Chapter 65: Promotion Through the Coffin
Odin's voice swelled with infectious fervor as he spread his arms wide, as though unveiling a magnificent vision.
"Under your reign, Flea Bottom will no longer resemble the chaos seared into your memory."
"The streets will be cleansed. Order will be enforced with iron discipline. Any thug who dares sow trouble will be punished without mercy."
"It will become the safest district in all of King's Landing."
"Just imagine it, Your Grace."
He pressed on, voice dripping with temptation.
"When you ride into a reborn Flea Bottom—walking upon spotless streets—your subjects lining both sides, roaring your name in waves of thunderous cheers!"
"This will be the greatest achievement in the history of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Something even Aegon Targaryen himself never accomplished—yet it shall be fulfilled under your rule."
"Under the reign of Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name, the darkest corner of King's Landing will be scoured clean and returned to the radiant authority of the Iron Throne!"
The words were like the sweetest poison, poured directly into Joffrey's swollen ego.
Especially that line—something even Aegon the Conqueror never conquered.
To a fifteen-year-old king, barely past childhood, holding supreme power with an underdeveloped mind and an overdeveloped sense of self, this vision was irresistible.
His breathing quickened.
In his mind, he could already see the history books—Joffrey Baratheon listed beside Aegon the Conqueror… no, towering above him.
"Excellent… magnificent!"
"This idea—this idea is brilliant, Uh—"
He jabbed a finger at Odin, voice urgent yet still laced with that habitual arrogance.
"Right. What was your name again?"
Odin nearly rolled his eyes internally.
I've been talking my throat raw for ten minutes and you still don't remember my name?
Inbreeding really does ruin lives.
Though strangely enough, his siblings seem mostly fine—aside from terminal romance-brain.
Curious.
All of that flashed through his mind in an instant, but his expression remained flawless. He dipped his head respectfully.
"Odin, Your Grace."
"Odin… Odin!"
Joffrey shouted the name, his shrill voice nearly echoing through the Hand's Tower.
"Good! I'll remember you!"
"If you truly accomplish what you've promised—if you turn that dung heap called Flea Bottom into a place worthy of a king's presence—"
"Then I, Joffrey Baratheon the First, shall personally knight you!"
"I will grant you lands and title, and allow you to bear your own noble sigil!"
It was no small promise.
For most men, such words would have reduced them to incoherent gratitude on the spot.
After all, in Westeros—where birth dictated destiny—true social ascent was nearly impossible.
For a commoner, becoming a knight was already an unattainable dream.
And Joffrey had just casually promised far more than that.
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Not to mention—being personally knighted by a king, granted lands and a hereditary title.
For anyone else, that would be a once-in-a-lifetime miracle.
Yet faced with Joffrey's extravagant promise, Odin felt… nothing at all.
If anything, he almost wanted to laugh.
A knighthood?
Yes, it was a useful title—but that depended entirely on who did the knighting.
If one were dubbed by a legendary knight—someone like the Sword of the Morning or Barristan Selmy—then the honor itself carried weight, and the recipient would bask in reflected glory for a lifetime.
But Joffrey Baratheon?
Seven hells.
Even if the boy dared to knight him, Odin doubted he would ever admit it to anyone. It would become the single greatest stain on his personal history.
Just as Tyrion once said in the chronicles—
The Seven Kingdoms had known foolish kings.
They had known mad kings.
But a king who was both mad and foolish? That was a first.
If Odin ever had to walk around bearing the title "Knight of the Mad Fool King," the very thought made his skin crawl.
Still, no matter how sharp the mockery running through his mind, his face showed none of it. Instead, he adopted a perfectly timed look of gratitude and bowed deeply, his voice sincere beyond reproach.
"Your Grace's trust and generosity humble me."
"To be of service to the Crown, and to contribute—even in the smallest way—to your great undertaking, is already the highest honor I could ask for. I would never dare to covet further reward."
This display of heartfelt humility delighted Joffrey.
"Hahahaha!"
The boy king burst into laughter and turned toward Tywin, grinning like a child eager to show off a new toy.
"Did you hear that, Grandfather?!"
"I will be the greatest king in the history of the Seven Kingdoms!"
"I'll surpass my father—surpass even Aegon the Conqueror! History will remember me! Perhaps they'll call me Joffrey the Holy Baratheon!"
"Oh! And I'll have them tear down Baelor's statue in the Great Sept and replace it with one of me—bigger, grander, preferably cast in solid gold!"
Watching Joffrey preen, Tywin felt a wave of irritation rise within him.
Shallow. Childish. Arrogant.
Easily intoxicated by a few empty words.
That kind of stupidity—combined with the disgraceful blood running through his veins—
"I have never doubted your potential or your determination, Your Grace."
Tywin inhaled slowly and spoke with the same outward calm Odin had shown moments earlier. His tone was smooth, neutral—neither agreement nor dissent—nothing more than the courteous restraint demanded by rank and decorum.
Notably, he avoided any mention of "the greatest king."
Perhaps even Tywin found the phrase physically nauseating.
Hearing praise from Tywin Lannister himself only inflated Joffrey further. The young king smugly congratulated himself—listening to Margaery and ambushing the Hand's Tower had clearly paid off.
Perhaps he should come here more often. Fewer "games," more governance.
Though… it was dreadfully far. Even being carried in a litter was tiring.
Maybe he should just order the tower torn down and rebuilt closer to his chambers?
The king's smooth brain worked quickly and brutally—but before he could seriously entertain demolishing the Hand's Tower, Tywin spoke again.
"However, Your Grace."
"While restoring order to Flea Bottom is important, a truly great king—one who seeks to establish a dynasty that endures—must first ensure the continuation of his line."
Tywin's measured cadence left Joffrey no room to remain lost in fantasy as he shifted the conversation with surgical precision.
Frankly speaking, Tywin had reached the limit of his tolerance.
"You are soon to be wed to Lady Margaery. At this juncture, your priority should be meeting with the Master of Coin to review the wedding arrangements and the budget in detail."
"After all, this concerns the dignity of the Crown."
His words were calm, instructive—spoken like a senior correcting a foolish junior.
"A wedding befitting a king—grand, lavish, unmistakably powerful—will demonstrate our strength to all Seven Kingdoms."
"The alliance of House Lannister, House Baratheon, and House Tyrell will strike fear into our enemies and aid us greatly in the war."
"Conversely, a wedding perceived as frugal will invite whispers that our power is waning."
The reasoning was sound.
Even if the lecturing tone grated on Joffrey, he could only grit his teeth and nod.
Odin observed everything silently, filing it away.
At last, Joffrey snapped his fingers, ordered the servants to lower the litter, and plopped himself into it without ceremony.
"Come," he sneered. "Let's see whether my half-man uncle is slaving away for the realm—or rutting with whores!"
At the king's command, the litter rose once more, the servants turning toward the exit.
To their credit, they crouched slightly as they passed through the doorway, carefully lowering the frame so the precious royal head wouldn't strike the lintel.
Still, watching the scene, Odin couldn't shake a strange sense of foreboding.
The more he looked at it…
The more it resembled a funeral procession. (Insert meme 😂)
No wonder he died so young.
Honestly, you can't even blame Stannis for that one, Your Imperial Majesty.