Chapter 85 — The Wise King (II)
The Iron Throne Room
At the highest point of the hall, countless swords—melted together by dragonfire—twisted and coiled into a single grotesque mass.
They formed the ultimate symbol of power in the Seven Kingdoms.
Cold light filtered in through the tall windows, glinting off the blades and casting a harsh, merciless sheen over the Iron Throne.
And seated upon it—
Was a young king who could not have been more out of place.
The great King Joffrey Baratheon the First.
A crown of gold and crimson rested atop his head, a lavish velvet cloak draped over his shoulders, yet he sat slouched and yawning repeatedly, utterly devoid of royal Presence.
To be fair, it was not entirely his fault.
In recent days, His Grace had discovered a new pastime.
According to rumors—leaked by a certain Ser Meryn Trant, who naturally wished to remain anonymous—the king had developed a fondness for shooting prostitutes brought in from Silk Street with a crossbow, taking great pleasure in the act and often entertaining himself well into the night.
Below the throne, nearly all members of the Small Council were present.
Kevan Lannister, Master of Laws, stood stiff and solemn, his expression as immovable as the Rock of Casterly itself.
Grand Maester Pycelle's long white beard nearly brushed his chest. Like the king, he looked half-asleep—though Pycelle was standing, which somehow made the feat more impressive.
Varys, Master of Whisperers, his bald head gleaming brightly…
And seated just below the Iron Throne, on a slightly lower but far more meaningful chair, sat the man who truly ruled the realm—
Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King.
Only one seat was conspicuously empty.
The Master of Coin was absent, though whether he had not been informed of the meeting or simply chose not to attend was anyone's guess.
At present, however, the entire throne room was silent.
Because a single, sickly voice was droning on endlessly.
"Seven above… cough cough cough… let the Father judge with fairness…"
Lord Gyles Rosby stood before the throne, his hunched body trembling as he coughed incessantly. His waxy, yellowed complexion suggested a man who might collapse and die at any moment.
He pressed a silk handkerchief to his mouth, every cough seeming to demand the full strength of his lungs.
His voice—thin, shrill, and stubborn—scraped against the nerves like fingernails on slate.
"I truly do not know… cough cough… when it became acceptable for the laws of the realm—sacred laws—to be so… cough cough… casually trampled underfoot by the Kingsguard!"
"And they killed—cough cough cough—a captain of the City Watch!"
As he spoke, he beat his own chest, as though burdened by immeasurable grievance.
Watching this spectacle, Kevan resisted the urge to clutch his temples and said evenly,
"Perhaps you should drink some water first, Lord Gyles. If you cough yourself to death here… well. In any case, do have some water."
But Gyles ignored him entirely, continuing his wailing protest.
"Mother have mercy upon us…"
"I—I only had… cough cough cough… one close kin left! Ser Swyft Rosby!"
"I had planned, under the blessings of the Seven, to adopt him as my son—cough—so that he might one day inherit Rosby and continue our house's honor!"
"The Warrior granted him courage, and he rose to become a captain of the City Watch—but then…"
A violent coughing fit seized him, so fierce he nearly lost his breath entirely.
Kevan hurried forward, patting his back until, mercifully, Lord Rosby did not spray blood across the Iron Throne.
"But now he is dead!" Gyles finally gasped, his voice suddenly rising.
"Dead without justice—slain by the sword of the Kingsguard!"
"Where were their vows? Their sacred oaths to protect the king and the law?"
"The Crone teaches us wisdom and justice, the Maiden reflects the purity of truth—and this… this is blasphemy!"
"An open insult to the Seven and to the laws of the realm!"
He rambled on endlessly, coughing and lamenting, as though House Rosby had suffered the greatest humiliation since the Dawn Age.
Yet his performance only bored those present.
Kevan's brow was tightly furrowed.
Pycelle looked on the verge of falling asleep again.
Tywin Lannister, meanwhile, remained utterly expressionless—as though wearing a golden mask.
Only Varys, ever the charitable soul, offered a gentle correction.
"Forgive me for saying so, my lord, but the Kingsguard swear no oath to uphold the law—only to protect the king and the royal family."
At that, Lord Gyles pointed a trembling finger at Varys's gleaming bald head, his chest heaving so violently it seemed he might faint outright.
Unable to argue further, he could only turn, wide-eyed and pleading—
And look toward the Master of Laws for salvation.
Kevan Lannister let out a weary sigh, cleared his throat, and turned toward the Iron Throne, bowing slightly.
By procedure, he had to seek the king's opinion first.
"Since Lord Gyles believes there are unresolved injustices surrounding the death of Captain Swyft Rosby and demands a full investigation, then, Your Grace—"
"Huuuu—haaah—"
A sudden snore cut him off mid-sentence.
Kevan froze.
He looked up.
Joffrey was slumped against the cold, twisted blades of the Iron Throne, mouth slightly open, a glistening thread of drool slowly sliding from the corner of his lips.
Fast asleep.
For a man as rigid and serious as Kevan, even his mouth twitched at the sight.
After all, just that morning, this very king had insisted—forcefully—that the Small Council convene in the Iron Throne Room, declaring with great conviction that he would "personally oversee affairs of state, so all may witness the majesty of the king."
"Your Grace… Your Grace?"
Kevan raised his voice, trying to wake the monarch who had sworn to "oversee governance."
Joffrey muttered something incomprehensible, shifted slightly, and continued sleeping.
The hall descended into deep, collective embarrassment.
To be fair, the Iron Throne itself was a cursed creation. Forged from over a thousand swords melted together, it was less a chair than a mass of jagged iron spikes. Even the backrest bristled with blades—sitting upon it was an exercise in discomfort, not authority.
Aegon the Conqueror had once said that a king should never sit comfortably.
Unfortunately, the throne also had a habit of cutting those who sat upon it. After centuries, no one knew how many invisible "enchantments" of injury and infection it carried. Tetanus alone had likely claimed its share of victims.
Legend even claimed that Maegor the Cruel, the fiercest warrior of House Targaryen, had met his end upon this very throne.
And yet—
The great King Joffrey Baratheon I slept peacefully upon it.
Perhaps that, too, was destiny.
"Your Grace!!!"
Kevan raised his voice again.
Joffrey jolted awake, his head nearly brushing a blade. He blinked, took in the scene, and immediately straightened, hastily assuming a regal expression.
"Ahem!!"
"I heard everything! All of it!"
"I wasn't asleep—I was thinking. Now then… where were we?"
No one present believed him.
No one dared show it.
Only Lord Gyles seized the moment, staggering forward with renewed fervor.
"Seven above!"
"I accuse the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard—Ser Jaime Lannister—of abusing his authority and cruelly murdering my only close kin!"
"My loyal kinsman, Captain Swyft Rosby of the City Watch!"
"Mother show mercy, Crone grant wisdom—Your Grace, I beg you for justice!"
So worked up was he that he forgot to cough.
"Jaime Lannister?"
Joffrey's eyes lit up.
Whether it was resentment over the whispers surrounding Jaime and Queen Cersei—or doubts cast upon his own bloodline—Joffrey had long despised the Kingslayer.
Now that someone had formally accused him?
Joffrey looked ready to applaud.
"I knew it!"
He leaned forward eagerly, grinning more brightly than he had upon hearing of Renly's death.
"That kingslayer—always looking down on everyone because he's Lord Commander!"
"Murdering an officer of the City Watch is a grave crime! I will punish him—I will punish him!"
He nearly shouted death, but a lingering shred of caution—or fear of Tywin—made him swallow the word.
"I will strip him of his white cloak! Tear it from his back!"
For one brief moment, Tywin felt a flicker of relief.
Then it froze solid.
"I'll send him to the North! To the Wall!"
"Yes—let the Kingslayer freeze with wildlings and snow! Hahahaha!"
Tywin clenched his jaw.
Why did murder suddenly seem so appealing?
Yes, he wanted Jaime out of the Kingsguard—but not only to have him don black!
That was worse than the white cloak.
This wasn't just humiliation—it was trampling House Lannister's honor into the dirt.
At this point, Tywin felt not merely disappointment, but profound exhaustion and fury toward his impulsive, shortsighted grandson.
Foolish.
Mad and foolish.
A monstrosity centuries in the making—worse even than the Mad King.
Suppressing his rage, Tywin cut in coldly:
"Your Grace."
"A wise king does not pass judgment without first understanding the facts."
"To condemn the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard based on a single accusation would undermine both royal justice and public confidence."
Joffrey bristled, irritation flashing across his face—but memory and fear stayed his tongue.
"Fine, then investigate!"
"Quickly!"
Tywin averted his gaze, as though looking longer might insult his own intelligence, and signaled Kevan.
Moments later, Ser Addam Marbrand strode into the hall.
"Ser Addam," Tywin said flatly.
"Report everything you know regarding the slaying of Captain Swyft Rosby by Ser Jaime Lannister—truthfully, before the Iron Throne."
Notably, he said slaying, not murder—and addressed the throne, not the king.
Ser Addam stood straight, voice clear and steady.
"Your Grace. My lords."
"My investigation shows that Captain Rosby abused his authority, accepted bribes openly, and attempted to arrest a commoner without lawful cause or sufficient evidence."
"Ser Jaime was present. Witnessing such corruption and disgrace to the City Watch, and when Rosby attempted violent resistance, Ser Jaime exercised emergency authority as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard—acting in place of the Hand—to carry out immediate justice."
"I find Ser Jaime's actions legally justified."
The explanation was neat.
And, conveniently, all blame fell upon the dead man.
The dead, after all, do not testify.
Lord Gyles exploded into coughing rage.
"Lies!"
"Seven save us—lies!"
"You swore vows before the Seven, Ser Addam! The Warrior does not bless such cowardly excuses!"
"Everyone knows you were once Lord Tywin's squire—of course you defend his son!"
"This is concealment! Blasphemy against divine justice!"
His shrill accusations echoed painfully through the hall.
Ser Addam's face darkened—but he did not respond. His former service to Tywin was common knowledge.
At that moment, a gold cloak slipped quietly into the hall and whispered into Tywin's ear.
Tywin listened without expression, then nodded once.
Raising a hand, he silenced Lord Gyles mid-rant and turned to Joffrey.
"Your Grace."
"It is understandable that Lord Gyles questions the impartiality of Ser Addam's testimony."
"Fortunately, I have located another key party to this incident—one who may provide… more direct evidence