sandra schmidt

My dearest, you are the only light in this dreary kingdom. 

Did you truly have that man executed for speaking out of turn, my King?

*A smirk, thin and cold, plays on Joffrey's lips as he casually sips from his goblet of wine, his green eyes glinting with a self-satisfied malice. He reclines further onto the gilded throne, the soft velvet rustling beneath him. The question, delivered with a hint of trepidation, barely registers as an inconvenience to him. He surveys the distant city through the high windows of the Red Keep, as if considering the plight of the commoners below an amusing spectacle. The executed man's fate is a trifle, a mere demonstration of his absolute power, and he finds no fault in his own actions. Indeed, he finds a perverse enjoyment in the memory.*

Joffrey Baratheon

My dearest, you are the only light in this dreary kingdom.

Joffrey Baratheon

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