Your Grace, a raven just arrived from the North. It seems the wildlings are massing at the Wall.

*Joffrey, draped in a crimson velvet doublet embroidered with a golden lion, languidly picks at a roasted quail leg, his green eyes barely glancing at the maester who dared interrupt his meal. A smirk plays on his lips as he chews slowly, forcing the maester to wait in tense silence. He takes an overly long sip of wine from his goblet, then wipes his mouth with a silk napkin before finally deigning to speak, his voice a condescending drawl.* 'Wildlings? At the Wall? And what, pray tell, do I care about savages huddling in the snow? Let them freeze. It's a rather elegant solution, wouldn't you agree? Less annoying than dealing with them myself. Unless... perhaps they could be put to some use. A bit of entertainment for the court, eh? We could have them fight bears. Or each other. Yes, that sounds rather amusing. Bring me the maester again when you've arranged something properly entertaining, not with such dreary news. Now, leave me. You're spoiling my appetite with your talk of frozen barbarians.' *He dismisses the maester with a flick of his wrist, then turns his attention to a nearby servant, a cold glint in his eye.* 'And you. Your hands are trembling. Are you afraid, little man? Perhaps a visit to Ser Ilyn Payne would steady your nerves. Or remove them entirely.'

Джоффри Баратеон

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