Disclaimer: Just in case nobody realized I don't own nor do I claim ownership of Game of Thrones, all characters and worlds belong to their real world respective owners. I'm just having some fun, that's all.
The Young Lion
Act 2 Ch 19: A Failed Ritual
Night had settled over King's Landing like a velvet cloak, warm and heavy, carrying with it the sounds of music, laughter, and clattering cups. Inside the Red Keep's great hall, the celebration had reached its full stride.
More than a dozen long oak tables stretched across the chamber like the ribs of some great beast. Their polished surfaces gleamed beneath rows of tall iron candlesticks, the flickering flames painting the stone walls with dancing shadows. Platters of roasted meats, golden loaves of bread, spiced vegetables, and steaming bowls of thick stew crowded every inch of space. Pitchers of deep red Dornish wine had been set between the dishes, their contents steadily disappearing as wooden cups passed from hand to hand.
The air itself seemed almost alive—rich with the scent of roasted boar, honeyed glaze, and mulled wine.Atop the wide stone steps leading up to the Iron Throne sat the largest table of them all, reserved for the royal family and the evening's honored guests.
Joffrey occupied the central seat, his posture relaxed but unmistakably regal. He still wore the black doublet trimmed with gold that had become his favored attire, though the gilded bracers he normally wore upon his forearms had been set aside so he could eat more comfortably. A silver goblet rested loosely in his hand as he observed the hall with sharp, calculating eyes.
To his right sat Sansa.
Her dark blue gown shimmered softly in the candlelight, the embroidered direwolves stitched into the fabric seeming almost alive as they caught the glow of the flames. The silver and sapphire necklace Joffrey had given her rested against her collarbone, the jewel glinting whenever she moved. She carried herself with the grace expected of a lady of Winterfell, though her soft smiles toward the surrounding guests betrayed the joy still lingering from her reunion with her family.
On Joffrey's left sat his younger siblings.
Myrcella looked every inch the princess she was meant to be. Her emerald green gown flowed elegantly around her slender frame, the seams embroidered with delicate golden flowers that shimmered as she moved. Her golden hair had been braided intricately and draped across one shoulder.
Joffrey glanced at her briefly, a quiet satisfaction settling in his chest.
If there was one mercy the gods had granted him, it was that Myrcella had inherited only their mother's beauty, but none of her madness.
Beside her sat Tommen.
The boy had grown considerably over the past year. His crimson red doublet, lined with fine golden thread, fit him snugly around the shoulders and chest. Gone was much of the roundness that had once defined his face and figure. Months of martial training in the yard had begun reshaping the young prince, trimming away the child-like softness and replacing it with the beginnings of lean strength.
He had begun to grow his short golden hair out, falling just above his ears in loose waves remarkably similar to Joffrey's own. He had even begun imitating his older brother's side-parted hairstyle.
Many within the court had already begun whispering about the resemblance between the brothers. Tommen was tall for his age—taller than many boys two or three years older—and carried himself with an earnest eagerness that made him easily likable.
Joffrey found himself faintly amused watching his brother enthusiastically devour a slice of roasted boar, utterly unconcerned with royal dignity.
Across the table, the Starks had taken their places.
Robb Stark had traded the battered armor he had worn during the campaign for clothing more suited to the evening. The servants of the Red Keep had provided him with a dark gray doublet lined with silver thread, paired with matching breeches and polished boots. The attire fit him well enough, though it could not hide the faint stiffness in his posture—like a man still adjusting to chains that were no longer there.
Beside him sat Arya.
The young girl wore a dark blue evening dress that had clearly been chosen to match her sister's. The garment fit her small frame perfectly, though she looked as though she would rather be facing a pack of wolves than another minute trapped inside it. Every few moments she tugged at the sleeves or shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her expression hovering somewhere between irritation and boredom.
Ned Stark sat at the end of the royal table.
Unlike the others, the former Hand of the King had opted for simplicity. A plain white dress shirt and black breeches were all he wore, yet the old wolf carried himself with the quiet dignity of a man who needed no ornamentation to command respect.
The candlelight caught the faint gray streaks in his dark hair as he observed the hall with calm, steady eyes.
Around them, the celebration swelled.
Lords, knights, courtiers, and soldiers alike filled the hall with life. Musicians played lively tunes from one corner while servants moved swiftly between the tables, carrying fresh platters of food and refilling cups that never seemed to stay empty for long.
But the celebration was not confined to the Red Keep alone. Beyond the city walls, another gathering had begun.
True to his word, Joffrey had dispatched dozens of servants from the castle kitchens to the northern encampments outside the gates. Wagons laden with tents, blankets, hot food, and barrels of ale rolled through the darkness toward the weary soldiers who had marched south under Robb Stark's banners.
The northern men watched with disbelief as the wagons arrived. They had expected nothing more than a long, cold night beneath the open sky while their lords feasted inside the city they had nearly burned.
Instead they were greeted by warm fires, steaming bowls of stew, and fresh bread. The exhaustion etched across their faces slowly gave way to quiet gratitude as they accepted the unexpected hospitality.
Back inside the great hall, Joffrey watched the transformation unfolding with measured satisfaction.
The once-fearful citizens of King's Landing now laughed and sang with abandon, raising their cups high as musicians struck up another lively tune. Even the northern lords—men who had marched south prepared to dethrone him—were beginning to loosen beneath the influence of good wine and better company.
Earlier that day they had looked like whipped dogs dragged before a conquering king, but now they resembled honored guests at a royal feast. Which was exactly as he intended.
Joffrey leaned slightly back in his chair, allowing his gaze to sweep across the hall.
Power was not maintained by fear alone. Fear created obedience—but obedience built on fear alone rotted quickly. It bred resentment, and resentment bred rebellion.
History had proven that lesson over and over again.
If he had paraded the defeated lords through the streets in chains, allowing his citizens to pelt them with rotten vegetables and filth before dragging them to kneel before the Iron Throne—then the wound between North and South would never truly heal.
They would remember the humiliation, or their heirs would. And one day another Stark—or fool hungry for glory—would rise to avenge it. Instead, he had given them something far more dangerous and lasting.
Dignity.
A peaceful surrender, public praise, and open hospitality. He'd chosen the carrot instead of the stick.
It was the same strategy that had elevated the greatest kings of the old dynasty. Aegon the Conqueror had known when to unleash dragonfire—and when to offer mercy to those wise enough to kneel. Jaehaerys the Conciliator had ruled for decades not through terror, but through careful balance.
The sword when necessary, and then the open hand when able. The young king intended to master and utilize both.
His gaze drifted toward the northern lords gathered at one of the central tables. Only hours earlier they had stood before him stiff with pride and suspicion.
Now several were laughing loudly as cups of Dornish red were passed between them.
One particularly rotund lord had already turned crimson from drink, slamming his goblet onto the table while recounting some exaggerated war story that had his companions roaring with laughter.
Joffrey's lips curled into a small, satisfied grin. He often found that good wine softened pride faster than any sword ever could. And the wine was only the beginning of his hospitality.
Across the hall, a new wave of guests had begun weaving through the tables.
They moved like living jewels beneath the candlelight—beautiful women draped in silks of crimson, violet, and gold. Their laughter floated across the room like music as they approached the gathering nobles.
Ros had outdone herself.
The finest escorts from the city's red light district now circulated gracefully among the feast's guests, offering smiles, whispered compliments, and gentle touches that quickly captured the attention of more than a few aging northern lords.
Several of the men straightened their backs immediately, attempting to regain some lost dignity as the women approached. Others simply grinned like boys who had just been handed the keys to paradise.
Joffrey watched the scene unfold with quiet amusement.
A defeated enemy could be many things—angry, bitter, vengeful. But a satisfied man with a full belly, a cup of wine in hand, and a beautiful woman whispering in his ear was far less likely to ride home dreaming of rebellion. And that, more than anything, was the true purpose of tonight's celebration.
As the night deepened, the feast slowly transformed.
The rigid tension that had once clung to the hall began dissolving beneath the influence of wine, warm food, and the growing realization that the war—at least for tonight—was over.
The two great houses seated at the royal table gradually drifted apart into smaller circles of conversation.
Sansa and Myrcella disappeared into one such gathering near the edge of the dais. The two young women sat close together, their heads inclined toward one another as they spoke in soft, excited voices. Every now and then one of them would laugh quietly before leaning closer again, clearly enjoying their uninterrupted "girl talk."
Across the table, Tommen had decided upon a different objective entirely. The young prince had taken a seat beside Arya Stark. He attempted, with all the earnest determination a boy his age could muster, to start a conversation with her.
Arya, however, looked about as interested in speaking with him as she did in practicing needlework.
She slouched in her chair, picking at a piece of bread while Tommen enthusiastically tried to describe some recent success he'd had during his training with the castle's master-at-arms. Every few moments she would give a short, unimpressed response before turning her attention elsewhere.
Tommen continued anyway. His stubborn optimism seemed almost immune to rejection. Further down the table, Ned Stark watched the exchange with quiet amusement, occasionally lifting his cup as though silently encouraging the boy's doomed efforts.
Joffrey observed all of this from his seat for several minutes before his attention drifted elsewhere. Near one of the towering stone pillars that supported the vaulted ceiling stood Robb Stark.
The young lord had withdrawn from the table entirely, standing alone with a half-filled cup in his hand. His expression was dark and distant as he watched the celebration unfold before him.
The king recognized that look immediately. With a faint sigh, he rose from his chair, took both his cup and a nearby pitcher of wine, and made his way toward the brooding wolf. Robb only noticed him when Joffrey had already reached his side.
"Need a refill?" Joffrey asked casually.
Robb blinked, momentarily startled by his sudden appearance.
Then the familiar frown returned to his face. Joffrey tilted his head slightly as he studied the young lord.
"You know," he said thoughtfully, "you and your father have the exact same stink eye. Must be hereditary."
Despite the jab—or perhaps because of it—Joffrey chuckled openly at his own joke, though Robb didn't. Instead, he simply held out his cup.
Joffrey shrugged and poured the wine.
Once Robb's cup was filled, he topped off his own before setting the pitcher down on a nearby table. The two young men stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the hall.
For several moments neither of them spoke.
Around them the feast carried on. Laughter echoed off the high ceilings, musicians played lively tunes in the corner, and the hum of dozens of conversations filled the air. Joffrey eventually broke the silence.
"Would you like me to guess why you're so upset?"
Robb didn't respond to him.
"You asked her to come back north with you," Joffrey continued calmly, "and she refused."
Robb responded only with a low grunt of irritation.
"You swore you'd respect her decision no matter what she chose," Joffrey reminded him.
Robb took a slow sip from his cup before replying.
"I said I'd respect it," he muttered. "That doesn't mean I have to like it."
Joffrey considered his words for a moment.
"Fair enough." He shrugged and took a drink of his own wine.
Their attention drifted toward the royal table again just in time to witness Tommen's latest failed attempt at impressing Arya. The young prince was animatedly describing something with wide gestures while Arya stared at him with thinly veiled impatience.
"It would seem my little brother has taken a liking to your sister," Joffrey said with a quiet chuckle.
Robb nodded his head, slightly amused by his youngest sister.
"I would propose a match," Joffrey added lightly, "but rumors say that ship has already sailed."
Robb's brow furrowed almost immediately. Then his expression shifted to one of profound guilt that was impossible to miss. Joffrey stared at him for a moment before realization dawned on him.
"She doesn't know, does she?"
Robb shook his head slowly.
"No. She doesn't." The words carried far more weight than they should have.
"You do realize," Joffrey said carefully, trying to find the right words, "the longer you wait, the worse that conversation becomes."
"I know that!"
Robb's sudden outburst caused several nearby guests to glance in their direction before Joffrey's stern gaze made them return to their drinks.
The young lord exhaled sharply and dragged a hand through his hair. Of course he knew. He had known from the moment he made the agreement with Walder Frey. At some point he would have to tell Arya that she had been promised to one of the Frey sons in exchange for passage across the Twins.
But after everything that had happened—the war, the long march south, the fear that she might never see home again—Robb had seen the relief on her face earlier that evening when she realized she would be returning to Winterfell. And he couldn't bring himself to take that away from her.
The guilt gnawed at him constantly, making him bite his lower lip in frustration. Beside him, Joffrey nodded thoughtfully.
"She'll forgive you."
Robb looked at him as though he had just grown a second head.
"What?"
"Arya," Joffrey said calmly. "She'll understand, and she'll forgive you."
Robb stared at him in disbelief.
"How in the seven hells do you know that?" His voice rose with growing irritation. "How will she forgive me after she finds out I sold her off just so I could cross a damn bridge?!"
Joffrey took another slow drink from his cup before answering.
"Because she loves you."
The simplicity of the answer seemed to drain the anger from Robb almost instantly.
"You'll tell her the truth," Joffrey continued matter-of-factly. "You'll explain that you were trying to save your family. That you did what you had to do."
He gestured toward Arya across the hall.
"She's a smart girl. She'll be furious at first—no question about that. But eventually she'll understand."
Robb's expression shifted through a dozen emotions: anger, doubt, confusion, and finally…a fragile spark of hope.
"Do you really think so?" he asked quietly.
Joffrey laughed and clapped a hand onto his shoulder.
"Of course I do." He squeezed once before releasing him. "I've seen the way she looks at you. You don't destroy that kind of bond with a single mistake."
Robb glanced down briefly at the hand that had rested on his shoulder before looking back toward his sister. At that exact moment, Arya had apparently decided she'd had enough of Tommen's attempts at charm. She flung a small piece of bread directly at Sansa, who gasped in outrage before retaliating with a grape.
Robb couldn't help but smile at the scene, and when he looked back at Joffrey, the bitterness in his expression had softened.
"I hope you're right, your grace."
Joffrey waved the title away dismissively.
"Come with me."
Without waiting for a response, he picked up his wine, draped his arm around Robb's shoulder, and led him out of the great hall. They left the noise of the great hall behind, moving through quieter stone corridors of the Red Keep until they finally stepped out onto an open balcony.
The night air was cool and fresh. This particular balcony jutted out from the castle walls high above the city below. It had become one of Joffrey's favorite places within the entire keep.
From here he could see nearly everything.
The sprawling city stretched out beneath them like a sea of flickering lights. Campfires dotted the fields outside the walls where the northern army had made camp, their flames glowing like scattered stars across the darkness.
The distant sounds of celebration drifted faintly upward from both the city streets and the soldiers' encampments.
"It would seem your men are enjoying themselves," Joffrey remarked as he leaned casually against the stone railing.
Robb stepped beside him and gazed out across the city. Upon seeing the full splendor of the capital, he had to admit that King's Landing was magnificent.
The city sprawled endlessly across the landscape, its towers and streets illuminated by countless lanterns and torches. Even Winterfell—vast and ancient as it was—felt almost small compared to the size of the capital.
For several moments the two young men simply stood there in silence. Just yesterday they had been enemies, and now one was king, while the other was his sworn vassal. But more than that, their personal friendship had been somewhat repaired. Robb finally opened his mouth to speak—
But Joffrey spoke first. "I have a favor to ask of you, my friend."
Robb's shoulders stiffened slightly.
"Here it comes," he thought grimly. "He's going to ask me to march against his uncles."
"How may I serve you, your grace?" Robb actually said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
If Joffrey noticed, it didn't show.
"When you return north," the king said calmly, still looking out across the city, "I would like you to escort eight hundred prisoners to the Wall."
Robb blinked, completely stunned.
"What?"
Joffrey glanced at him. "What what?"
"You're…not going to ask me to fight your uncles?" he asked, confusion replacing sarcasm in his tone.
Joffrey straightened, looking genuinely confused.
"What? No." He shook his head. "I'm not asking the North to fight my battles for me."
Robb stared at him. "Why?"
Joffrey answered without hesitation.
"Because it's a family matter that I intend to handle myself." He turned slightly, meeting Robb's eyes. "And because the North has already suffered enough."
Robb's mouth opened slightly before closing. For several seconds he couldn't think of a single response. Joffrey chuckled quietly at the stunned look on his face.
"The only assistance I would ask from you," he continued, "is convincing the Riverlords to accept the North's surrender."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"And if you could somehow persuade your… touched aunt to lower her banners as well, I would greatly appreciate it."
A smile slowly grew across Robb's face. Perhaps life under Joffrey's rule would not be quite as terrible as he had imagined.
"As you wish, your grace."
He bowed exaggeratedly, clearly teasing his friend, while Joffrey just rolled his eyes at the display. The tension between them eased considerably after that. They remained on the balcony for some time, finishing their wine and discussing far less serious matters, which mostly consisted of them arguing about their record in the training yard.
"I'm telling you it's four wins and seven losses," Joffrey argued.
"Greatjon must have hit your head hard, Joffrey, it's two wins and nine losses," Robb countered.
"You know what? Fuck you, Robb, we can head down to the yard right now and—"
But Joffrey was interrupted mid-sentence by the arrival of a breathless servant.
"Your grace," the boy stammered. "Two of the Lords—one northern, one from the Crownlands—they're about to start a fight."
Joffrey and Robb both sighed at the same time.
"This discussion isn't over," Joffrey said, making Robb chuckle as the two made their way inside to end a brawl before it could begin.
o-O-o
Morning came slowly to the capital. The rising sun cast long golden rays across the towering red walls of the Red Keep and the sprawling city below it. The roaring celebrations of the previous night had faded into a tired quiet as the Northmen began dismantling their camps outside the city gates.
Tents were folded and packed away. Horses were saddled, armor strapped on, and wagons loaded with supplies for the long journey home. The men moved through the morning chill with quiet efficiency, their breath misting faintly in the cool air. Though they had celebrated peace the night before, most of them were eager to leave the southern city behind and return to the familiar lands of the North.
Nearby, however, the mood was far less calm.
The Royal Guards were busy loading the surviving members of the City Watch into heavy iron cages mounted atop reinforced wagons. The contraptions had been designed by Tobho Mott and forged within the king's new industrial sector—thick iron bars riveted together, reinforced wheels built for rough roads, and complex locking mechanisms meant to prevent escape.
Eight hundred former Gold Cloaks were being packed inside those cages.
Some of the prisoners climbed in silently, their spirits broken and their faces pale with dread. Others were far less cooperative. Several men fought violently as they were dragged toward the wagons, screaming curses at the king and his soldiers.
One man attempted to bolt the moment his chains were loosened, but he barely made it three steps before a Royal Guard struck him across the jaw with the pommel of his sword. The man collapsed instantly, spitting teeth, his body going limp as he hit the dirt.
Another spat at the feet of the guards escorting him. That decision earned him a brutal beating that left him barely conscious before he was thrown into one of the cages like a sack of grain.
After a few such examples were made, the rest of the former city guards quickly lost what little nerve they had left.
One by one they climbed into the cages without resistance, their heads lowered in defeat as iron doors slammed shut behind them. Chains bound every wrist and ankle, heavy shackles clinking with every movement. Even if a man managed to escape his cage during the journey, he would not get far before those chains dragged him down.
Nearly fifty wagons were required to transport them all. By the time the last cage was secured and the final lock snapped into place, the grim caravan was ready to begin its slow journey toward the Wall.
While this was unfolding outside the city, the great gates of King's Landing opened once more as King Joffrey Baratheon rode out accompanied by his Kingsguard and several members of his Small Council. Their horses moved at a steady pace as they approached the Stark encampment.
The distant shouts and curses of the prisoners echoed faintly behind him, but Joffrey paid them no attention. As far as he was concerned, those men were already dead. The Wall would claim them soon enough.
Ahead of him, the banners of House Stark stirred in the morning wind.
Robb Stark noticed the approaching royal party first. Straightening his posture, he stepped forward to meet them, his family and several Northern lords falling into place behind him as they approached.
The two groups came to a halt a few feet apart.
"Lord Stark," Joffrey greeted politely, his voice calm and composed.
"Your Grace," Robb replied, returning the gesture with a respectful nod.
"I merely wished to see you off and wish you safe travels, my friend," Joffrey said with a faint smile. "All things considered, it was good to see you again."
Robb snorted quietly.
"Well that's very kind of you, Your Grace," he replied with the familiar sarcasm that only he seemed capable of using when speaking to the king.
Behind him, the Stark family exchanged their own farewells. Sansa embraced her father first, holding him tightly before moving on to hug Robb as well. When she reached Arya, she affectionately ruffled her younger sister's messy hair, earning an annoyed swat in response.
Joffrey stepped forward then, beginning his own goodbyes, approaching Ned Stark first.
"It was a pleasure having you as my guest, Lord Eddard," Joffrey said with a small smile, his tone carrying a faint hint of humor. "I wish you luck and good health at the Wall."
Ned chuckled softly at that.
"Thank you, Your Grace," he replied. "I can't say it was the worst hospitality I've received."
Joffrey allowed himself a quiet laugh before his expression shifted, becoming more serious.
"Remember what we discussed," he said quietly.
The change in tone caught the attention of several people nearby.
"You do your part," Joffrey continued calmly, "and I'll do mine."
Ned's expression hardened with understanding as he gave a firm nod.
"I know I will."
Several members of the Stark family looked between them with confusion, clearly aware that something significant had just been said. Before anyone could ask what the two men were talking about, however, Joffrey had already moved on.
His next stop was Arya Stark. The young girl glared up at him with a level of hostility that might have been amusing if it weren't so intense.
"Goodbye, little wolf," Joffrey said casually, reaching out to ruffle her hair.
Arya immediately tried to bite him.
"If you ever hurt my sister," she said with complete seriousness, "I'll put a knife through your eye."
Several embarrassed coughs sounded from the Stark side. Sansa looked absolutely mortified by her sister's blunt threat. Though Joffrey only laughed.
"I have no doubt," he replied with a grin.
Finally, he stepped toward Robb.
"I wish you good fortune in the wars to come," Joffrey said as he extended his arm.
Robb looked down at the offered forearm before clasping it firmly in return. Without warning, Joffrey suddenly pulled him closer. He leaned forward just enough to whisper something into Robb's ear—words meant for him alone.
The moment lasted no more than a heartbeat, but when they separated, Robb's eyes widened in clear shock. Several nearby Stark bannermen frowned in confusion as they noticed the reaction. Quiet murmurs passed between them as they tried to guess what had just been said.
Neither man offered an explanation; the king simply smiled.
"Goodbye, Lord Stark."
Robb blinked once, still processing whatever he had just heard.
"Y-you as well, Your Grace," he replied, his voice slightly unsteady.
With that, the farewells came to an end.
The Stark host began their march north, the long column of soldiers, horses, and wagons slowly moving down the Kingsroad. Among them rolled the iron cages carrying eight hundred disgraced Gold Cloaks toward the Wall.
Joffrey watched them for a moment, before turning his horse back toward the towering gates of the Red Keep. As he rode back into the city alongside his Kingsguard and council, one truth had already become clear.
The war with the North and the Riverlands was finally over. But another war was already looming on the horizon—and this one would decide the fate of the entire realm.
o-O-o
Over the following days, ravens took flight from the towers of King's Landing in numbers rarely seen before.
Hundreds of black wings spread across the skies of Westeros, carrying a message that would ripple through every court, fortress, and war camp in the realm. The letters were brief but momentous.
King Joffrey Baratheon has defeated Robb Stark.
The Young Wolf had bent the knee, and the North had sworn fealty once more to the Iron Throne. Wherever those ravens landed, the reactions were immediate—and rarely calm.
o-O-o
Far to the south, in the fertile lands of the Reach, Renly Baratheon sat in his war pavilion surrounded by maps, banners, and the low murmur of his gathered lords. For weeks his forces had been preparing to march on King's Landing. Supply routes had been secured, roads cleared, and vast stockpiles of grain and fodder assembled to sustain the enormous host he commanded.
It had taken time, but the final preparations were nearly complete. Renly had been confident that once he marched, the capital would fall quickly. That confidence faltered the moment he finished reading the raven's message. He stared down at the parchment in disbelief, reading the words again as if they might somehow change.
Robb Stark was defeated, and the North and Riverlands had surrendered. Renly slowly lowered the letter, his brow furrowing.
"A force nearly four times his size…" he muttered quietly to himself.
Around him the lords of the Reach whispered in confusion and disbelief. Many of them had expected Robb Stark to seize the capital long before Renly's armies ever reached it. Renly leaned back in his chair, his expression darkening as he tried to make sense of it.
"How," he wondered bitterly, "did that wretched boy manage it?"
Before anyone could offer speculation, the tent flap burst open as a messenger rushed inside, mud still clinging to his boots from hard riding.
"My king," the man said breathlessly, dropping to one knee. "Urgent news from Storm's End."
Renly frowned. "Speak."
The messenger swallowed before he spoke. "Lord Stannis has taken the castle."
The words struck the room like a thunderclap.
"With how many men?" Renly demanded sharply.
"According to the reports, roughly five thousand, Your Grace."
For a moment the pavilion fell completely silent. Then Renly shot to his feet, outrage flashing across his face.
"Five thousand?" he snapped. "My brother took my fortress with a measly five thousand men?"
His anger boiled over quickly.
"That miserable, humorless bastard has finally overstepped."
Several lords began speaking at once, offering advice and suggestions, but Renly silenced them with a raised hand.
"We march immediately," he declared. "Storm's End will be reclaimed, and Stannis will answer for this insult."
His Hand, Lord Mace Tyrell, stepped forward eagerly.
"Your Grace, the strength of the Reach stands ready. Allow my banners to ride with you."
Renly shook his head.
"No. Remain here with your forces and finish the last of our preparations. Once Stannis is dealt with, I will send word and we will march on King's Landing together."
At his side, Margaery Tyrell studied her husband carefully.
"Your Grace," she said softly, "perhaps caution would be wise. Stannis is not a man known for reckless gambles."
Renly dismissed the concern with a casual wave of his hand.
"Stannis has five thousand men," he said with a confident smile. "I command tens of thousands. This will be over before it truly begins."
Soon afterward, Renly emerged from his pavilion clad in brilliant emerald armor that gleamed beneath the southern sun.
Behind him rode two of his most loyal champions—Brienne of Tarth and Loras Tyrell—as the king's banners were raised and the great host prepared to move.
Watching him depart, Margaery remained silent. Outwardly, she appeared completely calm and composed. But deep within, a quiet unease had begun to grow in her chest.
o-O-o
In the war-scarred Riverlands, the news arrived at Riverrun beneath dark and overcast skies.
Edmure Tully stood in the great hall with his uncle, the legendary Brynden "Blackfish" Tully, as the raven's letter was read aloud. When the maester finished, neither man spoke for several long moments.
Robb Stark was defeated. The words felt almost impossible. The Young Wolf had humbled the Lannister armies again and again throughout the war. His victories had become the stuff of campfire tales and soldiers' boasts. For him to lose so suddenly, it almost felt like a bad dream.
Edmure rubbed his temple in frustration.
"What in the Seven Hells happened?" he muttered.
The Blackfish remained silent, his sharp eyes scanning the parchment once more. Despite their shock, the letter contained one piece of news that brought a measure of relief.
Under the terms of Robb's surrender, the Riverlands had been granted a royal pardon. Their lands would be spared further devastation, and compensation would be provided to help rebuild what had been lost or burned.
It was more mercy than they had expected. Still, the war was over, whether they liked it or not.
At Robb's command, their banners had to fall. With a heavy sigh, Edmure turned to the gathered captains and officers.
"Send word to every force still engaged with the Lannisters," he ordered quietly. "Tell them to cease hostilities." He paused before finishing the command. "The war is over."
o-O-o
High in the mountains of the Vale, the news reached the Eyrie soon after. Lysa Arryn listened as the maester nervously relayed the message, her thin fingers clutching the arms of her seat.
Her nephew Robb Stark was defeated.
She blinked in surprise. The boy had won so many battles already that she had half expected him to triumph again, but the moment passed quickly.
None of that truly mattered to her anymore. All that mattered was her vengeance. The thought of Petyr Baelish—her beloved Petyr—rose instantly to the forefront of her mind, pushing every other concern aside.
The bastard boy had killed her beloved, and he would answer for his transgressions with blood. Everything else was irrelevant.
Unbeknownst to Lysa, however, not everyone in the Vale shared her singular focus. In quiet chambers and hidden corridors, several of the Vale's most powerful lords had initiated secret discussions.
At the center of those conversations stood Lord Yohn Royce.
For months he had watched Lysa's behavior grow increasingly erratic and obsessive. Her fixation on avenging Baelish had begun to overshadow the duties of ruling the Vale.
And more troubling still…
Some of the lords had started to question the story she told about Jon Arryn's death. The more Royce thought about it, the less certain he became that the Lannisters were truly responsible.
Especially when Lysa seemed far more consumed with avenging Baelish than her own husband. If her instability continued to worsen, several of the Vale's lords now quietly wondered whether young Robert Arryn might need to be removed from his mother's influence for his own safety.
Those conversations were still whispers, but whispers had a way of becoming storms.
o-O-o
Elsewhere in the Vale, another war council had just received the same raven.
Inside a fortified camp surrounded by banners of crimson and gold, Tywin Lannister sat at the head of a long war table as the letter from King's Landing was delivered. When the maester finished reading, several of the assembled lords began speaking at once in surprise.
Tywin, however, said nothing.
His expression remained as cold and unreadable as stone. Internally, however, the news had caught him off guard. For months Robb Stark had harried his forces across the Riverlands, outmaneuvering seasoned commanders and humiliating the Lannister armies again and again.
Yet somehow his grandson had managed to defeat him. And he had achieved it without the Crown's direct oversight. Tywin allowed a faint silence to linger before finally speaking.
"Good," he said calmly.
The room quieted immediately.
"Then we have four pretenders remaining."
The gathered lords exchanged uneasy looks as Tywin continued.
"Balon Greyjoy has declared himself king once more," he said coldly. "And his son has already seized Winterfell."
The implications of that alone were staggering. Tywin slowly rose from his chair, resting both hands on the war table.
"This changes the board."
If the North had surrendered, the Lannister host was now free to move elsewhere. His mind was already calculating the next steps.
"We march east," he said decisively, making several lords straighten in surprise. "We've allowed the Vale to dictate the pace and locations of the battles for too long. That ends now."
His bannermen immediately began nodding in agreement. Tywin turned away from the table as orders were already being shouted to aides and messengers. As the lords departed to mobilize their men, Tywin allowed himself a brief private thought.
For the first time since the war began… he felt something approaching pride toward his grandson.
"Perhaps," he thought quietly, "the boy might yet prove worthy of the name Lannister."
o-O-o
Under the black storm clouds surrounding Storm's End, three uneasy days passed after the ravens carried news across the realm. Word of Joffrey Baratheon defeating Robb Stark had reached even the windswept fortress overlooking Shipbreaker Bay.
Inside the castle's great hall, Stannis Baratheon stood near a table lit by several flickering torches, the raven's parchment still clenched in his hand. He had read the letter multiple times already, yet the words seemed no less unbelievable.
Robb Stark had bent the knee.
For months the realm had burned with rebellion, yet now one of the most dangerous kings in the war had been defeated—and at the hands of a bastard boy Stannis had dismissed as the golden-haired harlot's puppet.
Stannis's jaw tightened.
"That golden-haired bastard…" he muttered quietly.
If the report was true, then Joffrey had proven far more dangerous than anyone had assumed. His gaze shifted across the hall toward the red-robed priestess standing near the hearth. Melisandre watched the fire with calm intensity, its glow reflecting in her crimson eyes.
Stannis approached her slowly.
"Could you create me another child?" he asked.
Melisandre did not answer immediately. Instead, she studied the dancing flames for a long moment before speaking.
"You speak of the power that claimed this castle for you," she said quietly.
The last shadow she had helped bring forth had slain Cortnay Penrose, allowing Stannis to take Storm's End without a siege. It had been effective, but Melisandre slowly shook her head.
"You have strength for only one more," she said.
Stannis frowned. "Only one?"
"The shadow draws upon your life's fire, my king," she replied calmly. "Each time the cost grows greater."
She turned toward him fully now.
"And your brother marches upon us."
Scouts had confirmed it. Renly advanced toward Storm's End with nearly thirty thousand men, while Stannis's own army numbered barely five thousand.
"Renly must die," Melisandre continued softly.
The words hung heavily in the air.
Stannis said nothing for several moments, his thoughts weighing the threat before him. Renly's rebellion was an insult he had never forgiven—but Joffrey's sudden victory suggested another enemy rising rapidly in power.
Two rivals, yet only one shadow left. Melisandre watched the calculation in his eyes.
"There is another way," she said at last, making Stannis look at her.
"What way?"
"An older form of magic," she replied. "One that calls upon the power of king's blood."
[Later that night]
The great hall of Storm's End was filled with torchlight. Stannis stood at the center of the chamber, surrounded by his most loyal followers. The mood among them was tense and uncertain. Few dared to speak.
At the far end of the hall stood a wooden post where a young boy had been bound. The child struggled nervously against the ropes, fear plain on his face. He was Edric Storm, one of Robert Baratheon's acknowledged bastards. His frightened gaze darted around the hall, searching desperately for help.
None came.
Melisandre entered quietly, her crimson robes trailing behind her like a living flame. In her hands, she carried a dark stone bowl that she placed carefully upon a nearby table. The hall fell silent; only one voice broke the stillness.
"You cannot do this!"
The shout came from the far side of the chamber. Davos Seaworth strained against the two guards who were restraining him to prevent him from interfering.
"This is wrong!" he shouted. "Spilling a child's blood will bring no good to us!"
Some of the knights shifted uncomfortably, though none moved to intervene. Melisandre did not respond to the Onion Knight's protests.
Drawing a ceremonial dagger, she cut her own palm and allowed several drops of blood to fall into the bowl. Afterward, she approached the frightened boy, placing a gentle hand against his cheek. Her expression almost seemed sympathetic.
Then, with one fluid motion, she cut the boy's throat, letting his blood pour into the bowl to mingle with her own. Soon the bowl contained a mixture of blood and ritual ingredients—symbols meant to represent those the spell would target.
Melisandre began chanting in High Valyrian, her voice rising and falling like an ancient prayer. The liquid within the bowl slowly began to glow, and moments later, it ignited.
Orange flames flickered above the surface, drawing quiet gasps from several knights. Yet Melisandre continued chanting, her focus entirely fixed on the fire.
Gradually, the flames shifted in color. Orange turned to blue. The strange fire danced wildly in the bowl as the priestess stared into it, a faint smile spreading across her face.
[At the same time in the capital]
Hundreds of miles away in King's Landing, the night inside the Red Keep was quiet.
In his private solar, Joffrey sat alone at his desk surrounded by scattered parchment sheets filled with sketches and designs. He wore only a plain white nightshirt and dark breeches, his crown set aside for the evening.
The young king leaned over the desk, studying a mechanical drawing he intended to show the master smith, Tobho, in the morning.
Reaching for a cup of water, he suddenly froze.
A sharp pain struck his chest. Joffrey frowned, pressing a hand against his sternum, but the pain only intensified and began to spread. Within seconds, it moved through his body like fire in his veins. His breathing became uneven as he struggled to stand.
Using both hands, he pushed himself up from the chair and struggled, leaning heavily against the wooden desk to remain on his feet as he made his way toward the solar's door to get help.
When he moved away from the desk toward the center of the room, another wave of pain hit, making him collapse face-first onto the stone floor. He slowly struggled to his knees; the pain became unbearable, as if his heart were being squeezed in a vice.
Joffrey immediately tore open his shirt to look at his chest where the pain was the worst. At the center of his chest, near his solar plexus, a large black mark had formed and grew. Slowly, black veins crawled out from the spot and made their way up his body.
They reached his neck, which suddenly felt as if a pair of invisible hands were strangling him; all he could do was cough and gag. As the veins reached his cheeks, his eyes began to weep tears of blood as he looked up at the ceiling. The veins moved toward his eyes, turning the whites black as they crawled toward his pupils.
Suddenly, his green irises glowed bright orange, forcing the black veins back. Immediately, the veins retracted from his face and crawled back down his neck and body, releasing the strangling pressure and allowing him to breathe. The black veins retreated all the way back to the black spot, which suddenly vanished. Then, as quickly as it had come, the pain vanished along with it.
Kneeling in the middle of the stone chamber, Joffrey's breath was ragged as he gasped for air.
"What the fuck—" was all he managed to say before passing out on the floor.
[Back in Storm's End]
In the great hall of Storm's End, Melisandre's chanting suddenly faltered.
Something was wrong, and she felt it immediately. The flames in the bowl began flickering erratically as the spell began to resist her. The blue fire shifted violently before changing color once more, turning bright orange.
The bright orange light surged upward as the flames grew unexpectedly tall, twisting into a swirling column that stretched toward the ceiling. The gathered knights stepped back in alarm.
The fire roared like a storm wind, scattering ash and sparks across the chamber. The strange sound echoing within the flames resembled distant voices carried through a gale. Suddenly, all the knights who had stood by watching the ceremony were sucked into the whirlwind of flames, their yells and screams silenced immediately as they were turned to ash.
Even the two guards restraining Ser Davos across the hall were pulled in, though the Onion Knight remained untouched as he stared at the flames with clear fear. Stannis was forced to shield his face with his bracer due to the heat of the fire, while Melisandre just stood before the column of fire with an expression that was a mixture of awe and confusion.
Then, a burst of fire suddenly shot outward from the swirling flames, striking the priestess and sending her flying across the hall. She slammed against the far wall before collapsing to the floor.
As quickly as it had appeared, the fiery vortex vanished. A deafening silence filled the hall. Stannis quickly hurried to Melisandre's side, kneeling beside her as she struggled weakly to breathe. He tried to turn her over but found her body scalding hot. Slowly, she rolled over, staring up at the ceiling of the fortress as steam rose from her body.
"My Lady," he said with clear concern. "What happened? Are you alright?"
But Melisandre didn't answer him; it was as if she couldn't hear him at all. She just stared upward with wide, bewildered, and fear-filled eyes.
"I don't understand!" she yelled hoarsely at the ceiling. "Why, my Lord?!"
Stannis just looked at her, confused, not understanding what she was talking about.
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