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 26: A Painful Departure
Several days had passed since the king's message had been sent across the realm labeling Stannis a kinslayer and a traitor both to the realm and the gods. In that time King's Landing had undergone yet another transformation, as a new type of bustle filled its streets.
The change had settled into the city like a tightening grip, subtle at first, then impossible to ignore. Where once the streets had been filled with the idle rhythm of trade and comfort, now there were just soldiers marching and preparing for the defense of their home before the enemy arrived.
Carts rattled under the weight of timber and iron, men shouted over one another in half-organized lines, and the air itself felt thicker—dense with smoke, sweat, and the quiet understanding that something was coming for them all.
Along the walls outside the Mud Gate, the ground had been opened like a gorge.
Trenches, carved deep into the packed earth, stretched in uneven lines beyond the walls, their edges collapsing and being reshaped again as workers rotated through their shifts. No man worked long enough to reach the point of sloppiness.
As one group slowed, another stepped forward, hands already calloused, shoulders already set. Officers moved among them with sharp eyes and harsher voices, forcing rhythm where exhaustion threatened to break it. Dirt piled high behind them, clinging to boots and skin alike, turning men into indistinct figures of mud and effort.
The work in front of the trenches rose just as steadily. Long stakes were driven into the ground at brutal angles, each one sharpened to a point that promised more than obstruction.
The improvements were not elegant, but they weren't meant to be. Bound together in rows, the stakes formed a jagged barrier that would prevent siege ladders, tear at advancing lines, and split a disciplined approach into something fractured and desperate. The sudis fence spread outward from the gate in layered formations, creating not just a wall, but a gauntlet.
At the King's Gate, the same transformation unfolded with well planned consistency. Here, the trenches widened in deliberate arcs, designed to funnel movement, to dictate where an army could step before it ever reached the stone. The barrier lines thickened, overlapping in ways that forced attackers to commit fully or retreat entirely. Above them, the walls had begun to change as well.
The Hwachas were being gathered from all around the city.
Originally they had been scattered around the entire city, positioned along its high walls. Now they lined the battlements in ordered rows, their wooden frames reinforced and braced against recoil.
Crews moved between them with practiced urgency, loading racks with tight bundles of bolts before stepping back, adjusting angles, and repeating the process again and again. There was no pause between drills, nor any tolerance for error. Each repetition carved the entire firing sequence deeper into the crew's muscle memory.
Below, near the supply points, stacks of ammunition had begun to accumulate in alarming quantities.
Fresh bundles arrived continuously from the Industrial Sector, where the true heart of the city's preparation beat without rest. There, the sound of hammer against metal never ceased. Forges burned through the night, their glow bleeding into the surrounding streets as workers moved through heat that blurred the edges of their vision and slowed their thoughts. Supervisors tracked output with clipped commands, redirecting labor when needed, forcing efficiency when bodies threatened to fail.
No one spoke of how long it could be sustained, for there was no need. Every strike of steel carried the same understanding that flowed into the next strike.
This coming battle would decide everything.
Inside the Red Keep, that same pressure that drove the city's inhabitants had settled into something quieter, more controlled but no less intense.
The Small Council chamber reflected this shift in its own way. Maps and reports covered the long table in layered disorder, fresh markings overlapping older ones, ink still drying where lines had been redrawn to account for new information. The map of Westeros remained at the center, but it was no longer a plain representation of the realm. It was a living thing that reflected each shift of information as wooden markers were moved around it.
Joffrey sat at its head, reading the latest report.
He didn't skim, or rush. Each parchment handed to him was taken, read, and set aside with deliberate care.
His posture gave little away, relaxed enough to suggest ease, but the speed at which his attention moved betrayed something sharper beneath it. Around him, the council watched, each man waiting for the moment he would be called.
"The refugees," Joffrey said at last, without lifting his gaze from the document in his hand.
Ser Barristan stepped forward slightly, his armor whispering faintly against itself. "They have been brought within the city walls as ordered, Your Grace. No citizens have been displaced in the process."
Joffrey's eyes lifted then, settling on him with brief intensity before shifting toward Ros.
"Where have you placed them?"
Ros inclined her head with practiced grace, her expression composed.
"In the Red Light District. The structures there required minimal adjustment, and the available space allowed for efficient housing without disrupting existing households."
There was no hesitation in her answer, no attempt to soften the implication of her choice. It was practical, and straight to the point.
Joffrey regarded her for a moment, weighing not the morality, but the outcome.
"Have you taken any losses?" He asked.
"Temporarily, Your Grace," Ros replied, her tone smooth. "But nothing we won't recover from."
Joffrey leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers tapping once against the wood.
"I will see to it that you are compensated once this is all over," he responded.
Ros dipped her head. "Thank you, Your Grace."
Joffrey shifted his attention without further comment.
"Jacelyn."
"My King."
"The walls?"
Jacelyn straightened, his voice steady as he spoke. "Progress remains ahead of schedule. Trenches at both gates are nearing completion. Rotations have held. No delays have been noted."
"And the men?" He asked.
"They are ready, Sire," Jacelyn said without hesitation. "Training has intensified with the news of Stannis' wickedness. They know what's coming, and they're eager for battle."
Joffrey held his gaze for a moment, then gave a slight nod.
"Good."
He turned again.
"Lark."
The Master of Trade adjusted slightly, his hands flipping through his documents.
"Food stores remain stable for now, Your Grace, but consumption has increased. At the current rate, we estimate depletion within two months if conditions remain unchanged."
Joffrey considered that in silence, his attention drifting briefly to the map before returning.
"The war will be decided before then," he said. "once it is, you and the Merchants Guild are to resume full trade. I'll leave the details up to you."
Lark inclined his head, though a hint of tension remained in his posture. The king's tone shifted slightly as he continued.
"Has our mutual friend responded yet?"
Lark's expression tightened, his answer more measured. "Yes. He's agreed to your terms."
A quiet ripple of confusion passed through the room. It wasn't spoken, but it was there in the way glances shifted, the other advisors were confused about what the pair were discussing. Joffrey offered no explanation to their unspoken questions, he just nodded once and let the moment pass as if it held no further weight.
Suddenly the Small Council door opened drawing every eye in the room.
Podrick Payne stepped inside with visible hesitation, the letter in his hands held too carefully for it to be comfortable. He crossed the chamber with quick, uncertain steps, stopping at Tyrion's side before kneeling just enough to whisper and pass him the parchment.
Tyrion accepted it with a quiet murmur of thanks. Podrick bowed to the room, then retreated as quickly as he had entered, the door closing behind him with a dull, final sound.
Tyrion unfolded the letter. As he read through the contents of the letter, his brow tightened, which didn't go unnoticed.
"What is it?" The king asked.
Tyrion did not answer immediately. His eyes moved across the page again, slower this time, as if confirming something he would rather not believe.
"I've just received word from Dorne," he said at last.
The sudden shift in the room was almost palpable. Joffrey's gaze narrowed slightly, his attention sharpening with anticipation.
"They've accepted the engagement," Tyrion continued, his voice carefully controlled. "Between Princess Myrcella and Prince Trystane Martell."
A deafening silence followed the dwarf's words.
Joffrey did not react right away. He simply looked at Tyrion, his expression unreadable, while his posture remained unchanged.
"Is that so?" he asked.
His voice was calm, almost detached.
"And when exactly," he continued, "did my sister become engaged to a Dornish prince?"
Tyrion shifted slightly in his seat, but he managed to maintain his composure.
"As your Hand, I arranged the betrothal to secure an alliance with House Martell. It will bring Dorne back into the fold and prevent them from supporting Stannis."
Joffrey watched him.
"So," he said slowly, "you made a pact in my name… without my knowledge or my consent."
Tyrion's jaw tightened. "I acted in the interests of you and the realm," he said. "As the Hand of the King is commissioned to do."
The air in the room tightened, the tension settling into something heavy enough to feel. The king turned his head slightly to his other advisors.
"Leave us."
The command came softly, but with a weight that left no room for hesitation. Chairs moved immediately, parchments were gathered, and one by one the councilors filed out of the chamber.
Sansa lingered for a moment.
"Joffrey?" she asked quietly.
He looked at her, and then gave her a small nod.
She immediately understood that he meant her too. With a brief curtsy, she turned and left, the door closing behind her with a loud finality.
The silence that followed was heavy and oppressive.
Joffrey rose slowly from his seat and moved around the table, stopping just in front of Tyrion's chair. He did not rush, nor raise his voice. Watching Joffrey drift toward him with such deliberate, quiet grace, Tyrion felt the sudden weight of the moment.
For a long stretch of time, neither spoke, until the king broke the heavy silence with a single word.
"Why?" Joffrey asked.
Tyrion's face scrunched and he slowly reached for his goblet, but Joffrey moved first. He gripped the cup and placed it just out of reach with a firm clank against the wood.
Tyrion looked up, irritation flickering briefly before fading under the weight of Joffrey's cold gaze.
"As I told you, I was acting in the interest of—"
But his sentence died in his throat as Joffrey cut him off before he could finish.
"You know that's not what I am asking." Joffrey said more sternly, his words cutting sharply. "Now, tell me why."
Tyrion stopped, taking a deep breath before exhaling, his expression shifting as he chose his next words more carefully.
"With Stannis marching," he said, quieter now, "I feared for their safety. I wanted Myrcella out of the city before it was too late. I intended to do the same for Tommen."
Joffrey listened without interruption, his eyes fixed on Tyrion's face. The response came immediately.
"No, you will not." the young king said.
"If I believed this city was going to fall," Joffrey continued, "do you really think I would keep Sansa here?"
Tyrion said nothing to his nephew's words.
"Do you think that either of my siblings would remain within these walls If I didn't think I could win?"
Tyrion did not answer, he just stared silently.
"No," Joffrey said, shaking his head. "You did it because you don't trust me."
The king paused taking a deep breath
"Even now," Joffrey went on, "after everything I've done to prove otherwise, you still see me as the same petulant, sadistic boy you despised."
Tyrion didn't deny his words. The silence stretched. Joffrey just nodded once, taking his uncle's silence as an admission.
"I had plans for Myrcella," he said. "Plans that would have strengthened the realm on my terms. On a timeline I controlled. And in a manner that allowed me to vet every potential suitor."
He stepped slightly closer.
"But now you've forced my hand. I have to accept this marriage or go to war with yet another kingdom. A kingdom that by the way already loathes our name. If I refuse, we lose the only ally that might be able to hold us up, and I'll be left trying to scrub the stench of your ineptitude off my own reputation."
Tyrion's gaze dropped, his shoulders settling under the weight of it.
"My apologies, Your Grace."
Joffrey's expression did not change.
"Apologies won't undo the damage that you've done."
The dwarf continued looking down, not willing to meet the furious king's gaze.
"Look at me." He commanded.
Tyrion complied and slowly looked up into Joffrey's cold emerald eyes.
"Never make promises in my name without my knowledge again."
The words hung between them, but the hand just gave a single nod. Joffrey held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned and walked toward the door without another word.
The chamber fell silent again once he was gone.
Tyrion remained seated, staring at the table in front of him. The goblet sat where it had been moved, untouched, the wine inside it still and dark.
After a long moment, he looked at it, then he turned away choosing not to reach for it.
o-O-o
Night settled over the Red Keep with the weight of a stage curtain.
The noise of the city didn't vanish—it never truly did anymore—but it dulled and softened into a distant murmur that crept through stone and lingered in the bones of the castle.
From the walls came the faint rhythm of hammering that would continue throughout the night. The occasional shout or the clatter of a passing cart emanated from the streets. But within the corridors of the Keep, the world felt quieter; certainly not peaceful, but more… contained.
Joffrey walked the halls alone.
A single candle burned in his hand, its flame bending with each step, casting uneven light across the stone walls.
Shadows stretched and shrank around him, crawling along the floor and climbing the pillars as he passed. The scent of melting beeswax followed him, faint but steady, a small moment of normalcy in a place that felt increasingly like it was bracing for impact.
His steps were more measured and much slower than usual.
There was no urgency in him. No sharp purpose driving him forward as there had been in the council chamber or later on the walls overseeing the work. Instead, something weighed on him and it had nothing to do with strategy or calculation.
He knew what he had to do.
The task ahead had never been in question. But knowing it had to be done and actually completing it were not the same thing.
The corridor curved gently, opening into a quieter wing of the keep where the torches burned lower and fewer servants passed. The silence here felt deeper, broken only by the faint crackle of flame and the soft echo of his own footsteps.
He slowed as he approached his sister's door.
The ancient oak entryway stood before him, solid and familiar, its iron hinges dark against the wood. For a moment, he simply stood there, the candlelight flickering across the grain as his shadow stretched long behind him.
Joffrey lifted his hand, hovering in front of the door as he hesitated to knock. The air in his lungs felt heavier with the weight of the moment ahead.
He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes briefly before steadying himself. There was no avoiding it, nor could he delay further. The longer he stood here, the worse it would become.
Knock Knock Knock*
Inside, there was a rustle—soft, hurried, then a voice called out.
"Who is it?"
It was muffled through the door, but unmistakable. Joffrey swallowed once before answering.
"It's me. Myrcella. May I come in?" Joffrey asked.
There was no hesitation in her response.
"No! Go away!"
The anger in her voice struck sharper than he expected.
For a fleeting moment, Joffrey said nothing. The words settled between them like something tangible. He could almost see her on the other side—arms crossed, eyes brimming with the tears she refused to let fall in front of anyone.
She already knew.
Of course she did.
Word moved quickly in the Red Keep, faster than most realized, and this was not the kind of decision that would have stayed hidden for long.
"Myrcella… please," he said, his tone softer now, the edge of command absent. "I need to speak with you."
Silence followed. Which lasted long enough that he began to wonder if she would refuse again, but then—the door unlatched and slowly opened just enough for her to stand there, framed by candlelight from within.
She seemed diminished, somehow—not by the theft of inches, but by the weight of the air around her.
Myrcella's shoulders were pulled tight and inward, a protective cage built around something small and breaking. Her yellow nightdress, once bright, now hung limp and defeated, its silk mapped with the jagged creases of a restless, lonely night.
The golden strands of her hair, usually a crown of order, now fell in frayed, neglected tangles against her skin.
But when she finally looked up, her eyes carried the true ache.
They were raw, swollen, and dulled by an exhaustion that sleep couldn't touch. It was the face of someone who had been grieving in the dark for hours, until there were simply no tears left to give.
"Come in, I guess," she muttered, her voice lacking its usual brightness.
Joffrey offered her a small, careful smile—one that didn't quite reach his eyes—before stepping inside. The room smelled faintly of lavender and warm linen, a soft contrast to the cold stone beyond the door.
She glanced briefly into the corridor behind him before closing it, her movements quick, almost protective, as though ensuring no one else would hear what followed.
Joffrey crossed the room slowly, setting the candle down on her bedside table. The flame steadied there, casting a gentler light across the space. For a moment, he stood beside the bed, unsure how to begin.
He slowly sat on the feather mattress.
The bed yielded with a soft, heavy sigh as he sat, the wood frame groaning in a way that felt like a quiet welcome home. Joffrey reached out and patted the empty sheets beside him—a gentle, aching plea for her to join him.
She hesitated, but only for a moment.
She moved across the room with a heavy hesitation, sitting beside him but keeping a careful, pointed distance. Joffrey looked at the gap between them—a cold, empty space that hadn't been there before, and one that he hoped he would be able to bridge.
"What do you already know?" he asked, keeping his voice even, gentle.
She didn't look at him.
"You're sending me away," she said, her tone tight, anger threaded through it like a wire. "To Dorne. To marry some prince neither of us has ever met."
There was no uncertainty in her words, only hurt.
"Yes," Joffrey said. "That is true."
She turned then, her angry eyes snapping up to meet his. "Why?"
The word came sharper than anything else she had said so far.
"Myrcella, you already know the answer to that." He responded.
Her expression faltered.
Confusion flickered through the anger.
"No," she said after a moment, her voice quieter now. "I don't." Her gaze dropped slightly, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her dress. "Have I done something wrong?"
The question hit harder than anything else.
"No," Joffrey said immediately, leaning toward her slightly. "You haven't done anything."
"Then why?" she pressed, her voice rising again, trembling at the edges. "Why am I being punished?"
"This isn't a punishment," he replied.
The firmness in his tone cut through her rising panic, forcing her to pause. He reached out, his hand settling gently against her cheek, careful of the tears that still clung there.
"I'm sending you away because the city is about to become dangerous," he said. "And I won't have you here when it does."
Her brows knit together. "Dangerous how?"
He exhaled quietly.
"Myrcella… I know that you are aware that our uncle Stannis and his army are marching," he said. "You know he intends to take this city."
She nodded slowly.
"Then you know what that means," he continued, his thumb brushing lightly against her cheek. "If he reaches these walls, this place will become a battlefield. And I will not risk you in that."
She studied him, searching his face as if trying to find something he wasn't saying.
"Then come with me," she said suddenly.
The simplicity of it caught him off guard.
"Come to Dorne," she continued, her voice softer now, almost hopeful. "We can go together."
He smiled gently.
"I can't," he said. "I have duties here. Obligations that bind me to this place."
Her expression fell, but he added.
"But if I could," he added quietly, "I would."
She didn't respond immediately. Her gaze dropped again, her thoughts turning inward as she tried to make sense of something she didn't fully understand.
After a moment, she looked back up.
"What if they don't like me?" she asked.
The question was small, and childlike once again reminding him of his sister's age. Joffrey blinked, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.
"What if the prince thinks I'm ugly?" she added, her voice barely above a whisper.
He let out a soft breath that almost became a laugh.
"Then he would be the stupidest boy who ever lived," he said, the warmth in his tone returning for the first time since he had entered the room. "And I would have words with him."
A faint smile tugged at her lips despite herself.
"And how could they not like you?" he continued. "You're kind. You're clever. And you're one of the most beautiful girls in the world."
Color rose to her cheeks, the tension in her posture easing just slightly as she fidgeted with her hands.
"You really think so?" she asked.
"I know so," he replied.
She smiled then. It was small, but it was real.
"And If anyone there treats you poorly," he added lightly, "I'll be sure to turn their deserts into glass."
She laughed at her brother's joke not knowing how serious he actually was. The sound was soft but genuine, breaking through the earlier heaviness that had filled the room.
"But now my beautiful sister, you must get some sleep," he said after a moment, standing and helping her back under the covers. "You have a long journey ahead of you."
She nodded, settling into the bed as he pulled the blanket up around her.
"Will you stay?" she asked, her voice softer again, her eyes already beginning to close. "Just until I fall asleep?"
Joffrey didn't hesitate.
"Of course."
He moved to the chair beside her bed, settling into it. The candlelight flickered between them, casting soft shadows across her face as her breathing gradually slowed.
He watched her.
Not as a king, but as an older brother.
The tension in his shoulders eased slowly as she drifted off, her features softening, the traces of earlier distress fading into something peaceful.
For a moment, he allowed himself to simply sit there. To just enjoy the peace and quiet.
When he finally stood, he did so carefully, reaching for the candle and lifting it from the table. The flame wavered slightly as he turned toward the door, his steps quiet against the stone.
He paused in the doorframe looking back at his younger sister's peaceful expression. She lay still beneath the covers, her face calm, untouched by the weight pressing down on the rest of the world.
A small smile touched his lips.
Then he slipped out, closing the door gently behind him. The corridor greeted him again with its cold silence, the shadows returning to claim their place as he moved away, the candlelight shrinking away with each step.
And behind him—Myrcella continued to sleep. Blissfully unaware of just how much the world was about to change.
o-O-o
By the time the sun had climbed high enough to burn the morning mist from the Blackwater, the shoreline below the Red Keep had filled.
The narrow stretch of rocky ground overlooking the water was crowded with guards, courtiers, and servants, all arranged in loose formation around the small landing point where a single skiff rocked gently against its moorings.
Beyond it, further out in the bay, the larger vessel waited—its sails furled, its hull cutting a steady silhouette against the glittering water. It would carry Princess Myrcella south, away from the capital, away from the walls that were bracing for war.
The sea itself seemed indifferent to it all.
Waves lapped lazily against the stone, the rhythm steady and unchanged, as if the world beyond this narrow strip of land had no stake in what was happening here.
Joffrey stood apart from the others.
He had taken a position atop a broad outcropping of stone that rose just above the rest of the shoreline, giving him a clear view of the departing skiff and the waters beyond. From there, he could see everything—the arrangement of men, the shifting lines of guards, the way the small boat dipped under the weight of those already aboard.
Sansa stood beside him.
She was close enough that their shoulders nearly touched, though neither leaned fully into the other. Her presence was quiet, steady, her eyes moving between the skiff and the figure standing within it—small, framed in pale yellow, clinging to the side of the boat as though it might anchor her in place.
Myrcella had not stopped crying.
Even from this distance, it was obvious in the way her posture folded inward, in the way her shoulders shook despite the effort she made to remain composed. Beside her sat Ser Arys Oakheart, rigid and attentive, his white cloak stirring faintly in the breeze as he kept watch over the princess entrusted to his care.
Closer to the water's edge, the High Septon droned on.
His voice carried poorly against the wind, but the cadence of it was unmistakable—measured, self-important, wrapped in ritual that felt hollow against the reality of the moment. His jeweled crown caught the sunlight with every slight movement of his head, flashing bright against the heavy white of his robes.
"May the Seven guide the princess safely upon her journey," he intoned, raising his hands as though the gods themselves required direction. "May the Mother grant her health, the Crone her wisdom, and the Warrior shield her from harm."
The words continued, rolling forward in practiced succession, each blessing laid atop the last with careful emphasis.
Joffrey barely listened. His attention remained fixed on the skiff, specifically on the way Myrcella's hands gripped the side of it. On the way she kept looking back.
Even now.
Even as the rope was loosed and the small vessel began to drift outward, pulled by steady oars toward the waiting ship.
Sansa's hand rose slowly, resting against his cheek.
"Do not look so stricken, Your Grace," she said softly, her voice meant only for him. "You are doing this to protect her."
Joffrey turned slightly into her touch, his fingers lifting to cover hers, interlocking with quiet familiarity. The warmth of her skin grounded him in a way little else had these past days.
"I know," he said. "But knowing doesn't make it hurt any less."
He lifted her hand briefly, pressing his lips against the back of it in a gesture that lingered longer than necessary before releasing it again.
When he turned back toward the water, his expression had settled once more into something composed, something that revealed little beyond the faint tightening at the corners of his mouth.
Below them, the skiff had begun to move in earnest.
The distance widened slowly, each pull of the oars carrying it further from shore, further from the stone walls that had defined Myrcella's world since she was born. The cries from the boat had softened now, carried away by the wind, until they became indistinct, swallowed by the open water.
Joffrey's gaze shifted to the side where his little brother stood. Tommen had picked a spot apart from the others.
He had not taken a position with the council, nor with the guards, or even with the small cluster of attendants who lingered at the edge of the gathering. Instead, he stood alone near the base of the stone path, his small frame trembling as he struggled—and failed—to contain his grief.
His face was wet with tears, his breathing uneven as he wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic, only for more to follow.
The king watched him, the familiar tightness gripping his heart like a vice.
The High Septon's voice finally fell away, his final blessing lost to the wind as the skiff reached the larger ship and lines were thrown down to secure it. There was a brief flurry of movement as those aboard were helped up, figures shifting against the deck until Myrcella was no longer visible.
Slowly the gathering began to disperse.
Men turned, cloaks shifting, boots scraping against stone as the formal structure of the farewell dissolved into quiet movement back toward the castle. No one lingered longer than necessary. There was little left to watch.
Joffrey stepped down from the rock, Sansa falling into step beside him as they joined the others along the narrow path leading upward toward the city. Tyrion moved closer as they walked, his expression guarded, something unsettled still lingering in the set of his features.
"Joffrey, I—"
He didn't get to finish.
Joffrey brushed past his uncle without a word, his gaze fixed ahead, his expression closed in a way that made further attempts feel pointless.
Tyrion stopped, watching him as he passed by. Something in his face shifted—regret, perhaps, or the weight of his actions finally becoming clear to him.
The path curved upward, leading them through the lower streets where the presence of the king did not go unnoticed. Word traveled quickly, faster than any raven, and by the time they reached the crowded stretch of Flea Bottom, the people had already begun to gather.
They parted as he approached. Though not out of fear, but respect.
"Hail King Joffrey!" a man called out, his voice cutting through the noise of the street.
Others took up the chant.
Voices layered atop one another, praise spilling forward in uneven bursts as the crowd pressed back to clear a path. Some bowed. Some simply watched, eyes wide, taking in the sight of their king moving through them without hesitation.
"Seven blessings, my lady," a woman said, stepping forward just enough to offer a small blue flower to Sansa.
Sansa paused, accepting it with a gentle smile that softened her features before she tucked it carefully into her hair.
The moment passed quickly, and the entourage continued their journey.
Joffrey moved with a rhythmic, unbothered grace, leaning into the roar of the crowd. His guards maintained a porous perimeter—tight enough to ensure his safety, yet loose enough to give the people the intoxicating thrill of being just a heartbeat away from their king. .
Beside him, Tommen was still despondent. He tried, in vain, to conceal his sadness from the crowd and the other members of the entourage but could not hold back the tears.
Sansa glanced toward Joffrey, then nudged him lightly with her elbow.
Without a word, he shifted closer to his younger brother, draping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him inward, shielding him from the crowd. Tommen buried his face against his chest, his small hands clutching at the fabric as the last of his composure broke.
Joffrey adjusted his stance slightly, letting the capelet at his shoulder fall just enough to obscure Tommen's face from those around them. His grip tightened—not restrictive, but firm, anchoring.
They did not speak.
They did not rush.
They simply walked side by side.
As they passed through the Iron Gate and manicured streets approaching Red Keep, the crowd had thinned, their noise fading back into the routine sounds of the busy capital.
The High Septon was escorted away making his way back towards the Great Sept, his presence already diminishing into irrelevance as the rest of the party continued to the castle gates.
Once inside, the air shifted again.
Joffrey released Tommen slowly, stepping back just enough to look at him fully. The boy's face was blotched and red, his eyes swollen from crying, his breathing still uneven as he wiped at his cheeks with the back of his hand.
Joffrey lowered himself to one knee.
"Are you all right, Tommen?" he asked.
Tommen didn't answer immediately. He sniffled, looking anywhere but at his brother, his jaw tightening as he struggled to regain some semblance of control.
Then his expression shifted, hardening.
"Why did you send her away?" he demanded.
The words came sharp, sudden, fueled by the young boy's lack of understanding.
Joffrey held his gaze.
"It was to keep her safe."
"That doesn't make sense!" Tommen snapped, his foot striking the floor in a small, frustrated stomp. "Why isn't she safe here?"
Joffrey exhaled quietly, his hand coming to rest on the boy's shoulder.
"Tommen I know you're angry, but when you're a bit older you'll—"
"No!" Tommen shouted, knocking his hand away. "I don't want to be older! I want my sister here!"
His chest rose and fell quickly, anger mixing with grief until it became something messy and uncontrolled.
"I hate you Joffrey!" Tommen snapped.
The words hung there until Joffrey slowly stood up, looking down at him without anger, without reaction beyond the faint tightening of his jaw.
"Return the prince to his chambers," he said to the nearest servant. "He is not feeling well."
The girl bowed quickly, stepping forward to guide Tommen away. The boy resisted for a moment, his expression still twisted with anger, but he allowed himself to be led, his protests fading as he disappeared down the corridor.
The king watched until he was gone, and only then did his expression shift.
Sansa stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him from behind, pressing close as if to hold him together.
"He will forgive you," she murmured. "One day, he will understand."
Joffrey didn't respond, quietly wondering to himself if this was what Robb felt.
For a moment, he let himself remain there, held in that quiet, steady presence, before gently pulling away.
"I want to be alone," he said.
Sansa hesitated. "Are you sure?"
He didn't answer, he just nodded.
Then he turned and walked away, the cold king mask settling back into place as he moved through the corridors, past servants who stepped aside, past guards who bowed their heads.
At his chamber door, Ser Balon stood waiting.
"I am not to be disturbed," Joffrey said.
The knight nodded, replying "Yes Your Grace."
The king entered his solar, the door locked behind him.
He immediately crossed the room, slowly removing his capelet and setting it aside before stopping in front of the mirror. For a long moment, he simply looked at himself in the mirror.
Then he slowly reached up to his crown gripping it so tightly it hurt before pulling it off.
The weight of it settled into his palm as he held it. In the moment, it felt far heavier than it had any right to be. The rubies caught the light, reflecting his face back at him in fractured pieces as images flashed in his mind.
Myrcella's tears.
Tommen's anger.
The echo of his little brother's words.
"I hate you Joffrey!"
His grip tightened around the crown before he smashed it into the mirror.
The sound rang through the chamber, glass breaking from the force of the blow as fragments scattered across the floor. The circlet fell from his hand, rolling away with a dull metallic sound before coming to rest near the far wall.
Joffrey sank back into his chair.
His hand came up, pressing against his brow as the silence closed in around him once more.
For a long moment, he sat there. A single tear traced its way down his cheek and fell to the floor.
o-O-o
Bitterbridge had not slept well since Renly Baratheon had been killed.
The great host of the Reach sprawled across the land like a city of tents and steel, its banners hanging heavy in the evening air. Green hands, golden roses, redwyne grapes, huntsmen, towers, bees, and oak leaves stirred above countless tents, but there was no triumph in the movement. Men still sharpened blades. Horses still stamped and snorted in their lines. Fires still burned in neat rows across the encampment. Yet beneath it all, something had gone hollow.
They had come here following a king, and now all they had was a corpse, and a dead cause.
The guards at the edge of camp spotted the riders just as dusk was about to turn into night.
Three figures emerged from the tree line, cloaks pulled high against the chill, their horses moving at a measured pace that suggested neither fear or aggression. The outer sentries straightened at once, spears lowering, hands drifting toward sword hilts as the strangers approached the line of torches marking the camp's boundary.
"Halt!" one of the guards barked.
The riders obeyed.
The lead figure lifted both hands slowly, harmlessly, before reaching up to draw back his hood. Torchlight caught the smooth curve of his head, the soft roundness of his face, and the familiar, unsettling smile that followed.
The guard stiffened.
"Lord Varys?"
"At your service," the eunuch said pleasantly.
The other two riders lowered their hoods as well, revealing young men in noble dress, pale and stiff-backed from travel. Hostages, though Varys would never have used such an ugly word aloud. Signs of good faith sounded much cleaner.
The guard's hand tightened on his spear. For a moment, it looked as though instinct might win over sense and he would order the spider seized where he sat. Varys only smiled and produced a rolled parchment from within his sleeve, holding it out between two fingers.
"I believe this will spare us all a great deal of shouting."
The guard hesitated before snatching it. His eyes moved quickly over the contents, then again, slower. Whatever he read there drained some of the tension from his face. He lowered the parchment and turned sharply to the others.
"Stand down."
The spears were immediately lowered.
Varys inclined his head as if receiving a dinner invitation rather than permission to enter the heart of an army that had been the Crown's enemy only days before.
"How gracious."
He was escorted through the camp beneath the eyes of thousands. Men stopped eating to watch him pass. Knights paused mid-conversation. Servants whispered behind raised hands. The name spread before him in ripples.
Varys.
The Spider.
The king's spymaster.
By the time he reached the great war tent, half the nearby camp knew he had arrived.
Inside, it seemed the Reach was arguing with itself.
The tent was enormous, large enough to swallow a lesser lord's hall, its central table covered in maps, carved markers, wine cups, sealed letters, and half-formed plans.
Lord Randyll Tarly stood near the war map with the grim posture of a man who found uncertainty personally offensive. He stood with one hand planted on the table as he spoke of supply routes and discussed which alliances could still be salvaged before Stannis swallowed the south whole. Lord Redwyne stood opposite him, placing ship markers along the painted coast with careful precision, his face drawn tight in thought.
Near the edge of the tent, Loras Tyrell stood apart from them all. His hand never left the hilt of his sword.
His eyes were red, raw from grief, the skin beneath them darkened by sleeplessness. Beside him stood Brienne of Tarth, broad and silent, her face looking as if it were carved of stone, yet her eyes appeared puffy and red as well.
Neither spoke, but neither needed to.
Renly's absence was a pain both of them felt.
At the high table, Mace Tyrell sat in a raised chair that made his apparent authority impossible to miss. Margaery sat beside him, utterly composed in a way that her father merely tried to project. Her eyes moved from lord to lord, weighing every word spoken in the tent. She looked less like a grieving widow and more like a strategist listening for the next opportunity to present itself.
A guard entered the canvas headquarters and bowed.
"My lord," he announced, "a visitor from King's Landing."
The tent quieted.
Varys stepped inside.
The reaction was immediate. Hands moved to weapons, conversations instantly ceased. Lord Tarly's eyes narrowed as though he had just found rot in a barrel of grain and Lord Loras turned so sharply that his cloak snapped at his heels.
Mace Tyrell stared, confusion hardening into suspicion.
"Lord Varys," he said slowly. "You are a long way from the capital."
"I do seem to have wandered," Varys replied, bowing with perfect courtesy. "Though I assure you, my lord, I have not done so by accident."
Mace leaned back slightly, his fingers tightening on the arms of his chair.
"And why are you here?"
Varys' smile remained gentle. "Peace."
The word changed the air.
A few men scoffed, while others stiffened. Loras took half a step forward, his hand tightening around his sword as Varys reached into his robe.
The sound of steel whispered into the air.
Several blades came halfway free before the eunuch paused, blinking mildly at the display.
"My lords," he said, "if I meant to murder Lord Tyrell, I would hardly announce myself first."
No one laughed.
Varys withdrew a second sealed scroll and held it out.
"For the Lord of Highgarden. From His Grace, King Joffrey Baratheon."
Mace's face shifted at the name, but he gave a short nod. A guard stepped forward, took the scroll from Varys, and carried it carefully to the high table. Mace broke the seal, unrolled the parchment, and began to read.
Margaery leaned in slightly, trying to glimpse the words, but her father angled it away from her and began to read the message.
At first, his expression was guarded. His eyes slowed, as he re-read a line. His brow lifted, just slightly, and for the first time since Varys had entered the tent, the Lord of Highgarden looked not offended, but intrigued.
The tent waited, then the lord of Highgarden rolled the parchment halfway closed.
"This council is adjourned," he said.
A stir passed through the gathered lords.
Lord Tarly frowned. "My lord—"
"We will speak later," Mace said, louder this time, with enough authority to end the challenge before it formed. "Leave us."
The men hesitated, but they obeyed.
One by one, the lords of the Reach withdrew from the tent, some displeased, some curious, all aware that something had shifted. Loras remained a moment longer, glaring at Varys with clear hatred, until Garlan Tyrell stepped close and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
Margaery did not rise to leave with the others, her eyes remained fixed on the scroll.
"Margaery," Mace said.
She looked at her father and then at Varys, and for a moment, it seemed she might argue.
But when Garlan offered his hand, quiet but insistent, she allowed herself to be led away with the others. Her gaze lingered on Varys until the tent flap fell behind her.
At last, only the two men remained.
Mace Tyrell studied the eunuch for a long moment before gesturing toward the empty chair across from him.
"Sit."
Varys complied.
Mace poured wine for them both, though he did not drink immediately. He watched Varys over the rim of his cup, the parchment resting between them like a blade laid flat on the table.
The lord finally took a sip, setting the cup down, while he tapped one thick finger against the king's letter.
"So," he said, his voice quieter now, "tell me more about the King's proposal of peace and his conditions."
Varys smiled. "Of course, my lord."
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