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 28: Another Kingdom Falls
More than a thousand miles away from King's Landing, another battle had just come to an end.
The mountains of the Vale loomed beneath a cold gray sky, jagged peaks cutting through the clouds like a beast's teeth. Smoke drifted across the valleys below in long dark trails while the scent of churned mud, blood, and steel lingered in the air.
Broken banners littered the battlefield, trampled beneath horses and marching boots alike, their once-proud sigils stained red and buried beneath the corpses of their owners.
The fighting had been vicious, and almost entirely one-sided.
The knights of the Vale had charged with all the famed fury and discipline their mountain kingdom was known for, but courage alone had never been enough to overcome an organized military.
The old lion had anticipated their movements before the battle had even begun. He baited their cavalry into deep muddy ground, then collapsed their flanks with disciplined infantry formations, and cut apart their command structure before the Vale lords even realized they had lost control of the battlefield.
Now what remained of the Vale army retreated back behind the Bloody Gate.
And Tywin, unlike so many commanders desperate for glory before him, refused to pursue them into a choke point that favored the defenders. He would not throw away good soldiers simply to satisfy pride.
The Lord of Casterly Rock sat atop his warhorse overlooking the aftermath of the slaughter. His armor was a masterpiece of intimidation—deep crimson steel etched with gold detailing, polished so perfectly it almost seemed wet beneath the pale mountain light. Flecks of dried blood stained the lower plates from the battle, but otherwise the old lion remained immaculate.
Beside him rode Kevan Lannister, calm and practical as ever while the brothers discussed the battle's results.
"Our losses were acceptable," Kevan said, glancing down toward a bloodstained parchment in his hand. "Most of the casualties came from the left flank before Lord Marbrand stabilized the line with his bannermen."
Tywin merely grunted in acknowledgment, his gaze fixed on the distant Bloody Gate.
"And theirs?" he asked.
Kevan followed his brother's eyes toward the narrow mountain pass.
"At least a third of their strength," he replied. "Possibly more once the wounded begin succumbing to their wounds."
Tywin nodded once.
A devastating loss for the Vale, but not enough to break them entirely.
The Bloody Gate still stood, and assaulting it directly would cost him far more men than he was willing to spend. The old lion had not spent decades mastering warfare just to become another arrogant fool charging headfirst into a fortified bottleneck.
"The pass changes everything," Kevan continued. "If we force it now—"
A horn suddenly echoed across the valley.
Both brothers turned sharply toward the edge of camp where soldiers were already shifting formation. Spears lowered in unison while mounted knights began riding toward the approaching figure.
Tywin narrowed his eyes at the sight of a lone rider.
And flying above him—a white banner.
"Stand down," Tywin ordered coldly before anyone could escalate the situation further.
The tension eased slightly, though no swords were fully lowered as the rider approached. Dust clung heavily to the man's cloak and boots, evidence of hard travel through rough terrain, but despite his exhaustion he still managed to dismount cleanly before approaching the Lannister commander on foot.
Tywin's guards crossed their blades before him immediately.
"That's close enough," one barked.
The messenger froze.
Tywin stared down at him from horseback with the same expression he might've used to inspect livestock.
"Your name?"
The rider swallowed visibly beneath the old lion's gaze.
"My lord," he began nervously, "it is an honor beyond measure to stand before the great Lord Tywin—"
"I asked for your name," Tywin interrupted sharply, his voice cutting through the flattery like a blade.
The man flinched.
"Rennit, my lord."
"And what is your purpose here?"
The messenger slowly reached into a satchel hanging at his side, carefully withdrawing a rolled parchment which he held outward with an open palm.
"A message from Highgarden."
The old lion didn't move.
One of his guards stepped forward immediately, snatching the scroll before bringing it back to his liege lord. Tywin accepted it calmly, his sharp green eyes first examining the seal pressed into the wax.
The golden rose of House Tyrell.
"Interesting," he thought.
Without a word, he broke the seal and unrolled the parchment.
Kevan watched quietly beside him while Tywin skimmed through the contents in silence. Reading his brother's emotions had never been easy, but after years at his side Kevan had learned to notice the smallest shifts.
And there was one now.
It was subtle, easily missed if one didn't know what to look for. But there was the faintest upward twitch at the corner of Tywin's mouth, almost a smile.
Almost.
"Very well," Tywin said at last.
The messenger visibly relaxed, while Tywin folded the parchment neatly before handing it to Kevan. Then he turned slightly toward one of the nearby guards.
"See that this man is bathed and fed."
"Yes, m'lord."
The guard quickly obeyed, escorting the messenger away from the command position while Tywin remained still atop his horse, his gaze slowly drifting southward toward lands far beyond the mountains.
Kevan quickly read over the contents of the letter himself, his brows lifting slightly as understanding dawned.
"The Tyrells move quickly."
"They move intelligently," Tywin corrected.
He finally turned his horse.
"Stannis marches on the capital," he said. "Have the men prepared to move south immediately."
Kevan frowned slightly. "The army just fought a battle, my lord."
Tywin's eyes narrowed faintly.
"And the throne waits for no man."
"They'll march poorly without rest," Kevan countered carefully. "Push them too hard now and we'll lose men before we ever reach the Crownlands."
For a moment Tywin looked irritated by the disagreement, but not enough to ignore reason.
After a brief silence, he nodded once.
"One night," he agreed. "No longer."
Kevan inclined his head respectfully before riding off to carry out the orders.
Tywin dismissed the remaining guards shortly afterward with little more than a cold glance. The soldiers obeyed immediately, leaving the old lion alone amidst the smoke and fading noise of the battlefield.
Only then did he look back down at the folded parchment in his hand. His eyes moving over its words again.
Words of an alliance against a common enemy.
The pieces aligned themselves cleanly in his mind, and for the first time in quite a while, satisfaction touched the corners of his mouth.
"The boy proves himself more and more," Tywin thought quietly, his gaze drifting southward once more. "Perhaps my daughter truly did raise a king after all."
o-O-o
Far above the bloodied valleys below, the Eyrie remained untouched by the war.
The mountain fortress stood proud against the sky, white marble towers gleaming beneath the afternoon light while freezing winds swept endlessly through the high halls of House Arryn. No smoke ever reached this place, or screams from battlefields. The air smelled only of stone, snow, and cold clouds.
Inside the throne room, Lady Lysa Arryn stood near the open Moon Door.
The wind tugged at her long auburn hair and rustled the green fabric of her gown while she basked in the cool mountain air. Her pale fingers rested against the edge of the marble as she stared out toward the endless drop below, though her mind was far from peaceful.
The great doors behind her suddenly opened and Lord Yohn Royce made his way inside.
Several powerful lords of the Vale followed behind him, their expressions grim and unreadable as their boots echoed heavily across the chamber floor.
Lysa turned sharply at the interruption, confusion immediately spreading across her face.
"Lord Royce?" she asked. "Why are you here? I did not summon you."
Lord Royce did not bow at the supposed queen regent, nor did he kneel.
"Our forces have suffered severe losses," he said coldly. "Nearly a third of the Vale's army was lost fighting the Lannisters."
Lysa blinked, then dismissed the news with a wave of her hand as she turned back to the moondoor.
"Then regroup and attack again," she snapped irritably. "Drive them from the mountains."
"No."
The single word froze the room, and the queen regent turned and looked at him completely.
"Come again?"
Royce stepped forward slowly, his face hard as carved granite.
"I said no," he repeated. "We will not continue this war."
Lysa's face twisted instantly with fury.
"You dare defy me?"
She spun toward her household guards.
"Seize him!" she screamed. "Throw the traitor through the Moon Door!"
The guards did not move despite her words.
At first, Lysa simply stared at them as though unable to comprehend what she was seeing.
"You heard me!" she shrieked louder. "Obey your queen!"
Still nothing, and the silence quickly became suffocating.
Lysa's breathing quickened while her eyes darted frantically between the unmoving guards and the gathered lords staring back at her with growing disgust.
"I am your regent!" she screamed. "You are sworn to me!"
"Enough." Royce's voice thundered through the hall.
The old lord stepped forward again, calm and unshaken despite her hysteria.
"The Vale is done following you into madness," he said coldly. "We will not send more sons to die for your revenge over a dead snake."
At the mention of Petyr Baelish, Lysa's composure shattered completely.
"Do not speak of my poor Petyr with that word!" she shrieked. "He was murdered!"
"He was executed," Royce corrected sharply, "for murdering his liege lord and attempting to seize the throne."
Then his gaze hardened further.
"And you helped him."
Lysa staggered backward as though physically struck.
"No," she whispered weakly. "Those are simple falsehoods and lies meant to-"
"We know the truth," Lord Royce cut her off.
Then he began listing the various pieces of evidence: the poison, the false letters, and the many contradictions in her story.
Each point chipped away at her denial until panic overtook her completely.
"You don't understand!" she babbled desperately as tears streamed down her face. "Petyr loved me! Everything he did was for us—for my and Jon Arryn's son! He wanted to make Robin king!"
To the gathered lords, her words sounded less like reason and more like the frantic ravings of a broken mind.
Royce continued approaching carefully, his hands slightly raised.
"Surrender peacefully, my lady," he said. "Mercy can still be shown."
Lysa backed away rapidly towards the hall's stone steps, shaking her head wildly.
"No… no…"
Then suddenly she lunged toward one of the nearby guards and ripped the sword from his sheath.
The blade was far too heavy for her.
It wobbled dangerously in her trembling hands as she swung it wildly toward the approaching lords.
"Stay back!" she screamed. "Stay back!"
The gathered nobles hesitated as she stumbled backward toward the open Moon Door. Lord Royce stepped forward again carefully.
"My lady, lower the weapon."
"No!"
She raised the sword overhead with both hands, but the blade's weight shifted awkwardly making her heel catch on the hem of her gown.
And suddenly—she fell through the door.
The lord of Runestone lunged forward. "My lady!"
But it was too late.
Lysa screamed as she disappeared backward through the Moon Door, her cries echoing endlessly as she plummeted into the white abyss below.
Royce stood frozen near the edge for a long moment before finally lowering his arm, then, heavily, he turned away.
"Close it," he ordered quietly.
The guards obeyed.
The Moon Door groaned shut behind them. One of the female lords finally broke the eerie silence.
"What do we do now?"
Lord Royce took a long breath before answering.
"Send ravens to Lord Tywin and the crown," he said. "Inform them that the Vale surrenders."
Then he turned toward another nearby lord.
"And see to Lord Robin."
The man bowed and departed immediately.
Moments later, high above the mountains of the Vale, two ravens burst into the sky and flew southward into the coming storm.
And with them—another kingdom fell, setting another piece into place that spelled the end of the War of Six Kings.
o-O-o
At the same time the Vale drafted its surrender to the Crown, Joffrey was sitting alone in his chambers with a cup of wine in one hand and the burdens of the realm in the other.
The room was quiet save for the low crackling of the fireplace in the corner. Warm orange light danced across the stone walls, swallowing parts of the chamber in shadow before revealing them again whenever the flames stirred.
Outside his window the city had mostly gone still. King's Landing never truly slept, not fully, but even Flea Bottom had grown quieter at this hour. The distant sounds of drunken shouting and barking dogs reached him only faintly through the thick castle walls.
For once, nobody demanded his attention; not councilors, or lords, just tranquil silence.
Joffrey sat behind his desk sorting through the final stack of parchments that had accumulated throughout the day.
Inventories from the industrial sector. Rotations for the Royal Guards stationed along the Mud Gate. Food calculations from Lark regarding how long the city could survive under siege conditions. Every report represented another problem demanding an answer from him.
He finished signing the last document with a slow scrape of quill against parchment before setting it neatly atop the organized stack near the edge of the desk.
Caspen would collect them in the morning.
The king leaned back in his chair afterward, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as fatigue settled heavily behind his eyes.
His fingers drifted unconsciously toward the cyvasse board sitting near the corner of the desk. The pieces were already arranged from an unfinished match he had started several nights ago before duty dragged him elsewhere.
His hand reached out, picking up one of the rabble pieces and slowly rolled it between his fingers while staring down at the board.
A pawn, or close enough to one.
They had different names for different pieces, but with the same rules wrapped around the same truth.
Kings moved safely from behind lines while smaller men died by the thousands.
Joffrey stared at the board for a long moment before taking another sip of wine. The dark red liquid burned slightly going down, warming his chest while the firelight reflected softly against the silver goblet.
His thoughts drifted back to another life.
When he sat in another room. One much less comfortable than the one he currently occupied.
He remembered sitting cross-legged on a worn apartment floor while his father cooked boxed macaroni and cheese in the kitchen. Old chessboards balanced between them while Daniel desperately tried to stop another inevitable checkmate.
His father would casually call out moves from another room while stirring noodles on the stove, somehow still dismantling him piece by piece without even looking at the board.
The memory hit him harder than expected, as a sad smile grew across his face.
Not painful, just… distant.
Almost like remembering someone else's childhood.
A knock at the door pulled him from the thought. Joffrey's eyes lifted toward the sound immediately.
"Yes?" he called out.
Ser Preston answered through the heavy oak door.
"It's your uncle Tyrion, Your Grace. He says he wishes to speak with you."
Joffrey paused, and for a brief moment he considered refusing.
Things between them hadn't improved since Myrcella's departure, the wound left by Tyrion's secret arrangement with Dorne still lingered just beneath the surface. He'd understood why he had done it. Rationally, it made sense.
But emotion rarely cared about reason.
Still…he couldn't ignore him forever. He was his acting hand after all. So after several quiet seconds he sighed softly.
"Send him in."
The door creaked open, revealing Tyrion Lannister dressed in an elegant dark crimson doublet tailored carefully for his dwarf stature. Gold thread lined the sleeves and collar while a silver lion clasp held his half-cape around his shoulders.
Despite the richness of the outfit, exhaustion still lingered beneath his mismatched eyes. Joffrey looked up from behind the desk.
"Little late for a meeting, uncle," he remarked calmly.
Tyrion took a slow breath before answering.
"There are some things I believe we should discuss, Your Grace."
The king studied him silently for several moments before gesturing toward the chair opposite his desk.
Tyrion waddled over, dragging the chair closer with a scrape before climbing up into it with practiced familiarity. Once seated, he adjusted himself comfortably while Joffrey simply watched him from across the desk.
For a moment neither man spoke, the only sound was the fire crackled softly nearby. Then finally Joffrey broke the silence.
"Well?" he asked quietly. "What did you wish to discuss?"
Tyrion studied him carefully before answering.
Most people would have mistaken Joffrey's expression for calm indifference. Tyrion, however, had spent his life surviving by noticing the things others overlooked. He saw the slight shadows beneath the king's eyes, and the stiffness in his posture. The exhaustion buried beneath the carefully maintained composure.
"I came to apologize for my—"
"There's no need."
The interruption came quickly, too quickly.
Joffrey reached for his wine cup again.
"What's done is done."
Clearly, he had no desire to revisit the subject. Unfortunately for him, Tyrion hadn't come merely to exchange pleasantries.
"With respect, your grace," Tyrion began carefully, "If I had any knowledge of your own plans perhaps—"
"But you didn't." The king cut him off, making Tyrion frown slightly.
Joffrey slowly turned the wine goblet between his fingers, watching the candlelight ripple across the red liquid inside.
"But let's say for argument's sake I had informed you of my plans beforehand," he asked quietly, "would it actually have changed your decision?"
Tyrion hesitated, as he thought over the king's question.
"I would have approached things differently."
"Would you?"
Joffrey finally looked up fully then, green eyes sharp beneath the firelight.
"You could have spoken to me before sending the raven," he pointed out. "You could have discussed the arrangement first. Yet you chose not to."
Tyrion opened his mouth, then stopped, the truth sitting uncomfortably between them. So the king answered for him.
"You didn't trust me."
"That's not entirely fair I—"
"And why should you?" Joffrey cut in, though not angrily. If anything, his tone sounded tired.
He looked back down into his cup.
"I spent years treating you like you were a monster," he admitted quietly. "Like some twisted little creature beneath my notice or station."
Tyrion went still.
Joffrey let out a soft bitter laugh under his breath.
"The funny part is…" he murmured, "I was the monster all along."
The fire popped loudly nearby.
"I treated you the way everyone else in this family treated you," Joffrey continued. "Like something shameful. Something inconvenient. I inherited my mother's idiocy and wore it like armor without ever questioning it."
He paused, thumb rubbing absently against the rim of the goblet.
"And all the while," he said softly, "you never chose any of it. Not your birth, not your birth, none of it."
Tyrion stared at him in silence.
Joffrey finally looked back up, and for the first time that evening the mask slipped slightly.
Not completely, but enough.
Enough for Tyrion to see the shame lingering beneath the king's composure. Enough to realize this wasn't some calculated manipulation. Joffrey genuinely regretted the way he'd treated him.
"I should have treated you like family as Jaime did," Joffrey admitted. "Instead I treated you like a spiteful little shit."
The words settled heavily between them.Then came the words Tyrion never expected to hear leave his nephew's lips.
"And for that I'm sorry."
Silence swallowed the room afterward and Tyrion genuinely did not know how to respond.
For years he'd fantasized apologies from family members in countless forms. Bitter confessions, drunken guilt, or at least forced reconciliations born from political necessity.
But never sincerity.
Eventually, Tyrion nodded slowly, and something about the way he looked at Joffrey changed after that.
Not completely, but a good start.
Wanting to shift the conversation away from the uncomfortable weight hanging in the room, Tyrion's gaze drifted toward the cyvasse board sitting nearby.
"I didn't know you played," he remarked lightly.
The king glanced down at the board.
"Not often," he admitted. "Free time has become somewhat rare lately."
His fingers adjusted one of the pieces absentmindedly.
"And worthy opponents are even rarer."
That earned the faintest smirk from Tyrion.
"Care for a game then?" He asked.
Joffrey's lips twitched upward slightly.
And there it was, the dwarf's attempt at reconciliation or at least normalcy.
After a brief moment, Joffrey nodded.
"Very well."
The board was reset between them while Joffrey refilled their wine cups. Tyrion moved first, sliding one of his rabble pieces into position while Joffrey quietly studied the arrangement before him.
The old instincts returned easier than expected.
Cyvasse wasn't terribly different from chess. The names changed. The rules shifted slightly. Dragons replaced queens. Heavy horses replaced knights. But strategy remained strategy no matter what world you played in.
Their conversation resumed naturally as the game unfolded.
"The world resembles this more than most realize," Joffrey remarked quietly while advancing a spearman. "One mistake can destroy everything you spent years building."
Tyrion countered by moving a bowman into position.
"That assumes you're important enough for your mistakes to matter," he replied dryly. "Most people aren't players, Joffrey. They're pieces being moved around by men like us."
His bowman captured one of Joffrey's rabble pieces.
Joffrey studied the board for a moment before trapping the bowman with a spearman.
"That's partly true," he admitted. "The powerful dictate most of the game."
He moved another piece calmly.
"But men still choose whether they move or not."
Tyrion frowned slightly.
"You'll have to explain that one."
Joffrey leaned back slightly in his chair.
"Lord Tywin for example," he began, "spent your entire life deciding who you were allowed to be."
Tyrion's smirk faded.
"He buried you beneath Jaime's reputation and Cersei's beauty because your existence offended him," Joffrey continued while studying the board. "And eventually you accepted it. You hid behind wine, whores, and sarcasm because it was easier than refusing him."
Tyrion's expression darkened slightly, though he didn't interrupt, as the king moved his catapult. One of Tyrion's heavy horse pieces vanished from the board.
"But then you came here," Joffrey continued. "And for the first time in your life you were forced into the light, and into power."
He gestured loosely around the room.
"You've helped me rule the city, negotiated alliances, and managed supplies to prepare for war."
Then he looked directly into Tyrion's eyes.
"And you were excellent at it."
Tyrion looked away briefly.
"When the war ends," Joffrey asked quietly, "what happens then?"
The question caught the dwarf off guard.
"When your father returns and demands you step back into his shadow…" Joffrey continued, "will you obey him?"
Tyrion opened his mouth, then closed it. Because truthfully he hadn't thought that far ahead.
"I…" he started weakly but stopped.
Joffrey's voice softened slightly.
"That choice will still belong to you no matter what anybody tells you."
Tyrion attempted to deflect.
"That's assuming we survive Stannis' siege."
The king chuckled quietly. "Perhaps."
Then his expression grew distant again.
"But when your final moments come," he said softly, "you cannot comfort yourself by pretending your choices belonged to someone else."
His eyes lowered briefly toward the board.
"Trust me," he murmured, "when you stand at death's door… regret doesn't care whose orders you followed."
Tyrion stared at him for several long seconds. Those words carried far too much weight for someone his age. Eventually, he exhaled softly.
"Perhaps you're right."
Joffrey smiled faintly.
"Oh," he added casually, " and checkmate."
Tyrion blinked, then looked down. His eyes widened.
The dragon piece had slipped into position several turns earlier without him noticing.
"You cheating little shit," Tyrion muttered immediately.
Joffrey laughed, a genuine one this time.
"I distinctly remember warning you not to get distracted."
"I demand a rematch," Tyrion declared while reaching for his wine. "You sabotaged my brilliant tactical mind with your word games."
Joffrey smirked while resetting the board.
"Of course."
The second game began.
Then the third.
And long after midnight, Ser Preston remained outside the chamber doors listening to the sounds of drunken cursing, bitter accusations of cheating, and Tyrion Lannister loudly swearing vengeance upon smug dragon pieces.
o-O-o
The following morning, the Small Council chamber was noticeably quieter than usual.
Several seats around the long table sat empty while their occupants carried out the duties the king had assigned them throughout the city. Ros remained in the treasury district managing wartime funds and refugee housing alongside her assistants. Lark was overseeing food stores and merchant inventories in preparation for the siege. Grand Maester Pycelle had disappeared into his chambers after dawn no doubt pretending to busy himself with ravens and remedies.
Even Sansa was absent, currently enduring another one of her Septa's lessons somewhere within the Red Keep.
Only a handful remained gathered within the council chamber.
Ser Barristan stood near the wall with his hands folded behind his back while Jacelyn quietly reviewed defensive diagrams spread across the table.
Tyrion sat in his usual place at the council, though unlike previous meetings Bronn stood behind his chair instead of lingering elsewhere in the castle. The sellsword looked thoroughly unimpressed with politics as he leaned against one of the stone pillars cleaning dirt from beneath his fingernails with a dagger.
The reason for his presence became obvious quickly enough.
Tyrion looked terrible.
The dwarf had deep bags beneath his mismatched eyes and the faint look of a man who had consumed entirely too much wine while repeatedly losing at a board game he insisted he should have won.
The chamber doors finally opened.
Every head turned toward the entrance as Joffrey stepped inside, and the king didn't look much better than his hand.
His golden hair was slightly disheveled and there was a stiffness to his posture that betrayed both lack of sleep and a pounding headache. His expression remained controlled, but the slight narrowing of his eyes every time sunlight touched them through the high windows made it clear he was suffering.
Internally, Joffrey decided then and there that one day he would drag coffee into existence within Westeros if it killed him. He was beginning to suspect the absence of caffeine explained half the terrible decisions made throughout this world's history.
"Good morrow," Joffrey greeted while rubbing lightly at one temple.
"Good morrow, Your Grace," the others answered.
The dwarf smirked tiredly into his wine cup. "You look awful."
Joffrey gave him a flat stare.
"And whose fault do you think that is?"
Bronn barked out a short laugh from behind Tyrion's chair.
Tyrion, meanwhile, looked entirely too pleased with himself despite the obvious exhaustion written across his face.
"You're the one who insisted on continuing after the fourth game."
"Because you kept claiming the last match didn't count."
"Because you distracted me with more of your mind games."
"You lost five games, uncle."
"Seven," Bronn corrected helpfully.
Tyrion shot him a murderous glare.
"Five," he snapped stubbornly.
"Five wins," Joffrey clarified calmly while taking his seat at the head of the table. "And two pity victories I generously allowed you to have so you wouldn't cry yourself to sleep."
Barristan's mouth twitched slightly. Even Jacelyn's mouth threatened to curve upward for a brief moment before he mastered himself.
Tyrion pointed an accusing finger across the table.
"You hid your dragon behind the terrain constantly."
"That's called strategy."
"That's called cheating."
"Only because you lost."
"Sounds like losing to me." Bronn added.
Tyrion muttered several things beneath his breath that were likely illegal in at least three kingdoms while Joffrey finally waved the conversation aside and motioned toward the reports.
"Enough," he sighed. "Let's begin before my head splits open."
The chamber settled quickly afterward as Tyrion slid several scouting reports across the table toward the king.
"Our scouts confirmed your prediction," the dwarf said while leaning back into his chair. "Stannis divided his forces."
Joffrey skimmed the report quickly.
"How many sail with the fleet?"
"Roughly a third of his army," Tyrion replied. "The remainder marches north along the Kingsroad toward the city."
Joffrey nodded slowly.
"Exactly as expected," he thought.
Stannis was cautious by nature. He would never risk placing his full strength upon ships where a single disaster could cripple his campaign entirely. Dividing the force gave him flexibility, even if it slowed the overall advance slightly.
"And the letters?" Joffrey asked next while setting the parchment aside. "How successful was our campaign against his reputation?"
Tyrion looked almost impressed by the results himself.
"Far more effective than I anticipated," he admitted. "With the High Septon supporting the claims, the rumors spread through the realm like wildfire."
The irony of the phrasing nearly made the king smirk. Tyrion continued while tapping another report.
"Several towns have openly refused Stannis supplies or shelter after hearing accusations of kinslaying and blood magic. Some septons are already calling him cursed by the Seven."
Barristan nodded slowly.
"The smallfolk are deeply superstitious."
"And Stannis inspires very little love to counter it," Tyrion added.
Bronn scoffed from the wall.
"Can't imagine why. Miserable bastard looks like he eats rocks for supper."
Joffrey ignored the comment while considering the broader implications.
"Has it slowed his advance?"
"Yes," Tyrion answered immediately. "He's been forced to seize grain and livestock from multiple villages."
"And every stolen loaf of bread strengthens our narrative further," Joffrey murmured thoughtfully.
Barristan's expression remained serious.
"The common people will remember."
"They always do," the king replied quietly, before his eyes shifted back toward Tyrion. "And your mountain clansmen?"
Tyrion straightened slightly at the question.
"They're in position."
Joffrey studied him carefully for a moment.
"And the surprises?"
A crooked grin slowly spread across Tyrion's face.
"All prepared."
"Good." The king gave a small nod before replying. "Then have your clansmen fall back to the city."
Tyrion frowned slightly.
"What about your Royal Guards?"
"They have separate orders."
The answer immediately drew curiosity from Tyrion, but before he could press further Joffrey turned toward Jacelyn instead.
"What of the defenses?"
The vice commander immediately straightened.
"The trenches are complete along both the Mud Gate and King's Gate walls," Jacelyn reported calmly. "The sudis barriers have also been reinforced throughout the night. All Hwachas are in place and fully operational."
Joffrey nodded. "And the men?"
"Ready."
There was confidence in Jacelyn's voice now.
"The Royal Guards have been drilling continuously since learning of Stannis's approach," he continued. "Morale remains high. Most are eager for battle."
"Good."
Joffrey leaned forward then, dragging the large map of King's Landing closer while the others gathered around the table.
The atmosphere shifted naturally from casual conversation into war planning. The king pointed toward the Mud Gate.
"Stannis will attack here first," he said. "It's closest to the harbor and the weakest gate structurally."
Tyrion frowned while studying the map.
"Then why reinforce the King's Gate so heavily as well?" he asked. "If we already know where he's landing—"
"Because Stannis isn't stupid," Joffrey interrupted.
His finger traced along the city walls slowly.
"When his first assault stalls, he'll probe elsewhere. Most likely here."
His finger stopped at the King's Gate.
"He'll attempt to redirect forces around the city while our defenders remain committed at the Mud Gate."
Jacelyn nodded beside him.
"And they'll find us waiting."
Joffrey looked toward his second in command.
"You'll command the defense there personally."
Jacelyn inclined his head immediately.
"It will be done, your grace."
The discussion continued from there, moving through supply rotations, fallback positions, reserve troop placements, and communication routes between the gates. Tyrion contributed more frequently than he once had, openly discussing strategy with the others while Joffrey listened instead of dismissing him outright.
It was strange.
A year ago this council would have collapsed into insults and power struggles within minutes, but now it actually functioned as it had been designed to.
Eventually, however, Tyrion spoke again with noticeable concern in his tone.
"There's still one major problem."
Joffrey looked toward him. "Something to add, uncle?"
Tyrion nodded before leaning forward over the map.
"Stannis's fleet."
The room quieted slightly, even Bronn stopped pretending not to care as the dwarf gestured towards Blackwater Bay.
"Even if your defenses hold against the land assault, we lack the ships necessary to challenge Stannis at sea," he explained carefully. "If his fleet breaches the harbor, they can land soldiers behind our defences."
He tapped the map near the harbor entrance.
"No army survives being attacked from two fronts simultaneously."
Barristan folded his arms thoughtfully. "A valid concern."
Joffrey remained silent, allowing Tyrion to continue.
"The walls protect us from the landward assault," Tyrion said, "but they do nothing to stop ships from pouring soldiers directly into the city."
Joffrey exchanged a brief glance with Barristan and Jacelyn. All three were visibly impressed, which the dwarf noticed immediately.
"What?" he asked suspiciously.
Joffrey smirked faintly. "You've been reading up on sieges haven't you."
Tyrion looked almost offended.
"I'll have you know I occasionally read things besides wine labels."
"Remarkable restraint."
The others snorted again, the humor lifting the tension in the room, somewhat.
Joffrey tapped the map thoughtfully before finally asking:
"What do you propose then, Lord Tyrion?"
The dwarf blinked slightly at the direct question before leaning forward again, mind already turning. After several moments, his fingers settled near the twin towers guarding the entrance to Blackwater Bay.
"A harbor chain," he said.
The room grew still, as Tyrion continued to point between the towers.
"Stretch a massive iron chain across the harbor entrance. If raised properly, it could prevent enemy ships from entering the bay."
Barristan nodded slowly at his words.
"It would force them to assault elsewhere."
Joffrey tilted his head slightly.
"A sound idea," he admitted. "But incomplete."
Tyrion frowned, as the king pointed toward the coastline outside the city.
"If blocked entirely, Stannis simply lands elsewhere. Most likely near the Iron Gate or farther south along the shore."
He traced a route around the city.
"Then while we defend the walls from the main assault, fresh troops attack from another direction entirely."
Tyrion grimaced slightly as he saw the flaw himself. Joffrey, however, continued before the idea could fully die.
"But…" he added thoughtfully, "the chain still has merit."
The others looked toward him again, while he leaned further over the table.
"We allow part of the fleet through first."
Tyrion's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Half the fleet enters the harbor," Joffrey continued. "Perhaps more. Then the chain rises behind them."
Realization slowly dawned across the room as they thought over his words. Barristan was the first to speak.
"The trapped ships lose maneuverability." He commented as he looked over the map.
"Exactly," Joffrey said.
He then pointed toward the narrow waters inside Blackwater Bay.
"They'll be compressed together with limited space to turn or retreat. The remaining ships outside the harbor become irrelevant temporarily because the city walls prevent them from reinforcing quickly."
Tyrion stared at the map.
"And the trapped ships become isolated."
Joffrey nodded. "Now we aren't fighting the full fleet at once."
Tyrion considered the strategy carefully before finally pointing out the lingering issue.
"Even then… we still don't possess enough ships to destroy them directly."
Joffrey's lips curved slightly then.
"I have no intention of fighting Stannis's fleet ship-to-ship."
That earned several confused looks.
"Then how exactly do you intend to destroy them?"
Joffrey slowly stood from his chair. The faint smile lingering on his face immediately made Tyrion uneasy for reasons he couldn't fully explain.
"I could tell you," Joffrey said calmly, then he looked toward the others. "But I'd rather show you."
Without elaborating further, the king turned and began walking toward the chamber doors. The others exchanged uncertain glances before rising to follow him.
Barristan moved first, followed by Jacelyn.
Bronn pushed himself off the wall and followed simply because he clearly expected something dangerous to happen.
Tyrion hurried after them last, struggling slightly to keep pace with Joffrey's longer strides as they moved through the torchlit corridors of the Red Keep.
"Where exactly are we going?" Tyrion asked while waddling faster to catch up.
Joffrey glanced down toward him briefly.
"To see a relic," he replied quietly.
The torchlight flickered across his face as they descended deeper into the castle.
"From a very dark past."
If you like the story and want to read ahead Chapters 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37 and 38 are already available for Patrons.
Just go to google and search RoguePrince69 and click the first link then enjoy.
Author Note: I'll be taking a two week break so that I can set up Act 3 now that Act 2 is finished.