King Joffrey Baratheon sat on the Iron Throne with his chin resting on his hand. The expression on his face was one of utter boredom. Since his father's death and subsequent coronation five years ago, Joffrey had assumed that being king meant that he got to do whatever he wanted. Unfortunately, he had quickly been proven wrong. Joffrey's life had quickly been drained to a dull, colourless grey. His mother, Cersei, had acted as his advisor. She had told him the brutal truth: if he did not live up the people's expectation as king, he would be killed just as Aerys Targaryen was. So Joffrey listened to his mother…until he was seventeen and started to get the knack of things, making decisions for himself. Then he told Cersei to shut up or he would shut her up. She was smart enough to know what that meant. At his mother's insistence, Joffrey had selected his uncle Jaime as his Hand. Jaime knew well enough what to do without Joffrey's advice. Dragging out those who were disloyal was no hard task for a man like Jaime. The problem was, life as the king was so terribly boring. The public executions, which Joffrey found thoroughly entertaining, were all too scarce nowadays. Tournaments only occurred when Cersei and Jaime saw fit to put their heads together and organize one. Even the throne room was a dark, dreary place. The only reason Joffrey spent so much time there was because he enjoyed sitting on the Iron Throne, revelling in the fact that he was king. Of course, it didn't exactly mean much, but he was still king nonetheless.