What Book Does Joffrey Die In Novels & Stories

Now this is going south. I groaned in pain and fell on the ground. Fuck! It did go wrong. My vision blurred as the pain in my chest got sharper. I heard Rebecca laughing loudly. "I won... I won!... Joffrey is dead!" Wait! Who the fuck told her that I am Joffrey. How did she pick that part? The loud shot rang in the sky, Mikhail did his job. "Angel!" My voice was hardly a mumble. She should be in her senses now.

Perhaps just Joffrey and his clumsy ass. I smirked, thinking about his ass and all the things I’d be doing to him. I walked out of the shower, dried my hair, dabbed on a touch of lipstick, and wrapped the robe around me before stepping back into my room. The smell of blood hit my nose instantly. Something was wrong. “Joffrey,” I called as I made my way to the drawer to get my guns. “I don’t like games.” I came to an abrupt stop when I spotted Joffrey on the floor, both his hands cuffed and his lower body mutilated, with two bullet wounds in his head. His eyes were still open, frozen in horror.

I explained to Joffrey, as I stared down at the man, still wondering why he had tried to save me. “Great, he is one of them. I should finish him off, because he doesn’t deserve to live.” Joffrey says, but as I stare at the man, my uncle’s words from this morning come rushing back to me, as I watch Joffrey grab ahold of the man’s head.

Smoke curling into the sky like a requiem. Every network confirmed the same headline before nightfall: BREAKING: THE BLOOD KING AND QUEEN DECLARED DEAD. Matteo and Bianca watched it unfold from the shadows of an abandoned hangar near Zurich, their faces lit by the glow of the screens. Bianca leaned against him, silent. His arm slid around her waist, grounding her. “Do you regret it?” he asked. She looked at the footage of their empire burning, the news anchors stumbling over their names, the chaos that once belonged to them.

The remnants of divine fury clung to the air, unseen but heavy, pressing down on the weary figures that stood amidst the wreckage. Elior ran a hand over his face, his fingers coming away stained with blood, his or someone else’s, he wasn’t sure. His sword, the weapon that had struck the final blow, felt heavier than ever at his side. The world should have felt lighter, freer, but something was wrong. The victory felt hollow, the silence too deep. Myrra knelt among the shattered remnants of the ancient tome, her fingers tracing the fading ink of the First King’s records. The final words were barely legible now, as though the knowledge itself had begun to wither.

"If memory serves, that is the ceremony where witches are gifted a glimpse of their future.” I nodded. "What did you see?” Swallowing hard, I uttered "My death. At the hands of my fiancé.” There was silence for far too long, before a soft murmuring interrupted the quiet. "It must have been wrong.” The quill broke in my grasp as I whirled to face her, eyes blazing at the mere thought. "They are not wrong. No witch ever had a vision that did not come to pass.” Rhuesia as ever, was unreadable. "It is wrong. It must be. I cannot understand why the Prince would kill you. Believe me when I say to you Corisande, they need you more than you need them.”