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 36: Long Live The King
One after another, the lords of both the Reach and the Westerlands stepped forward. Each one approaching the Iron Throne and each one kneeling to swear the same oath.
Joffrey received them all with the same response: silence.
A slight tilt of his head, and nothing more.
No words of welcome, or grand gestures of approval. Just the acknowledgment that their oath had been heard and accepted.
Internally, Joffrey's thoughts were far less charitable than his expression suggested.
"Fair-weather friends," he thought as another Reach lord rose and stepped back into the crowd. "Every last one of them."
The Reach had only bent the knee because Renly was dead. If their would-be king had survived, defeated Stannis, and marched on King's Landing, these same men would be cheering as his own head left his neck.
They weren't loyal to him; they were loyal to power.
And as for the Westerlands lords? They were even worse. They knelt before him readily, addressing him as "Your Grace," and spoke of honor and duty.
But the young king knew the truth.
They were Tywin's men, all of them. They looked to his grandfather for guidance, for leadership, for the decisions that truly mattered.
If Tywin commanded them to march, they would march.
But if Joffrey commanded them to march, they would glance at Tywin first.
"That will change," he thought, watching another Westerlands lord rise and retreat. "I will make sure of it."
The specifics would come later. But a king who ruled only through his grandfather's authority was not truly a king at all.
He was just a glorified puppet.
The king leaned back in his throne as the lords continued their little show, remaining perfectly still through it all.
Tyrion watched from his position among the small council members, his mismatched eyes studying his nephew with undisguised fascination, as the king performed his duties.
Beside Tyrion, Varys stood with his hands folded in his sleeves, his expression serene. But the eunuch's eyes were sharp, missing nothing. Just like the dwarf, he openly observed the young king as he gracefully accepted another lord's fealty.
Further back, the Kingsguard and the Sabers maintained a tense, suffocating perimeter around the dais, their eyes locked on the mysterious knight standing in Renly's full emerald-enamel armor.
The provocative, closed-visor display created severe security friction in the hall, a silent dare that the crown's guards were itching to answer.
Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably closer to forty-five minutes, the last lord stepped forward.
It was Lord Branston Cuy of Sunhouse, a minor Reach lord with a nervous disposition and a tendency to stammer. He knelt before the Iron Throne, his voice shaking slightly as he spoke his oath.
"I, B-Branston Cuy, Lord of S-Sunhouse, do swear my f-fealty to King Joffrey Baratheon. My house is yours, Your Grace. From this day until my last day."
Like the others Joffrey just tilted his head at his words, and then gestured for him to step back, a command which the lord hastily did.
Silence fell over the throne room.
Every lord and lady who had come to swear fealty had done so. The ceremony was complete. Now they waited to see what their king would do next.
Joffrey let the silence stretch, until finally he spoke.
"My father once told me," he began, his voice carrying easily through the chamber, "that you find your true friends on the battlefield."
He paused, letting his words settle over the hall.
"He said that a man might smile at you in court, might laugh at your jests and drink your wine, even call you brother, but you never truly know him until you've stood beside him in battle, until you've stood shoulder to shoulder with him and stared down death as one."
His eyes moved slowly across the assembled crowd, making contact with various lords and ladies.
"He told me that war strips away all pretense, all courtly manners and political games. In battle, he said, you see a man's true nature: either his courage or his cowardice, his honor or his shame."
Another pause.
"I did not understand what he meant when he said that to me. I was young and arrogant. Despite never having seen battle, I thought I already knew everything about honor and sacrifice. I was an utter fool then."
The crowd murmured at the king's words as he humbled himself before his vassals. Then his voice grew stronger, and more passionate.
"But I understand it now."
Joffrey leaned forward in his seat, his bandaged hands gripping the armrests of the Iron Throne.
A white-hot spike of agony shot up his arms as his raw palms pressed into the stone, fresh blood wetting the inside of his black leather gloves. He forced his face to remain a smooth, unreadable mask, burying the pain through sheer willpower.
"Five days ago, an army came to our gates. An army led by a man who called himself a king. A man who practiced dark magic and worshipped a foreign god. A man who would have burned our septs, torn down our statues of the Seven, and forced us all to bow before his Red Woman and her demon."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.
"That army was larger than ours, and by all rights, they should have won. They should have broken down our gates, slaughtered our people, and taken this city."
His voice rose.
"But they failed."
He stood—slowly, using the armrests to push himself up.
"They did not win because in our darkest hour, in the moment when all seemed lost, true friends came to our aid."
He gestured toward the Reach lords on the left side of the chamber.
"The Reach answered the call. Lords who had never sworn to me, who had followed another king, who had no obligation to come to King's Landing's defense, but they came all the same. They rode through the night, and they fought."
Then he gestured toward the Westerlands lords on the right.
"The Westerlands too answered the call. Lords who had been fighting in the Vale, who could have stayed there and secured those lands, but instead they marched south, and they fought."
Joffrey's voice filled the throne room.
"Together, the Reach and the Westerlands stood against a common enemy. An enemy who threatened not just King's Landing, but everything we hold sacred: our gods, our families, and our very way of life."
He paused, letting the weight of those words sink in.
"And together, we stopped them."
His voice dropped, becoming quieter.
"We stopped the kinslayer. We stopped the man who murdered his own brother with blood magic, a man who would have done the same to all of us."
Then, louder:
"We sent Stannis Baratheon and his black magic to the bottom of the Blackwater, where they belong!"
The throne room erupted.
Lords and ladies cheered, their voices rising in a wave of sound that echoed off the stone walls and vaulted ceiling. Men clapped each other on the shoulders, while women smiled and applauded.
The king let them cheer, let them have this moment of release and joy, before finally raising his hand to call for silence.
When the room was quiet again, Joffrey spoke.
"You cheer for victory," he said. "And that is right. We should celebrate what we have accomplished."
He paused.
"But do not cheer for me, cheer for yourselves. For your courage, for your loyalty. For your willingness to stand together against darkness."
He gestured broadly, his arms spreading wide.
"In the realm's darkest hour, you followed the light. You did not falter, you honored yourselves. You honored your houses. But most of all, you honored the seven who watched over us from above."
Joffrey let his words sink in for a moment.
"That is what we celebrate today. Not one man's victory, but the victory of good over evil. The victory of faith over heresy. The victory of order over chaos."
His stoic expression finally gave way as he gave the nobles his best charming smile as his arms rose and spread even farther.
"So my dear loyal subjects, I beg you all, cheer for yourselves!"
The throne room exploded at his words.
This time the cheering was even louder, with even more enthusiasm. Joffrey had given them permission to celebrate themselves. Had told them they were heroes, which made them all feel valued and important.
It was masterful.
Tyrion watched with undisguised admiration. The boy was playing them like a harp. Giving them exactly what they needed to hear, in exactly the way they needed to hear it.
And they loved him for it.
The cheering went on longer this time. Lords embraced, while ladies dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs. Even the normally stoic Royal Guards seemed to stand a bit straighter, a bit prouder.
Finally, the noise began to die down on its own. People's voices grew hoarse. The initial rush of emotion faded.
Joffrey waited until the room was quiet again before he continued.
"Which is why," he said, "on this day, I do pardon all those who followed my uncle Renly Baratheon in his... folly of kingship."
The word "folly" was carefully selected.
"I recognize you once again as loyal friends of the crown. Your lands, your titles, your honors—all are restored. The past is forgiven, we look now only to the future."
The Reach lords looked relieved. Some had clearly been worried about what punishment might await them. The fact that Joffrey was offering a blanket pardon, with no conditions or exceptions, was more than they had dared hope for.
"Long live King Joffrey!"
"The Young Lion!"
"A just and merciful king!"
But not everyone was cheering.
Ser Loras Tyrell stood among his family, his handsome face tight with barely controlled emotion. His right hand had curled into a fist at his side, the knuckles white with pressure.
Folly.
Joffrey had called Renly's kingship a folly.
As if it had been nothing, as if Renly had been nothing. As if the man Loras had loved—the man he had served, had been nothing more than a foolish boy playing at being king.
The rage that surged through Loras was hot and immediate. He wanted to scream and shout at these lords who were cheering, but before he could move, he felt a hand slip into his.
Margaery's fingers interlaced with his own, squeezing gently.
He looked down at his sister.
She was smiling serenely at the throne, applauding along with everyone else. But her grip on his hand was firm.
Sending a silent message: Control yourself.
Loras took a breath and the red haze of fury began to recede, forcing him to push his personal feelings down. She was right, of course, she was always right about these kinds of things.
The cheering finally began to die down again. The Reach lords settled back into their positions, looking pleased and relieved.
Joffrey waited for complete silence before he spoke again, and when he did, his voice became much harder as his King mask fell back into place.
"Unfortunately," he said, and the single word sent a ripple of unease through the crowd, "not all treason can go unpunished."
The room went very quiet at his words, as lords and ladies exchanged nervous glances.
Joffrey's eyes moved across the assembled Reach lords, seeming to consider each one, then he finally spoke a name.
"Lord Mace Tyrell."
The Lord of Highgarden's head snapped up, his round face going pale. Around him, his family tensed. Loras's hand went instinctively toward where his sword would normally hang—but of course, no one was armed in the throne room except the Royal Guards.
"Please step forward, my lord."
Mace's legs felt weak as he stepped forward, moving through the crowd of lords and ladies who parted to let him pass. He could feel every eye in the room on him, and could hear the whispers already starting.
"What's he going to do?"
"Lord Tyrell crowned Renly himself."
"This could be bad."
Mace reached the open space before the Iron Throne's dais. The Royal Guards stood in their semicircle, their black armor gleaming, their faces hidden behind closed helms.
He stopped a few feet from the first step.
And then, with great difficulty—his round belly making the movement awkward—he lowered himself to one knee.
"Lord Mace Tyrell," the king began. "You helped crown my uncle Renly Baratheon king. You raised your banners in rebellion against the Iron Throne. You served as his Hand, advising him in his treasonous campaign."
Mace kept his head bowed, his eyes fixed on the stone floor.
"These are serious crimes, my lord. Crimes that, under the law, carry a penalty of death."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Margaery's hand flew to her mouth. Loras took a half-step forward before Garlan's hand on his shoulder stopped him.
Joffrey let the words hang in the air for a long moment. Then he asked, almost conversationally:
"Do you deny them?"
Mace Tyrell's throat was dry. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. He could lie, try to make excuses, or claim he had been forced and was acting under duress.
But what would be the point?
Everyone already knew the truth. So after a brief moment of consideration that fat flower decided to simply be honest.
"No, Your Grace," he said, his voice rough. "I do not."
Joffrey tilted his head slightly, as if considering this response.
"I appreciate your honesty, Lord Tyrell. And your integrity in taking responsibility for your mistakes."
The lord's heart leaped. Was that—was the king going to show mercy?
"However," Joffrey continued, and Mace's hope died, "you must still be punished for them."
The room held its breath.
"The crown currently owes the Reach a debt of five hundred thousand gold dragons, borrowed over the years to fund various expenses. Half of that debt is hereby forgiven."
Wait. What?
Mace's head came up slightly, confusion written across his face. That was it? That was the punishment? Having debt forgiven?
But Joffrey wasn't finished.
"Additionally, the Reach will turn over one-tenth of its overall crop yield to the crown for the next ten years."
Ah, there it was.
The lord's mind raced, doing the calculations. One-tenth of the Reach's crop yield was... substantial, very substantial. The Reach was the breadbasket of the Seven Kingdoms. Its harvests fed not just its own people, but much of the realm.
Giving up ten percent of that for a decade would cost House Tyrell millions of gold dragons in lost revenue. The lord felt sick, but what choice did he have? The alternative was death. For him and possibly his entire family.
"Yes, Your Grace," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "As you command."
Joffrey nodded, as if this was exactly the response he had expected.
"Good. I am pleased we understand each other, Lord Tyrell."
Mace remained kneeling, waiting to be dismissed.
Waiting for this humiliation to end so he could retreat back to his family and try to figure out how to explain to his stewards that they had just lost a fortune.
But Joffrey still wasn't finished.
The young king's expression shifted slightly.
"Tell me, Lord Tyrell," Joffrey said, his tone conversational now. "You fought in Robert's Rebellion, did you not?"
Mace blinked, thrown by the sudden change in subject.
"I... yes, Your Grace. I did."
"And in the Greyjoy Rebellion as well, I believe?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
The king leaned forward slightly in his seat.
"So you have extensive military experience. You've commanded armies in the field. You've laid siege to Storm's End—a siege that lasted nearly a year, if I recall correctly."
Mace's confusion deepened. Where was this going?
"That's... that is correct, Your Grace."
Joffrey smiled. "That is an impressive record, my lord. Very impressive."
He gestured vaguely at himself.
"I am young, my lord, and though I have won one battle—admittedly a significant one—but I feel I still have much to learn about warfare, strategy, and logistics."
Mace said nothing, not sure what response was expected.
"I need advisors," Joffrey continued. "Men of experience and wisdom who can guide me in these early days of my rule. I require men who have proven themselves on the battlefield and in the council chamber."
He paused.
"Men like you, Lord Tyrell."
The throne room was completely silent, everyone was leaning forward, waiting to hear what came next.
"Therefore, if you wish it, I would be honored to have you serve on my Small Council as my new Master of Ships."
A ripple of shock moved through the assembled lords. Whispers erupted—quick, surprised, then fading as everyone waited to see how Mace would respond.
Mace Tyrell's mouth had fallen open. He stared up at the Iron Throne, unable to process what he had just heard.
Behind him, his family was equally stunned. Margaery's eyes were wide, Garlan looked thoughtful, and Loras seemed torn between confusion and suspicion.
But it was Mace himself who had to respond. He closed his mouth and found his voice.
"I... Your Grace, I... that is..."
He stopped. Took a breath and started again.
"Your Grace, I would be deeply honored to serve on your Small Council and to use whatever experience I have gained to serve you,"
His voice grew stronger, more confident.
"I accept your offer, and I swear that I will serve you faithfully and well for all my days."
Joffrey's smile widened slightly.
"Excellent. I am very pleased to hear it, Lord Tyrell."
He made a small gesture.
"You may step back and rejoin your family."
Mace rose—again with difficulty—and turned to walk back to where the Tyrells stood. His face was flushed, and his mind was spinning.
What had just happened?
Among the Small Council members, Tyrion caught Varys's eye and smirked. The Spider's lips curved into the faintest smile, and he gave the tiniest of nods.
The murmurs of conversation were still rippling through the throne room when the main doors suddenly swung open. The sound was loud—the heavy wooden doors slamming against the stone walls with a boom that echoed through the chamber.
Every head turned.
And in walked the old lion Tywin Lannister, who seemed dressed for battle.
His armor was a deep crimson heavy steel plate that caught the light streaming through the windows and seemed to glow like fire.
Every piece was perfectly fitted, and polished to a mirror shine. The craftsmanship was extraordinary—this was armor made by master smiths. His armor alone cost more than most lords earned in a year.
Over the armor he wore a greatcloak that was sewn from countless layers of cloth-of-gold. It flowed behind him as he walked, shimmering and rippling with each step.
The weight of it alone had to be substantial, but Tywin wore it as if it weighed nothing at all.
In his left hand he carried his greathelm—a magnificent piece with a golden lion's mane crest that added nearly a foot to his height when worn.
Behind him walked four Lannister guards in their crimson cloaks and armor, their hands on their sword hilts.
Tywin walked down the center of the throne room, his boots striking the stone floor with measured steps. The Royal Guards in their black armor stood at attention as he passed, but they did not move to stop him.
He walked between them, heading directly towards the Iron Throne.
The assembled lords and ladies parted before him like water before the prow of a ship. No one spoke, or moved as he passed. His mere presence commanded their respect.
Joffrey watched his grandfather approach from his seat on the Iron Throne. His expression remained neutral.
Tywin stopped at the base of the steps—closer than Mace Tyrell had dared to come, but still a respectful distance from the throne itself. The Royal Guards shifted slightly, their hands moving toward their weapons.
They did not draw, but the message was clear: No Closer.
Tywin's eyes flicked to them briefly, then returned to Joffrey.
But he did not kneel.
Mace Tyrell had knelt. Every other lord who had approached the throne today had knelt. But Tywin stood tall, his greathelm tucked under his arm, his cold expression giving away nothing.
The throne room was silent.
Every lord and lady watched, as the young king and the old lion stared at each other.
Joffrey did not look away, or blink. He didn't show even the slightest hint of discomfort as he gazed down at his grandfather with calm, steady eyes.
Tywin's expression remained impassive. But one eyebrow rose slightly—just a fraction of an inch.
His grandson was not backing down.
The staring contest continued for what felt like an eternity but was probably only ten or fifteen seconds.
Then Joffrey broke the silence.
"Lord Tywin," he said, his voice warm and welcoming. "Welcome back from the front. We are pleased to see you returned safely to the capital."
Tywin's eyes narrowed fractionally. But his voice, when he spoke, was equally controlled.
"Your Grace. I came as soon as I received word of your... victory."
The pause before "victory" was deliberate.
Joffrey's expression didn't change, he continued as if he hadn't noticed.
"Indeed. And we have much to thank you for, Lord Tywin. Your own victories in the Riverlands and the Vale have been instrumental in securing the realm."
He gestured broadly, addressing not just Tywin but the entire assembled court.
"Lord Tywin Lannister has defeated the Knights of the Vale in battle. He has smashed their forces and sent them fleeing back through the Bloody Gate with their tails between their legs."
The assembled lords murmured their approval. Several called out:
"Hear, hear!"
"The Old Lion!"
"Victory to House Lannister!"
Joffrey let them have their little moment, and praise his grandfather. Then he continued.
"Such service to the crown deserves recognition and reward."
He paused, letting the anticipation build.
"Therefore, I am pleased to restore Lord Tywin Lannister to his position as Hand of the King, so that he may continue to serve me well into the future."
The word serve resonated with everyone in the hall including Tywin. But Tywin's expression didn't change, he simply inclined his head slightly.
"I am honored, Your Grace."
Caspen stepped forward from his position beside the throne, carrying a small velvet pillow. On it rested the Hand's badge—a golden pin shaped like a hand, the symbol of the second most powerful position in the Seven Kingdoms.
He descended the steps carefully and approached Tywin, holding out the pillow.
Tywin reached out and took the pin. He held it for a moment, examining it as if seeing it for the first time. Then he pinned it to his crimson armor, just above his heart.
"I thank Your Grace for this honor," he said, his voice formal. "And I pledge to serve the crown faithfully and well, as I have always done."
The words were perfect, exactly what protocol demanded.
But there was something in Tywin's eyes—a coldness—that hadn't been there before.
At the front of the assembled lords, Kevan Lannister's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. His eyes moved from his brother to his nephew and back again.
Beside him, Varys caught Tyrion's eye for the briefest of moments. The Spider's lips curved into the faintest smile.
Tywin's face remained a mask of calm composure as he bowed his head slightly to his grandson.
"By your leave, Your Grace, I will withdraw. There is much work to be done, and I would not take up more of your time."
"Of course, Lord Hand," Joffrey said graciously. "We thank you for attending court today."
Tywin turned and walked back down the center of the throne room, his four guards falling into step behind him. His greatcloak flowed behind him, the cloth-of-gold catching again the light.
Every eye in the room followed him as he left. The heavy doors closed behind him with a solid thud. And only then did the assembled lords and ladies release the breath they had been collectively holding as they began whispering amongst themselves.
The king let them whisper for a moment, then he spoke again, his voice cutting through the murmurs.
"Lord Varys."
The Spider stepped forward immediately, his purple robes swishing as he moved. He glided across the floor with that peculiar grace of his, his hands folded in his sleeves.
He stopped at the same spot where Mace Tyrell had knelt—a respectful distance from the dais, and unlike Tywin, Varys knelt.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice soft and melodious. "How may I serve you?"
Joffrey looked down at the eunuch with something that might have been genuine warmth.
"Lord Varys, you have served the crown faithfully for many years. Through multiple kings, through times of prosperity and times of strife."
Varys inclined his head modestly.
"I do what I can, Your Grace. My little birds and I are always at your service."
"Indeed," he agreed. "And recently, you performed a service of particular value to the crown."
He paused, letting the anticipation build.
"It was you who brokered the alliance between the crown and the Reach. You who negotiated with House Tyrell, and ensured that their armies would come to King's Landing's aid in our darkest hour."
Varys's expression remained humble, but there was a glimmer of something in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or pride.
"I merely facilitated discussions, Your Grace. The decision to ally with the crown was made by wiser heads than mine."
"Modest as always," Joffrey said with a small smile. "But we both know the truth. Without your efforts, the Reach might have remained neutral, and waited to see who would win before committing their forces. If they had..., who knows? We might not be having this conversation."
He let that sink in.
"Such service deserves recognition and reward."
Joffrey again leaned forward slightly in his seat.
"You are called 'Lord Varys' as a matter of courtesy and respect. But you hold no lands, castle, or seat to call your own."
He paused.
"I believe it is long past time that your title became more than mere etiquette."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Lords and ladies exchanged shocked glances.
Was he about to—?
"Therefore," Joffrey continued, his voice ringing out clearly, "I hereby name you Lord of Harrenhal, to hold from this day until your last day, to govern and rule to the end of time."
The throne room erupted.
Harrenhal.
The largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms. A massive fortress that could house an army of thousands. Lands that stretched for miles in every direction.
It was a gift of extraordinary generosity.
And it was being given to a eunuch and a foreigner. A man with no family, no heirs, and no noble blood.
The shock was almost palpable.
Varys himself looked stunned. His eyes widened, while his mouth opened slightly. For once, the Spider seemed genuinely surprised.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I... I do not know what to say. This is... this is far more than I deserve. Far more than—"
"You deserve it," Joffrey interrupted firmly. "You have earned it through your service and your loyalty. Harrenhal is yours, Lord Varys. Use it well."
Varys bowed his head, and when he looked up again, there were tears glistening in his eyes.
"I am overwhelmed by Your Grace's generosity. I swear that I will serve you faithfully for all my days."
The king nodded.
"I know you will, Lord Varys. I have complete faith in you."
Then, so subtly that most people in the room missed it, Joffrey's eyes flicked to the side door. Just for a fraction of a second.
Varys caught the gesture. His expression didn't change, but he gave the tiniest of nods, the message clear.
"We will speak privately later."
"You may step back, Lord Varys," Joffrey said aloud.
The spider rose gracefully and retreated to his position among the Small Council members, his face still showing his surprise and gratitude.
Joffrey was giving him a power base, but why? What was his game? Though he put it to the back of his mind, since he was certain he'd find out soon enough.
The murmurs of conversation were still rippling through the throne room—lords and ladies discussing the shocking gift of Harrenhal—when Joffrey spoke again.
"Tyrion Lannister."
The murmurs stopped abruptly.
Tyrion, who had been standing among the other Small Council members, froze. He looked around, wondering if perhaps he had misheard.
But no. Every eye in the room was now on him.
Tyrion swallowed. His heart was suddenly pounding. What was this about? He began to walk—or rather, waddle—forward. His short legs carried him across the open space toward the Iron Throne's dais.
As he walked he could hear the snickering coming from the assembled lords.
"Look at him."
"The Imp."
"What's he doing?"
The laughter was loud and cruel, the exact kind of laughter Tyrion had heard his entire life. His face flushed, as his jaw clenched, but he kept walking.
He reached the spot before the dais and stopped. He could not kneel—his legs were too short, his body too awkwardly proportioned. So he simply stood there, looking up at his nephew on the Iron Throne.
The snickering continued.
One lord—Tyrion didn't see who—called out loudly enough to be heard:
"Careful, Your Grace! The dwarf might try to steal your throne!"
Laughter erupted. Loud, cruel laughter that echoed through the chamber.
Tyrion's hands clenched into fists at his sides. His face burned with humiliation and rage. But before he could say anything, the king beat him to it.
The young king's face transformed.
The calm, regal composure vanished, replaced by something cold and furious. His green eyes blazed with anger. He stared out at the assembled lords with a look of such pure, concentrated fury that the laughter died in their throats.
Then the king spoke.
"Who said that?"
No one answered.
"I asked," Joffrey repeated, his voice dropping even lower, "who said that?"
Still no answer.
His eyes swept across the assembled lords, and wherever his gaze landed, men flinched and looked away.
"I see," he said softly. "A coward, then. Someone brave enough to mock my uncle but too craven to claim credit for his words."
He let that hang in the air for a moment, then his voice rose, revealing his barely controlled rage.
"Let me make something absolutely clear to you all. Tyrion is a member of my Small Council, as well as my uncle. And any insult to him is an insult to me."
The threat was unmistakable.
"If I hear one more word—one more snicker, or whisper at his expense—I will have that person removed from my court. Permanently."
He paused.
"Do I make myself clear?"
The crowd remained silent, which was confirmation enough.
"Good."
Joffrey held his furious gaze for a moment longer, then turned his attention back to his uncle. And just like that, the fury vanished, and his expression softened. It became almost... affectionate.
"Uncle," he said warmly. "Thank you for coming forward."
The dwarf found his voice, though it came out rougher than he intended.
"Your Grace."
The king settled back in his seat, his posture relaxing slightly.
"Tyrion Lannister," he began, his voice formal and clear. "You have served this crown with honor and wisdom during one of the most difficult periods in its history."
He paused, his eyes sweeping across the assembled lords.
"Your tactical acumen helped us hold the walls against Stannis' forces. Your strategies saved thousands of lives during the Battle of the Blackwater."
Tyrion's brow furrowed slightly. His mouth opened as if to speak, then closed again. He looked... confused. His eyes darted to the side, then back to Joffrey, a question forming on his face that he didn't dare voice.
The wildfire defense, the chokepoint strategy at the Mud Gate, even the new shield wall formations. Those hadn't been his ideas, they had been—
But Joffrey continued before Tyrion could process what was happening.
"Therefore, I hereby name you my new Master of Laws, and have a permanent seat on my Council. Additionally, I bestow upon you the title of Defender of King's Landing, in recognition of your service during the battle. This title shall be recorded in the histories and remembered to the end of time."
Tyrion blinked rapidly, still looking uncertain, as if he wanted to object but couldn't find the words—or the courage—to contradict his king in front of the entire court.
Joffrey's voice grew softer, more personal.
"My uncle has been called many things in his life. The Imp, the Halfman, a demon monkey. Cruel names, meant to diminish him, to make him less than he is."
He paused.
"But from this day forward, when someone refers to someone as a 'half-man,' it had better be a compliment. Because he has proven himself to be worth more than most whole men I have ever met."
For a moment, everyone was silent then his brother Jaime, standing in his white Kingsguard armor, began to clap. It was slow at first, but it grew faster and louder as the rest of the court joined in. Until the entire hall was clapping for him.
Tyrion stood frozen, unable to move, or speak.
He had dreamed of this moment. In his darkest times, during his loneliest nights, he had imagined what it would be like to be recognized and respected. To be valued for his mind and his accomplishments rather than mocked for his body.
But he had never truly believed it would happen, and now it was.
Because of his nephew, the boy he had once despised in his youth. But that boy was gone.
In his place was... this. A young man who had just publicly honored Tyrion in front of the entire court, and given him a position of genuine power and respect.
Tyrion looked up at the Iron Throne, at Joffrey sitting there with a small, genuine smile on his face. And Joffrey tilted his head—that same gesture he had given to every other lord today, but somehow more meaningful when directed at Tyrion.
Tears were streaming down Tyrion's face now, which he didn't try to hide.
He bowed his head to his nephew—his king—and then turned to make his way back to the Small Council section. The applause continued as he walked. Lords and ladies who had been laughing at him minutes ago were now clapping for him.
Tyrion reached his position beside Ros, who squeezed his arm gently. Varys gave him a warm smile. Even Ser Jacelyn nodded with what looked like genuine respect.
The applause finally began to die down, when it was finally quiet again, he spoke.
"Ser Loras Tyrell."
The Knight of Flowers stepped forward immediately. He walked across the open space and knelt before the dais, his movements graceful and practiced. He bowed his head.
"Your Grace."
Joffrey looked down at him with an unreadable expression.
"Ser Loras. I have heard many tales of your bravery and skill during the battle. How you led the cavalry charge that broke the Stormlander lines."
Loras's head came up slightly. He hadn't expected praise.
"I... thank you, Your Grace. I only did my duty."
"You did far more than your duty," Joffrey said firmly. "You came to the crown's aid when you had no obligation to do so."
He paused.
"And such honor deserves recognition."
Loras waited, his heart beating faster, as the king continued.
"I am in need of skilled warriors to serve in my Kingsguard. Men of proven courage and ability."
His eyes locked with Loras's.
"Men like you, Ser Loras."
The throne room was quiet as he spoke.
"Therefore," Joffrey continued, "I would like to offer you the opportunity to attempt to join my Kingsguard, if you wish it."
"The Kingsguard." he thought.
He had dreamed of this since he was a boy. Since the first time he had seen a knight in white armor and understood what it meant. The chance to be remembered in the histories alongside legendary warriors like Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy.
Finally, the knight spoke.
"Your Grace, I am... deeply honored by your offer. Truly. Serving in the Kingsguard has been a dream of mine since I first learned to swing a stick."
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"But I would ask that you grant me time to consider. This is not a decision to be made lightly. I would need to speak with my family, to think on what such an oath would mean."
Joffrey nodded, as if he had expected this response.
"Of course. Take all the time you need, Ser Loras. The offer will remain open."
"Thank you, Your Grace."
Loras hesitated, then continued.
"However, if I may... there is another request I would make of you."
Joffrey tilted his head slightly. "I will allow it, speak."
Loras took a breath.
"My sister, Margaery. She was wed to Renly, but he was taken from us before they could..." He stopped, choosing his words more carefully. "She remains innocent, and she is without a husband."
He looked up at Joffrey, his blue eyes earnest.
"I ask that you find it in your heart to do our house the great honor of joining our families. To take Margaery as your queen. To unite the Stag and the Rose."
Sansa, standing near one of the pillars with Shae and Sandor, felt her entire body go rigid. Her eyes narrowed, while her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
Just a half-step behind her, Sandor Clegane shifted his massive, heavily armored frame, his hand resting casually near the pommel of his greatsword as his burnt face scanned the surrounding Reach lords with a low, menacing scowl.
Sansa stared at Ser Loras with barely concealed fury.
"How dare you," echoed in her mind over and over.
Joffrey was hers, and now this... this presumptuous flower knight was trying to take him away from her.
Sansa's gaze shifted to Margaery, standing among her family. The beautiful girl with her perfect hair and her perfect dress and her perfect smile.
She hated her immediately, and wanted nothing more than to march over there and slap that smug smile off her face.
But she forced herself to remain still, and keep her expression neutral.
On the Iron Throne, Joffrey's face remained impassive. He turned his head slightly, looking past Ser Loras to where the Tyrell family stood.
"Lady Margaery," he said, his voice carrying clearly. "Is this your desire as well? Do you wish to be my queen?"
Every eye in the room turned to Margaery.
She stepped forward gracefully, moving through the crowd with the practiced elegance of someone who had been trained since childhood in courtly manners. She stopped beside her brother and curtsied low—so low that the neckline of her gown dipped, giving Joffrey a clear view of her cleavage.
When she rose, her dark eyes were fixed on the young king, and her voice was soft and sweet.
"With all my heart, Your Grace."
She smiled, a beautiful, radiant smile that had melted the hearts of countless men.
"I have come to love you from afar. Tales of your courage and wisdom have never been far from my ears. The way you defended your city, the way you faced your uncle in single combat, the way you rule with both strength and mercy..."
She placed a hand over her heart.
"I would be honored beyond measure to stand beside you. To be your queen, and help you rule the Seven Kingdoms and bring peace to the realm."
It was a perfect performance. Every word was carefully chosen. Every gesture meant to appeal to a young man's vanity and desire.
Joffrey watched her with an expression that gave nothing away. Though internally, he was rolling his eyes.
"Oh please."
Love him from afar? She had never even met him before today.
This was pure political theater, and Margaery was a trained courtier, raised from birth to play these games. She knew exactly what she was doing—using her beauty and her charm to try to secure a crown.
And under other circumstances, it might have worked.
Logically, marrying Margaery made perfect sense. Highgarden brought more grain than any other region, more gold, and more soldiers. The Reach was the most populous and prosperous of the Seven Kingdoms.
And Margaery herself was beautiful, intelligent, politically sophisticated. She had been trained since childhood for exactly this role. She would make an excellent queen from a purely practical standpoint.
But...
The king found his hand unconsciously moving to his chest, to where the carved wolf pendant hung beneath his doublet.
The pendant Sansa had given him.
He thought of her weeping over him when he was injured, of trying to comfort him after his duel with Stannis. Thought of the way she looked at him—not with calculated political interest, but with genuine emotion.
Sansa was not a trained courtier, or some political mastermind. She was just... Sansa.
And Joffrey realized, somewhat to his own surprise, that he valued that more than all the grain and gold in the Reach. In less than ten seconds he made his decision.
The king's expression softened slightly as he looked at Margaery.
"Lady Margaery, I thank you for your kind words. And I must say, you are as beautiful as the songs claim. Any man would be fortunate to have you as his wife."
Margaery's smile widened.
"However," Joffrey continued, and that single word made Margaery's smile falter, "I cannot accept your offer."
The throne room went silent, as Margaery's eyes widened. Her mouth opened slightly in shock.
This had never happened before.
Men did not reject her. They fell over themselves trying to win her favor. They wrote songs about her beauty and competed for her attention.
And this boy—this seventeen-year-old king—was saying no?
Joffrey's voice was gentle but firm.
"It was my father's dying wish that I join House Baratheon with House Stark. That I take Sansa Stark as my queen and unite the Stag and the Wolf."
He paused.
"Yet even if he had not commanded it, I would be forced to decline your gracious offer. I have grown to love and admire my betrothed. She has been at my side during these trying times. She chose to remain my true partner even when her brother's army was at my gates."
Sansa's eyes widened at the king's words as a small smile grew on her face and her cheeks blushed.
"So, I will not break my oath. I will not dishonor my father's memory by setting aside his final command."
It was a perfect excuse. No one could argue against a dying father's wish without seeming cruel and disrespectful.
Margaery stood frozen, her mind racing. She had been so confident. Her beauty had never failed her before.
And now...
Mace Tyrell looked like he wanted to say something, but the words died in his throat. What could he say? That the king should dishonor his father's dying wish? Loras's face was tight with barely controlled emotion—though whether it was anger or not, it was hard to say.
And Sansa...
Sansa felt like she could breathe again. Relief flooded through her so intensely that her knees went weak. Shae's hand on her arm steadied her.
He had said no.
Joffrey had rejected the beautiful Lady Tyrell, for her.
Her left hand rose automatically to her collarbone, her fingers brushing against the cold, smooth weight of the silver and sapphire necklace he had given her—unconsciously mimicking the exact way the king always reached for her wolf pendant when he was deep in thought.
Sansa's eyes found Joffrey's across the throne room, and when their gazes met, she couldn't help the smile that spread across her face. Joffrey returned it—just a small curve of his lips, barely noticeable to anyone who wasn't looking for it.
But she saw it, and her heart soared. Unfortunately Margaery saw it too. And her expression, for just a moment, showed something other than practiced charm. Something cold and calculating.
A small scowl crossed her beautiful features before she smoothed it away.
But Joffrey had already moved on.
He raised his hand, forestalling any response from the Tyrells.
"However," he said, his voice taking on a more cheerful tone, "if you seek a Baratheon husband, Lady Margaery, there is another option."
He turned his head toward where Tommen stood among the Lannisters.
"My brother, Prince Tommen, is to be the new Lord of Storm's End. He is young, yes, but he is kind and brave and will grow into a fine lord."
Joffrey's smile widened slightly.
"And I believe it is high time that he was wed. I can think of no better match for the Lord of Storm's End than the Flower of Highgarden."
The throne room erupted in whispers again.
Tommen's eyes went wide. He looked around frantically, as if hoping someone would tell him this was a jest.
Margaery's mouth opened slightly, her practiced composure slipping for just a heartbeat.
Her dark eyes flickered between Joffrey and Tommen—the king who had just rejected her, and the boy who was being offered in his place.
She was being redirected, and there was nothing she could do about it without embarrassing her family or insulting the crown.
Her father however didn't seem to have such an issue.
"Your Grace," he began, his voice strained, "while I am honored by your consideration, but my daughter was offered to a king—"
Joffrey's eyes snapped to him, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"Lord Tyrell," Joffrey said, his voice soft but carrying an edge that made several people flinch, "are you suggesting that my brother is not worthy of your daughter?"
Mace's mouth opened and closed, as he tried to find the right words to respond.
"I—no, Your Grace, I merely meant—"
"Because if that is what you are suggesting," he continued, his tone still dangerously quiet, "then perhaps we should reconsider the arrangements we have just made. Perhaps the position of Master of Ships should go to someone who values the honor of serving House Baratheon."
The threat hung in the air making the lord's face go from red to pale in an instant.
"No, Your Grace," he said quickly, bowing his head. "Forgive me. I spoke out of turn. It would be... it would be an honor for my daughter to wed Prince Tommen."
Joffrey held his gaze for another long moment, letting the lesson sink in. Then his expression softened, and he smiled.
"Good," he said pleasantly. "I am glad that we understand each other."
He turned his attention to Tommen, who looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
"Brother," Joffrey said, his voice gentler now, "what say you? Would you take Lady Margaery as your wife?"
Tommen swallowed hard. His eyes darted to Margaery, who had recovered her composure and was now watching him with a soft, encouraging smile.
"I..." Tommen's voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I would be honored, Your Grace."
Joffrey's smile widened.
"Then it is settled," he declared. "Prince Tommen Baratheon, the new Lord of Storm's End, shall wed Lady Margaery Tyrell. The betrothal will be formalized within the week, and the wedding shall take place once my brother has reached his sixteenth nameday."
He looked at Margaery.
"Does this arrangement please you, my lady?"
Margaery curtsied low, her expression perfectly composed once more.
"It pleases me greatly, Your Grace," she said smoothly. "Prince Tommen is a noble and honorable young man, I shall endeavor to be a worthy wife to him."
Her eyes flickered to Sansa for just a moment—a look that was impossible to read but felt pointed nonetheless. Then she straightened and stepped back, her hand moving to rest lightly on Tommen's arm.
Tommen looked like he might faint.
Joffrey watched the exchange with satisfaction. The Tyrells had been neutralized—given honor and position, bound to the crown through marriage, but kept at arm's length from the throne itself.
The throne room had fallen into a buzz of conversation—lords and ladies whispering to each other, processing what had just happened.
He let them talk for a moment, then he raised his hand, and silence fell once more.
"Is there anyone else," he asked, his voice carrying across the chamber, "who wishes to address their king?"
For a moment, no one moved.
Then, from near the back of the assembled Reach lords, a figure stepped forward. The emerald-armored knight. The one who had led the cavalry charge wearing Renly's armor.
The Royal Guards tensed immediately, hands tightening against their spears. The knight was massive—as tall as the Hound and broader across the shoulders than most men.
Whispers erupted.
"Who is that?"
"They're wearing the traitor's armor."
The knight walked forward, their movements surprisingly graceful for someone so large. The emerald armor caught the torchlight.
As they passed through the assembled lords, people stepped back instinctively. The Royal Guards formed a tighter perimeter around the throne dais. Ser Barristan stepped forward slightly, his hand on his sword.
Finally, they stopped at the base of the throne dais and dropped to one knee.
"Your Grace," came a muffled voice from within the stag helm.
The king studied the knight for a moment.
"You fought well," he said. "I watched you cut through Stannis's men like wheat before a scythe."
The knight's helm dipped in acknowledgment.
"I did my duty, Your Grace."
"Your duty to whom?" He asked, letting the question hang. "You wear Renly Baratheon's armor. You fought under his banner. And yet here you are, kneeling before me."
The knight was silent for a moment.
"I swore an oath to King Renly," they said finally. "I served him faithfully until his death. But he is gone now, and my oath died with him."
Joffrey nodded slowly, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest.
"Remove your helm," he commanded. "I would see the face of the warrior who wears my uncle's armor."
The knight hesitated, just for a heartbeat.Then their hands moved to the sides of the stag helm, releasing the catches. The helm lifted, and the throne room erupted in gasps.
The knight was a woman.
Her face was broad and homely, with a flat nose and wide mouth. Her hair was the color of dirty straw, cropped short. Her eyes were a startling blue—the only beautiful thing about her.
"Seven hells," Jaime muttered. "Is that a woman?"
Scattered nervous laughter rippled through the crowd. The king however said nothing. He simply watched her, his expression unreadable.
The laughter died as people realized their king was not joining in.
"Your name," Joffrey said.
The woman lifted her chin, meeting his gaze directly.
"Brienne of Tarth, Your Grace. Daughter of Lord Selwyn Tarth."
"And you served my uncle Renly?"
"I did, Your Grace. I was a member of his Rainbow Guard."
Joffrey leaned back in the Iron Throne, his eyes never leaving her face.
"Is that so? Tell me, Brienne of Tarth, what would you have done if Renly had won? If he had defeated Stannis, marched on King's Landing with his hundred thousand men, and overcome my forces. If he had breached these walls and taken this city."
He leaned forward.
"If he had ordered you to take my head would you have done it?"
The throne room went deathly silent. Loras Tyrell attempted to step forward, his face pale.
"Your Grace, she cannot be expected to—"
"Silence."
Loras froze, but Joffrey's eyes never left Brienne's face.
"Answer the question."
Brienne stared up at him, her eyes meeting his.
"Yes," she said. "If my king had ordered it, I would have done it. Without question."
Gasps echoed through the chamber. The king's eyes narrowed. His hands gripped the armrests of the Iron Throne.
Then he stood.
The movement was slow and he was forced to use Fury as a walking stick as he began making his way down the steps. The Royal Guards parted for him, as Caspen moved to his side.
Brienne remained kneeling, her head bowed, waiting for judgment. Her shoulders were tense, her hands clenched into fists.
Joffrey reached the bottom of the dais and continued forward until he stood directly in front of her.
"Caspen," he said quietly.
His steward stepped forward and carefully helped him draw Fury from its sheath. The Valyrian steel blade sang as it came free, the smoky black metal seeming to drink in the torchlight.
Joffrey held the sword in both hands, then lowered the tip until it rested gently beneath Brienne's chin. He applied just enough pressure to make her lift her head.
Her blue eyes met his—wide, uncertain, but unafraid.
"You have shown tremendous bravery," he said quietly, his voice carrying across the silent chamber. "Fortitude. Valor."
He raised the sword slowly.
Brienne's eyes closed, waiting for the killing blow.
The sword hung there for what felt like an eternity. Then Joffrey moved the blade to tap her right shoulder with the flat.
"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave."
Brienne's eyes flew open, confusion and shock written across her broad face, as he moved the blade to her left shoulder.
"In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just."
Back to her right shoulder.
"In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent."
He stepped back, lowering the sword.
"Rise, Ser Brienne the Brave."
For a moment, Brienne didn't move. She stared up at him, her mouth open, no words coming out.
"Your Grace," she whispered, "I don't understand—"
"You answered honestly," Joffrey said. "You could have lied. You told me the truth, even knowing it might cost you your life."
He extended his hand.
"That is the kind of person I want serving me. Someone who understands what an oath means. Now rise, Ser Brienne."
Slowly, as if in a dream, Brienne took his hand and stood. She towered over him, but at that moment, she looked almost small. Tears began to stream down her face.
"I have never been knighted before," she whispered. "No one would..."
"Then they were fools," Joffrey said simply.
He turned to face the assembled lords and ladies.
"Ser Brienne of Tarth has proven herself in battle. She has shown courage, skill, and honor. She is a knight in truth, and I will hear no word spoken against her."
His eyes swept the room, daring anyone to object.
No one did, instead nervous applause filled the room.
The king turned and handed Fury back to Caspen and turned to face her once more.
"Tell me, Ser Brienne," he said quietly, "you served one king, would you like the chance to serve another?"
Brienne wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing the tears across her cheeks.
"I..." She swallowed hard, trying to find her voice. "I would be honored, Your Grace."
He smiled and reached up to clasp her shoulder.
"Good," he said. "Come find me in a few days, once you've had time to rest and recover. We will discuss your chance to serve me then."
He squeezed her shoulder once, then turned and began the slow walk back to the Iron Throne. Brienne watched him go, her hand moving unconsciously to touch the shoulder he had clasped. The metal was still warm from his grip.
Once he was atop the throne's dais he turned toward the assembled lords.
"The war is over," he said, his voice carrying across the chamber with surprising strength for someone so recently wounded. "Stannis Baratheon is dead. His army is scattered to the winds. The pretenders have been defeated, and the Seven Kingdoms are united once more under the rightful king."
He paused, taking a breath before he continued.
"Tonight, we will hold a feast. A celebration of our victory, and of the peace that is to come. But let it also be a reminder of what we fight for. Not for crowns or thrones or titles. But for the realm and a better future."
His voice rose, filling the chamber.
"I invite all of you to join me in the Great Hall. Let us eat, drink, and give thanks to the Seven for their protection. Let us honor those who fell defending these walls. And let us pledge ourselves to the brighter future that is to come."
The throne room erupted in cheers.
"Long live the King!"
They chanted over and over again
Joffrey let the cheers wash over him for a moment, accepting them with a small nod of his head. Then he turned and began making his way out of the throne room.
As he moved through the crowd, he could feel the weight of their gazes. Could sense the subtle shifts in power dynamics, the recalculations happening behind carefully neutral expressions.
He put them all to the back of his mind for now as he exited the hall with his kingsguard. Because he knew something none of the conspiring, power-hungry lords did.
That the real war was just beginning.
The war between the living and the dead.
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