Chapter 139: The King Is No More
The Great Hall of the Red Keep—Maegor's Holdfast—glowed beneath stained-glass windows that scattered the afternoon sun into ribbons of color across the carpets.
Long tables curved into a vast horseshoe, seating hundreds. Servants in royal livery moved with practiced precision, like a disciplined army. The air was thick with roasted meats, spices, and the perfume of nobles.
The last time the Red Keep had been this lively…
Well, it had also been a wedding.
But today was grander—far grander.
For this was the wedding of King Joffrey Baratheon and Lady Margaery Tyrell.
The High Septon had invoked blessings from the Seven—for unity, for alliance, for prosperity.
Whether the gods were listening… was another matter.
---
At the royal table—shaped like the Iron Throne itself—Joffrey lounged with a crooked smile, his gaze fixed on a certain dwarf nearby.
His expression held nothing of reverence—only amusement.
He wore crimson and gold, a heavy golden crown studded with rubies pressing down on his brow, forcing him to adjust it now and then.
"Uncle Tyrion!"
The king's sharp voice cut through the hall.
Tyrion Lannister looked up calmly, setting aside his cup.
"Yes, Your Grace?"
Joffrey grinned.
"Your cup is empty."
He raised his voice so nearby nobles could hear.
"How can the king's uncle sit without wine? Come—I'll pour it myself."
A hush fell.
Tyrion's hand tightened beneath the table, but his smile remained polite.
"You are too generous, Your Grace. But I'm not thirsty."
"Not thirsty?" Joffrey laughed, grabbing a golden flagon and swaggering over.
Behind him, Margaery watched—smiling perfectly, though something flickered in her eyes.
"As king, I command you to be thirsty."
He stopped before Tyrion, lifted the jug high—
And poured.
Wine cascaded over Tyrion's head, soaking his rich velvet coat, dripping into his plate.
Laughter erupted across the hall.
Tyrion closed his eyes.
He didn't move.
Didn't wipe his face.
He simply sat there—like a statue drenched in wine.
Beside him, Sansa Stark remained still. She had endured this before. Too many times.
Finally, the jug ran dry.
Joffrey tossed it aside.
"Now you're thirsty, uncle!" he laughed. "Bring him a proper cup!"
A servant hurried forward with a massive golden goblet—so large Tyrion needed both hands to hold it.
Joffrey filled it himself.
"Drink. All of it. Not a drop left."
Tyrion opened his eyes.
Through blurred vision, he looked at the boy king—his sister's son.
A creature who delighted in humiliation.
"As you command, Your Grace."
He lifted the goblet and drank.
Wine spilled down his chin, mixing with what had already soaked him.
The hall watched in silence as he forced down an entire flagon.
At last, the cup emptied.
His hands trembled as he lowered it.
His face flushed—whether from wine or humiliation, none could tell.
"Thank you for your generosity," he said quietly.
Joffrey frowned, unsatisfied.
Then turned away.
---
At the high table's far end, Olenna Tyrell watched everything.
"Your grandson has quite the… theatrical flair, Lord Tywin Lannister."
Tywin didn't look up.
"He is king. And it is his wedding."
Olenna studied him.
"That boy can humiliate his uncle today," she said softly. "Tomorrow, he'll humiliate anyone."
"Today, it's wine. Tomorrow, it might be a sword."
"How long can such a king sit the Iron Throne?"
Tywin's eyes narrowed slightly.
"He is young. He will learn."
"Some creatures cannot be taught," Olenna replied lightly. "Some horses are born wild."
She returned to her meal as if the matter were trivial.
But Tywin understood.
A wild horse… could always be replaced.
---
Then the hall doors opened.
Not servants.
Not nobles.
Dwarfs.
A procession of them in bright, ridiculous costumes shuffled in—playing pipes, beating drums, carrying a tiny stage.
Laughter broke out instantly.
Even Tywin frowned—this had not been his doing.
But Joffrey leapt to his feet, delighted.
"My surprise! Start the show!"
The dwarfs bowed exaggeratedly.
"Your Grace, we present—The War of the Five Kings!"
---
What followed was less a play… and more a grotesque farce.
Caricatures of kings.
Shrill voices.
Exaggerated gestures.
Renly Baratheon…
Stannis Baratheon…
And worst of all—
A mock Robb Stark.
A dwarf wearing a wolf's head was "beheaded," his head stuffed into a toy wolf.
Joffrey howled with laughter.
"Brilliant! Hahaha!"
Margaery's smile faltered.
This… at a wedding?
Olenna remained expressionless.
Around the hall, applause came—some genuine, most forced.
Tyrion sat rigid, fists clenched beneath the table, nails biting into his palms.
Watching men like him reduced to mockery.
---
Then—
The side door opened again.
And the laughter died instantly.
Jaime Lannister entered.
Clad in full white armor, his cloak trailing behind him—yet there was no joy in his face.
Only cold anger.
He didn't approach the king.
He walked straight to Tywin.
"Father," he said, voice low.
"I need to speak with you."
"Now."
Tywin looked up at his son, but instead of agreeing, he refused outright.
"This is the king's wedding feast, Ser Jaime Lannister. Your duty is to remain at His Grace's side."
"This can't wait!"
Jaime's voice rose before he forced it back down.
"It's about… Odin."
At the mention of that name, Tywin Lannister's eyes narrowed slightly.
He set aside his napkin and rose.
"We'll speak outside."
---
They moved to a quiet corner of the hall, away from the crowd.
The moment they were alone, Jaime stepped forward, voice low but fierce:
"Why did you send the Redwyne fleet to attack Dragonstone while Odin was on the island?"
"You promised me he was going to negotiate—not to die!"
Tywin's gaze hardened.
"Odin is a servant of House Lannister."
"He serves the family. He serves the realm. If his death brings benefit, then that is his value."
"So you sent him to die?" Jaime stared at him, disbelief turning to anger.
"You used him—let him think he had a mission, when in truth he was just bait?"
"He's my friend!"
"Friend?" Tywin let out a cold, mocking laugh.
"You're over thirty, Jaime. And you still believe in something as childish as 'friendship'?"
"In the game of power, only the interests of the family matter."
He stepped closer, voice iron-hard.
"Odin was becoming dangerous."
"The order he built in Flea Bottom. His influence in the underworld. His control over the common people—he was no longer a servant."
"He was becoming a force. And a force beyond Lannister control must either be absorbed… or destroyed."
"I gave him a chance," Tywin continued.
"I sent him to Dragonstone. If he convinced Stannis Baratheon to surrender, then he proved useful."
"If he died in the process, then a future problem was eliminated."
"Either way… House Lannister wins."
---
Jaime fell silent.
He took a step back, shaking his head, as if seeing his father clearly for the first time.
"So you've been planning this all along…"
"From the moment you made him an official position… from the moment you had him clean up Flea Bottom…"
"You let him build power. Made him believe he mattered."
"And when the time came—you threw him away."
"No matter that he was my… friend."
"No matter that he saved my life."
"This is the art of rule," Tywin said calmly, though a trace of disappointment crept into his voice.
"You were my heir, Jaime. My eldest son. Yet you never learned."
"You can swing a sword—but you cannot govern."
"You chase honor. You cling to friendship."
The words struck like a slap.
For a moment, Jaime couldn't speak.
Then—
"I'm going to Dragonstone."
His voice turned firm.
"I don't care what it takes—I'll find Odin and bring him back—"
---
He stopped mid-sentence.
A disturbance rippled through the hall.
Gasps. Scraping chairs. Nobles rising in confusion.
Jaime frowned.
Something was wrong.
Instinct took over.
He pushed through the crowd—
And froze.
---
King Joffrey Baratheon lay on the ground.
Blood spilled from his mouth.
His skin had turned a sickly purple, veins bulging beneath it.
Poison.
"Joffrey!"
Jaime rushed forward, lifting him—
The boy convulsed violently, eyes rolling back, blood pouring from his nose and mouth.
He was dying.
"Let him go!"
A scream cut through the chaos.
Cersei Lannister shoved through the crowd like a mad lioness, pushing Jaime aside and clutching her son.
"Joffrey! My son! Look at me! Look at me!"
Her voice broke—
But Joffrey could no longer hear her.
The convulsions slowed.
Then stopped.
His eyes remained open—empty—reflecting the vaulted ceiling above.
He was dead.
The young king—
Dead at his own wedding feast.
Before hundreds of nobles.
In his mother's arms.
---
Silence fell.
Heavy. Suffocating.
Cersei slowly raised her head.
Her golden hair was disheveled, her makeup ruined by tears—but her green eyes burned with madness.
Her gaze swept the hall—
And landed on one man.
Tyrion Lannister.
He stood there, still soaked in wine, hair disheveled, holding a goblet—like a forgotten prop in the chaos.
Cersei's voice turned hoarse.
"It was you."
Tyrion froze.
Words failed him.
Because… he had poured the wine.
And now—nothing he said would matter.
"You poisoned him!"
Her scream pierced the hall.
"You poured his wine! You were serving him all night!"
"You killed my son! You killed the king!"
"Seize him! Arrest the murderer!"
The Kingsguard moved instantly.
Tyrion was grabbed, forced down, restrained.
---
And then—
The doors burst open.
Ser Addam Marbrand stormed in, armor dust-covered, breath ragged from a sprint.
He didn't even glance at the king's corpse.
He went straight to Tywin and dropped to one knee.
"My lord! Urgent military report!"
"The Redwyne fleet has mutinied! Lord Paxter Redwyne is dead—killed by Odin!"
"Before fleeing into the sea, Odin shouted that he acted on your orders!"
"Hobber Redwyne has seized control of the fleet and is returning to the Arbor!"
---
A collective gasp swept the hall.
Even Tywin—
Still as a mountain—
Could not hide the shift in his expression.
The king assassinated.
The fleet in revolt.
Odin alive—and turning the blame on him.
And the Tyrells…
How much did they know?
Too many pieces moving.
Too many things slipping out of control.
---
Tywin closed his eyes.
For a long moment.
When he opened them again—
All emotion was gone.
Only iron remained.
"Ser Meryn Trant," he said calmly, "arrest Tyrion Lannister. Charge him with regicide. Confine him to the dungeons."
"Ser Addam—seal the Red Keep. No one enters or leaves. Lock down all harbors. The City Watch is to full alert."
"Kevan—stabilize the Small Council. Summon all ministers immediately."
Orders flowed—precise, unshaken.
The Hand of the King had taken control again.
At least—
On the surface.