Reckless

Apologies for the patheticness of this next piece. It was written during the last few minutes of my History class. It depicts the execution of Lord Eddard Stark in HBO's Game of Thrones, from the point of view of the young King Joffrey Baratheon (aka Joffrey Lannister).

Screams. All around me. I hold no weapon in my hands, and yet most of the cries are directed at me. Down the stairs to my left kneels the once-powerful Eddard Stark, face beaten and bloody, some remnants of the food thrown from the crowd stuck in his tangled blonde hair. He is breathing heavily, sweating, his pale cheeks and trembling lips a giveaway of the fear he hoped would not be apparent. My mother’s hand curls tightly around my wrist. “This is madness!” She hisses, but I jerk myself from her grasp. “Daddy!” Someone cries, and I glance to my right to see Sansa, my beloved fiancée, in the hands of my guards. She’s struggling viciously, and I’m sure if she wasn’t always trying to act like such a lady, she’d have kicked both of the soldiers in the balls long ago. “No,” whispers her father, the acceptance of his defeat clear on his face. I take a step forward, my breath catching in my throat as the hooded executioner’s axe begins its descent. And then, suddenly, everything is quiet. The crowd is still in an uproar, but their cheers are lost to me. All I see his him. Lord Eddard Stark. He is calm now, truly calm. His eyes flutter closed, then open. I scream an insult, but he does not answer, or even appear to hear. His face is suddenly tense, and he only glances up once, his gaze making contact with someone in the crowd, Then he lets his head drop, and he sighs, all of that pent-up worry gone in a single instant. Sansa cries out one more time, her voice reaching my ears just as the axe hits her father’s neck. His head falls slowly from his shoulders, the swiftness of the executioner’s cut not at all lessening the amount of blood that’s suddenly flowing from the body of the dead man. Sansa moans, her mournful cry rising above the shouts of all the others. And then she drops, my beautiful, my sweet Sansa, her red hair trailing after her as she collapses in a faint. I do not belittle myself enough to kneel beside her, but rather I look to my mother, and at once I see how much this man’s death is going to cost us. The revenge I planned is now far from my mind, and all I can think of is how much I’m going to pay at the hands of this man’s sons before I’m finally allowed to slip into the painless state of death. But then I remind myself, ‘So is the life of a king.’ Tyrant, my heart whispers, but I push that thought aside. I don’t have time for this. And as if in a final decision, I swivel on my heels and move further away from the wailing of the women and, unknowingly, closer to my doom.