A/N: I am trying to make these chapter longer so if you enjoyed this chapter, please give it a power stone :)
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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
???
The world snapped into existence around Bran like a candle flame springing to life in darkness.
He stood and the ground beneath his feet shimmered, neither stone nor water but something in between. It rippled outward from where he stood, spreading in concentric circles like a pebble dropped into a still pond. The sensation was peculiar, as if he balanced on the skin of a soap bubble, fragile yet impossibly strong.
Bran took a step. The surface gave slightly, then held. Another step, and the ripples spread farther, carrying light with them.
Light. It was everywhere and nowhere at once. Not the harsh glare of summer sun or the warm glow of hearth fire, but a soft, luminous mist that seemed to emanate from the very air itself. It swirled around him in lazy currents, neither bright enough to blind nor dim enough to obscure. The mist held no color he could name, existing somewhere between pearl and silver, between moonlight and starshine.
He turned slowly, drinking in the impossible vista that surrounded him. Gateways. Hundreds of them. Thousands, perhaps. They stretched into infinity in every direction, tall rectangular arches of shimmering, ethereal light. Each one pulsed with its own rhythm, its own heartbeat. They looked like doorways woven from magic, their edges crackling with barely contained energy.
Through the nearest gateway, Bran glimpsed a vessel sailing among the stars but… not sailing, not truly. It moved in ways that defied everything he understood from Maester Lupin's teachings. The thing was metal, he thought, though no metal he'd ever seen gleamed quite like that. It twisted through the black void between distant suns, leaving trails of light that bent and curved impossibly, as if the very fabric of the night sky warped around it.
The ship, if it was a ship, had no sails, no oars, no visible means of movement. It simply was, cutting through emptiness that went on forever. Bran's stomach lurched watching it. His mind scrambled for comparison, for understanding, but found nothing. It was like trying to grasp smoke, or explain color to someone born blind.
The wrongness of it pressed against his thoughts, yet he couldn't look away. The vessel moved with purpose, heading somewhere beyond his comprehension, and the sheer enormity of the darkness surrounding it made Bran feel smaller than a grain of sand. Smaller than nothing.
Another gateway showed his father. Father stood in a godswood Bran didn't recognize, his face carved from granite and purpose. Father's shoulders drew tight beneath his cloak, the leather creaking as his spine went rigid. The word guardsformed on Father's lips, sharp and commanding, the voice that sent men running.
Then Bran saw what had stolen Father's breath.
A girl slumped against the heart tree's pale trunk, her body folded like a broken doll. Silver-gold hair spilled across bark and root, so bright it seemed to drink the godswood's dim light and give it back transformed. Her head lolled to one side, face hidden, but Bran caught the angle of her cheekbone, the aristocratic line of her jaw. Something about those features tugged at the edges of recognition—not memory exactly, but something deeper. The shape of old kings in tapestries.
She wasn't moving. Not breathing, maybe. Just draped against the weirwood like discarded cloth, one pale hand pressed to the carved face as if she'd been reaching for something when her strength gave out. Movement near the girl's feet caught his attention as three small shapes clustered against her legs. Dragons. Tiny ones, no bigger than cats, their scales gleaming bronze and cream and midnight blue in the godswood's half-light. They chirped, high and sharp, the sound piercing through the cosmic hum like needles. Their wedge-shaped heads swiveled toward the girl, then away, then back again. One nuzzled her ankle with its snout. Another spread wings barely larger than Bran's hand, membrane stretched taut between delicate bone, and keened.
They were worried.
Father's fear bled through the gateway, thick and choking but the other gates called to him aswell.
Other gateways showed flashes of battles, coronations, births, deaths. In one, Jon and Robb dueled with practice swords while Master Luke watched. In another, Sansa stood before an enormous hall addressing people like a Queen would. A third showed Arya running through darkness, something terrible pursuing her. The images flickered and shifted, some fading while others brightened, a tapestry of time woven from… possibility?
A low, cosmic hum filled the air, resonating in Bran's bones. It wasn't quite sound, not in the way he understood it. The hum was deeper than that, more fundamental. It felt like the turning of the world itself, the slow grinding of destiny's wheel.
Bran reached toward the gateway showing Father. His hand passed through the shimmering surface, and the hum shifted pitch. The image wavered, Father's face blurring for a moment before resolving again. Bran jerked his hand back, heart hammering.
The Force flowed through everything here. He could feel it now, really feel it in a way he never had before. It was the current connecting all these moments, threading through the gateways like water through a mill wheel. Each gateway was a possibility, a path, a choice made or unmade. And he stood at the center of it all, a single point where infinite lines converged.
The scale of it struck him like a fist to the chest. He was nothing here. A mote of dust before a storm.
This wasn't like the dreams the crow had shown him. Those had been like looking at a tapestry, seeing the pattern from a distance. This was being thrown into the weaver's workshop while the looms never stopped their terrible work. The threads were everywhere, crossing and recrossing, knotting and fraying, and Bran could see them all at once.
Maybe I shouldn't have listened, he thought. The cold knot of fear in his stomach tightened. The crow had promised power, knowledge, the ability to save his family from the darkness coming from beyond the Wall. But standing here, surrounded by infinity, Bran felt only small and lost.
A sharp, terrified gasp cut through the cosmic hum.
Bran spun. From of the gateways, a figure stumbled through it, arms windmilling for balance, and the gateway snapped shut behind her with a sound like a bell's final chime fading into silence.
The girl with silver-gold hair stood ten paces away, staring at her hands as if she'd never seen them before. Her breath came in short, sharp pants. She wore the same travel-stained wool Bran had glimpsed through the gateway, and her violet eyes were wide with panic.
"What sorcery is this?" Her voice trembled, high and frightened. She turned in a slow circle, taking in the infinite gateways, the shimmering mist, the impossible ground beneath her feet. "Where am I? Where are my dragons?!"
Bran raised his hands, palms open, the way he'd seen Father calm a spooked horse. "It's alright," he said, keeping his voice soft. "I'm lost too. My name is Bran. Bran Stark."
The girl's head snapped toward him. "Stark?" Suspicion warred with desperation in her expression. "You are Lord Eddard's son?"
"I am."
She glanced back at where the gateway had been, but there was only empty air and swirling mist. "I was in a godswood. In White Harbor. And now..." She looked around again, and Bran saw her hands shaking. "What is this place?"
"I don't know," Bran admitted. "I was touching the heart tree of Winterfell. And then I was here."
The girl's breathing slowed slightly. She studied him with those strange violet eyes, and Bran felt the weight of her gaze like a physical thing. After a long moment, she seemed to reach some internal decision.
"My name is Daenerys," she said. "Daenerys Targaryen."
Bran's eyes widened. Targaryen. The name sent a jolt through him. Maester Luwin had mentioned the name before, in one of their lessons about the history of Westeros. The dragonlords. The Mad King. Robert's Rebellion.
He gestured to a nearby gateway, one that still showed Father in the White Harbor godswood. "I heard you were in Essos. Why are you in White Harbor? I don't think Westeros is safe for you."
Daenerys followed his gesture and gasped. She took a step toward the gateway, reaching out as Bran had done, but stopped herself before touching it. "That's where I was. Just now. I was sitting with my dragons, and the weirwood..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "I don't understand."
"I saw them," Bran said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "The dragons lying on your skin, the way they moved. They're worried about you, but they're safe." His heart hammered against his ribs. "How did you hatch them? How is that even possible?"
Daenerys's hand flew to her chest, fingers pressing against the fabric of her dress where the dragons must have been coiled beneath. Her eyes went wide, then narrowed. "You saw them? Through the… gates?"
"I saw you slouched on the heart tree but Dragons?!" Bran leaned forward, forgetting his fear in the sudden flood of questions.
"Three of them. They hatched in Braavos." Daenerys turned back to him, and some of the fear in her eyes had been replaced by a fierce protectiveness. "I need to get back to them. They're still so small, and if something happens..."
"How did you get to Braavos? And why come to Westeros?" The questions tumbled out before Bran could stop them. "Everyone says King Robert would kill any Targaryen he found."
Daenerys's expression hardened. "My brother Viserys tried to sell me to a Dothraki warlord. I fled with Ser Jorah Mormont's help. We went to Braavos, and then..." She paused, studying Bran again. "Your father found me there. He protected me from bounty hunters. That's when the eggs hatched."
"Father protected you?" Bran couldn't keep the surprise from his voice.
"He did. We sailed to White Harbor together." Daenerys's voice softened. "He told me about the threat beyond the Wall. About the dead walking. About..." She hesitated. "About Jon Snow."
Bran's stomach clenched. Jon. "What about Jon? What happened to my brother?"
"I don't know if..." Daenerys's voice faltered, her violet eyes darting away from Bran's face. Her fingers twisted together, knuckles going pale.
"Please." The word scraped out of Bran's throat. His pulse hammered against his ribs. "Is Jon in trouble? Tell me."
The cosmic loom pulsed around them, threads of light weaving through infinite gateways. Daenerys's silver-gold hair caught the radiance, making her seem almost translucent.
"He's..." She drew a shaking breath. "Your father told me Jon is not his bastard. That Jon is really Daemon, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. My nephew."
The silence was deafening as Bran's mind reeled. Jon, a Targaryen? His brother, who'd always been the quiet one, the one who stood apart, carried dragonlord blood?
"That's why I had the visions," Daenerys continued. "When I touched the dragon eggs, I saw things. Snow. A great wall of ice. Children with ancient eyes. A man with a green blade." She looked at Bran intently. "Two boys training together. One with dark hair and grey eyes. The other with auburn hair and a direwolf at his side. They moved like dancers, like nothing I'd ever seen."
"Jon and Robb," Bran whispered. "You saw them training with Master Luke."
"Master Luke." Daenerys repeated the name slowly. "Your father mentioned him. He said Luke teaches you and your siblings something called the Force."
Bran gestured at the cosmic loom around them, at the infinite gateways pulsing with light. "This is the Force. All of it. Everything."
Daenerys turned in a slow circle again, but this time with wonder replacing the fear. "This power... it connects everything?"
"It's the thread that weaves all this together." Bran focused, reaching for the Force the way Master Luke had taught him.
She gasped as an unseen, gentle pressure lifted her hands. They rose, palms up, hovering in the air as if held by invisible strings. The sensation was beautiful, terrifying, impossible.
"It's what lets me do this," Bran said softly.
Daenerys stared at her floating hands, her expression caught between terror and exhilaration. "I can feel it! This is magic!"
Bran let the Force ebb, and Daenerys's hands lowered gently back to her sides. She flexed her fingers, testing them, then looked at him with new respect.
"Can you teach me?"
Before Bran could answer, the resonant hum warped. The sound twisted, becoming discordant, a scraping noise like metal dragged across stone. The light of the gateways dimmed. Several of them snapped closed with violent finality, their images winking out like candles in a sudden wind.
The temperature dropped. Bran's breath misted in front of his face.
"What's happening?" Daenerys moved closer to him, her earlier confidence evaporating.
A voice slithered from the fabric of the realm itself, dry and rasping as dead leaves blown across frozen ground.
"Such bright, bright little threads... dangling for the picking."
Bran's blood turned to ice. He knew that voice. He'd heard it in his dreams, whispering promises of power and knowledge. The three-eyed crow.
More gateways snapped shut. The mist darkened, taking on a sickly grey tinge. From a particularly dark and tangled knot of dying gateways, a figure began to coalesce. It formed slowly, deliberately, as if the realm itself was reluctant to give it shape.
An ancient, withered man sat on a throne of petrified wood and forgotten time. His body was woven from gnarled roots that twisted through and around him, binding him to his seat. The roots pulsed with a faint, sickly light, and where they touched the shimmering ground, the surface cracked and darkened.
One eye burned like a dying star, red and terrible. The other was a pool of absolute void, darker than any night Bran had ever known. When that void-eye turned toward him, Bran felt as if he were falling into an endless abyss.
The figure smiled. The expression was a crack in old leather, revealing teeth that were too white, too sharp.
"And you tow have met." The voice scraped against Bran's ears, making him want to cover them. "The fire to feed the roots. How... convenient."
The single red eye fixed on Daenerys with terrifying hunger. She took a step back, and Bran moved instinctively between her and the ancient thing on the throne.
The void-eye shifted to Bran. The smile widened.
"You have done well, Brandon Stark, answering my call."
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Kings Landing, The Crownlands
The throne room stank of incense and fear.
Tyrion stood near the back of the assembled court, his shortened legs aching from standing too long on the cold stone floor. Around him, lords and ladies in their finest silks pressed together like cattle in a pen, all craning their necks to witness the coronation of Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name.
How quickly we've descended into farce, Tyrion thought, watching the High Septon drone through his benedictions. Four days. Four days since Robert died, and already we crown his killer's son.
Cersei hadn't even waited for Father to return. The runners had been dispatched with urgent summons, but Tywin Lannister was still days away from King's Landing. His sister couldn't wait that long. She needed Joffrey crowned, needed the legitimacy that came with the ceremony before anyone could question too closely how Robert had actually died.
Before anyone could ask why Ser Meryn Trant had also perished that night, his throat slit in the queen's chambers. Yet Renly's newest raven has made the accurate deduction the has made the realm aware of how his brother was murdered. How?
Tyrion's wine cup was empty. He desperately wanted more, but moving now would draw attention. Better to stand here like a good little Lannister and watch this travesty unfold.
The High Septon lifted the crown, that heavy circlet of gold with its points like sword tips. Sunlight streaming through the high windows caught the metal, making it gleam. For a moment, Tyrion thought of all the heads that crown had rested upon. Aegon the Conqueror. Maegor the Cruel. Robert Baratheon, who'd won it with his warhammer.
And now Joffrey.
The crown settled onto golden curls. The boy's face split into a smile that made Tyrion's stomach turn. There was no humility there, no sense of the weight of kingship. Only triumph. Only cruel delight.
"All hail His Grace, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!"
The throne room erupted in cheers. Forced, most of them. Tyrion could hear the hesitation beneath the noise, the uncertainty. These lords and ladies knew something was wrong. They could smell the rot beneath the perfume.
Joffrey ascended the steps to the Iron Throne with careful precision, his crimson cloak trailing behind him. When he turned and sat upon that twisted mass of swords, Tyrion felt something cold settle in his chest.
Gods help us all.
The boy king raised his hand, and the cheering died away like wind before a storm.
"My loyal subjects," Joffrey began, his voice carrying through the hall with surprising strength. "I stand before you today not in celebration, but in mourning. My father, King Robert, First of His Name, was taken from us by treachery most foul."
Tyrion's fingers tightened around his empty cup. Here it came. The lie Cersei had crafted in those frantic hours after Robert's death.
"The title of the realm's most honorable man has long been given to Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North." Joffrey's voice dripped with contempt. "But honor is a mask that traitors wear when they plot their schemes. Lord Stark sent assassins to murder my father in his own chambers. He sought to steal the throne for himself, to place a Northern wolf where a stag should stand."
The throne room remained silent. No one cheered. Tyrion scanned the faces around him and saw confusion, doubt. They'd heard the official story, but hearing it from Joffrey's mouth made it no more believable.
"I will have justice for my father's murder," Joffrey continued, his voice rising. "I will have Eddard Stark's head on a spike before the moon turns. I will have every Stark who aided him brought to justice. I will show the realm what happens to traitors who dare strike at the king!"
Now some cheers rose, scattered and uncertain. Tyrion looked toward the Kingsguard standing at attention near the throne. Jaime stood there in his white armor, his face carefully blank, one hand resting on his sword hilt.
His father, Tyrion thought bitterly. Joffrey calls Robert his father, and his real father stands not ten feet away, sworn to protect him, sworn to silence.
The irony would have been amusing if it weren't so catastrophic. Jaime had killed Robert. Jaime was Joffrey's true father. And now Jaime stood as Kingsguard to his own bastard son, playing the role of loyal protector while the realm tore itself apart on lies.
Joffrey wasn't finished. His eyes swept the crowd, bright with malice.
"I understand Lord Stark had plans to marry his daughter the Lady Sansa to myself." His lips curved into something that might have been a smile on a less cruel face. "It would be a shame to execute her after I take the head of her father and brothers. Though I suppose she's pretty enough that I might find other uses for her first."
A few nervous laughs rippled through the crowd. Tyrion felt bile rise in his throat. The girl was what, twelve? Thirteen? And Joffrey spoke of her like she was a toy to be played with and broken.
This is what we've unleashed, Tyrion thought. This is what Cersei has given the realm. A monster with a crown.
The laughter died quickly, replaced by uncomfortable silence. Even those who might have found the jest amusing knew better than to laugh too loudly at threats against a great lord's daughter.
Joffrey seemed disappointed by the muted response, but he pressed on.
"My uncles have also shown their true colors. Renly Baratheon has fled to Highgarden, where he spreads lies and plots rebellion. And Stannis Baratheon, that grim fool who squats on Dragonstone, has dared to contest my rightful claim to the Iron Throne."
Joffrey's voice grew shrill. "They are traitors, both of them! Power-hungry dogs who would tear the realm apart for their own ambition! I want their heads! I want them brought before me in chains so they can beg for mercy before I have them executed!"
The crowd shifted uneasily. Declaring war on two of Robert's brothers, on men who had their own claims and their own armies, was madness. Even Cersei looked concerned now, though she hid it well behind her serene mask.
"But before I can have my uncles' heads," Joffrey said, and something in his tone made Tyrion's blood run cold, "I will need one right here. In this very castle."
The throne room went deathly quiet.
"Someone has been feeding lies to my dear uncle Renly from inside King's Landing," Joffrey continued, his voice carrying an edge of theatrical accusation. "Lies about how my father died. Lies about the legitimacy of my claim. Lies designed to undermine the crown and sow discord throughout the realm."
Tyrion's heart began to pound. No. He wouldn't. Cersei wouldn't be that stupid.
"Bring in the prisoner!"
The doors at the far end of the hall crashed open. Gold cloaks marched in, dragging a figure between them. The man's legs barely worked, his feet scraping against the stone. His face was swollen and bruised, one eye nearly shut. Blood stained his torn robes.
But Tyrion recognized him instantly.
Varys.
The Spider of King's Landing, the Master of Whisperers who knew every secret in the realm, hung between his captors like a broken doll. His powdered face was streaked with dirt and blood. His soft hands, always so carefully manicured, were raw and scraped.
The gold cloaks threw him down before the Iron Throne. Varys collapsed onto the stone, barely catching himself with his hands. A whimper escaped his lips.
Tyrion wanted to move, wanted to shout, wanted to do something. But his legs felt rooted to the floor. Around him, the court watched in horrified silence.
"This creature," Joffrey said, gesturing down at Varys with obvious disgust, "has been in my service as Master of Whisperers. A position of great trust. A position he has betrayed by sending word to my treasonous uncle about matters that are none of his concern."
Varys raised his head slightly. His one good eye found Tyrion's face in the crowd. The plea there was unmistakable.
Help me.
"Varys of the Free Cities," Joffrey intoned, clearly enjoying himself, "you stand accused of treason against the crown. Of spreading lies about the death of King Robert. Of undermining the rightful succession. Of conspiring with enemies of the realm." The boy king leaned forward. "How do you plead?"
Varys's mouth opened. Blood trickled from his split lip. He tried to speak, but only a croak emerged. His eye was already swelling shut.
Joffrey smiled. That terrible, cruel smile that Tyrion had seen too many times before. The smile that meant someone was about to suffer for the boy's amusement.
"I asked you a question, traitor. How do you plead?"
Varys tried again. His lips moved, but no sound came out. He was barely conscious, barely able to hold himself upright. Whatever Cersei's men had done to him in the black cells, it had been thorough.
Tyrion's feet finally moved. He pushed through the crowd, ignoring the startled looks, ignoring protocol and propriety. He had to do something. He couldn't just stand there and watch this happen.
"Your Grace," Tyrion called out, his voice carrying across the throne room. "Forgive my interruption, but how can we be certain of these accusations?"
Joffrey's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. "Uncle. How kind of you to take an interest."
"I merely wish to ensure justice is properly served, Your Grace." Tyrion kept his voice level, reasonable. "Lord Varys has served the crown faithfully for many years. Such serious charges require serious evidence."
"Are you questioning your king?" Joffrey's voice rose dangerously.
"I am questioning the certainty of the charges, Your Grace. There is a difference."
Cersei rose from her seat beside the throne, her green eyes fixed on Tyrion with a warning that was impossible to miss.
"We have a reliable source, brother," she said smoothly. "One who has proven most helpful in uncovering plots against the crown."
Tyrion opened his mouth to ask who this source might be, but then he saw it. Just for an instant, Joffrey's eyes flicked to the side. To where Petyr Baelish stood among the small council members, his face carefully neutral.
Of course.
Littlefinger had orchestrated this. Varys knew too much, had too many secrets, couldn't be controlled. So Littlefinger had fed Cersei exactly what she wanted to hear, had given her a traitor to punish, had eliminated a rival in one neat stroke.
And Tyrion had been too slow to see it coming.
"Now that we've dealt with disruptions from dwarves," Joffrey said, his voice dripping with contempt, "I can proceed with justice. Varys, I find you guilty of treason. The sentence is death."
He gestured to the headsman, who stepped forward with his great axe. The blade gleamed in the sunlight.
Varys whimpered. The sound cut through Tyrion like a knife.
"Wait," Joffrey said suddenly.
The headsman paused. Everyone in the throne room froze. Even Cersei looked confused.
"Your Grace?" she asked, her voice honey-sweet. "What are you doing?"
Joffrey's smile widened. "I want to do it myself."
The throne room erupted in whispers. Cersei's face went pale. Even Jaime shifted uncomfortably in his white armor.
"I've been practicing with my new toy," Joffrey continued, gesturing eagerly. "Bring it out!"
Two servants hurried forward carrying an ornate crossbow. The wood was dark and polished, the metal fittings gold. It was a beautiful weapon, clearly expensive, clearly deadly.
Tyrion felt something die inside him. This was it. This was the moment when any last hope of salvaging this situation disappeared. The realm would watch their new king murder a man with his own hands, would see the cruelty and madness that sat upon the Iron Throne.
And there was nothing Tyrion could do to stop it.
"Your Grace," Cersei tried, her voice strained. "Perhaps it would be more fitting if—"
"I am the king!" Joffrey shrieked. "I will do as I please!"
He snatched the crossbow from the servants, fumbling with it for a moment before getting it properly seated against his shoulder. The bolt was already loaded. All he had to do was aim and pull the trigger.
Varys looked up at him. Blood ran down his face. His lips moved in what might have been a prayer.
Joffrey pulled the trigger.
The bolt caught Varys in the chest with a meaty thunk. The eunuch gasped, his body jerking backward. He clutched at the shaft protruding from his ribs, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.
"Again!" Joffrey shouted, laughing. "Load it again!"
A servant rushed forward with another bolt. His hands shook as he loaded the crossbow. Joffrey didn't wait for Varys to die. He aimed and fired again.
The second bolt took Varys in the stomach. The eunuch screamed, a high, terrible sound that echoed through the throne room. He fell onto his side, curling around the pain.
Tyrion couldn't watch. He couldn't look away. Around him, the court stood in horrified silence. No one moved. No one spoke. They just watched their king murder a man for sport.
"One more!" Joffrey crowed. "Right between the eyes!"
The third bolt went through Varys's throat. The scream cut off abruptly, replaced by a wet gurgling sound. The Master of Whisperers twitched once, twice, then went still.
Joffrey lowered the crossbow, his face flushed with excitement. "Did you see that? Did you see?"
No one answered. The silence in the throne room was absolute.
Cersei recovered first, her face smoothing into a mask of approval. "Well done, my son. You have shown the realm that traitors will not be tolerated."
"Get rid of the body," Joffrey ordered, waving dismissively at Varys's corpse. "I don't want to look at it anymore."
Gold cloaks hurried forward to drag the body away. Blood smeared across the stone floor, leaving a dark trail toward the doors.
Tyrion's hands were shaking. He clasped them behind his back to hide it. His mind felt numb, unable to process what he'd just witnessed. Varys was dead. Murdered by a boy king who laughed while he did it.
And this was only the beginning.
Joffrey handed the crossbow back to his servants and returned to the Iron Throne, settling into it like it was a comfortable chair. His smile never wavered.
"Now then," he said brightly. "Where was I? Ah yes. My plans for dealing with my traitorous uncles."
He looked out over the court, his gaze settling on Littlefinger.
"Lord Baelish, you have served my mother well. You have proven yourself loyal and clever. I have a task for you."
Littlefinger stepped forward, bowing low. "Your Grace has only to command."
"You will go to the Vale. You will convince Lysa Arryn to prepare her forces to march against the Starks. It's time they chose a side."
"It will be my pleasure, Your Grace." Littlefinger's voice was smooth as silk. "Though I confess, it may take some time to persuade Lady Arryn. She is... cautious about committing her forces."
"Then be persuasive," Joffrey snapped. "You're good at that, aren't you? Persuading people?"
"I do my best, Your Grace."
"See that you do. I want the Vale's forces ready to march within the month. While you handle that, I will deal with my errant uncles. Renly thinks he can hide in Highgarden. Stannis thinks he's safe on Dragonstone. They will both learn that there is no safety from a king's justice."
Tyrion listened to Joffrey's proclamations and felt the realm fracturing around him. The North would never submit after this. Renly had already crowned himself. Stannis would do the same soon enough. The Vale would be dragged into the conflict. The Riverlands would follow wherever the Starks led.
War. Not just war, but a war that would tear the Seven Kingdoms apart completely. A war that would leave thousands dead and the realm in ruins.
And at the center of it all sat a boy king who thought it was all a game. A boy who murdered with a smile and demanded heads like they were toys.
Father needs to return, Tyrion thought desperately. He needs to take control before Joffrey destroys everything.
The coronation continued. Joffrey made more proclamations, more threats, more promises of vengeance. The court listened in silence, their faces carefully blank. No one dared object. No one dared question.
They had all seen what happened to those who displeased the king.
Tyrion stood there, his legs aching, his head pounding, and watched the realm descend into chaos. He thought of Varys's last look, that silent plea for help. He thought of Gendry, hopefully safe in Storm's End by now. He thought of all the pieces moving across the board, all the plots and counter-plots, all the schemes that had led to this moment.
And he realized, with a clarity that felt like ice water in his veins, that they had lost control.
The game was no longer theirs to play. Joffrey had taken the board and smashed it, scattering the pieces. Now there was only war, only chaos, only the terrible certainty that everything was going to get much, much worse.
Gods help us all, Tyrion thought again. Because no one else can.