everyone here on edge.
The door closed behind me. I scratched my chin. A knight sleeping on guard duty guarding the king. Is that even normal or what? Is it a violation or does everyone do it?
After a moment's thought, I decided not to act hastily. Better to first find out how the guards were supposed to perform their night duties before making any decisions. Especially since the fat man wasn't just snoozing after all, but had blocked access to my chambers with his imposing body.
I walked to the window, drew back the curtains, and, after fumbling with the latch for a bit, pushed open the shutters. A rush of cool, invigorating air swept into the room. It smelled of sea breeze, seaweed and rotting fish. I also caught a hint of shit - I guess the sewage system in King's Landing had some problems..
Sitting on the windowsill, I looked out at the city. The sun was rising to the left, which meant the windows faced south.
Below lay a park with trimmed trees and gravel paths. My chambers were high enough that the castle wall only partially blocked the view. In the distance, I could see narrow streets winding toward the harbor, clusters of houses, rooftops tiled in varied shades, and thin trails of smoke rising from chimneys. Beyond it all stretched the sea—calm, breathing softly, ready to greet the new day.
From afar came the cries of seagulls and, beneath them, the swelling murmur of a city awakening.