King's Landing, The Red Keep, The Throne Room
"Rebels of the Seven Kingdoms, I am the last male scion of House Targaryen, the blood of the True Dragon. In the name of the King of the First Men, the Andals, and the Rhoynar, I command your submission..."
Grand Maester Pycelle's voice trembled as he read the contents of the raven's scroll. His thin, wavering tone did little to soften the impact of the words. When he finished, a tomb-like silence swallowed the Throne Room. Nobles exchanged frantic, hushed whispers, and the gold-cloaked guards shifted uneasily, their eyes darting to the monstrous chair of swords.
"Enough! I've heard enough of this traitor's filth!"
Joffrey Baratheon, seated high upon the Iron Throne, erupted in a shrill roar. "I am the true blood of the Lion and the Stag! This pretender is nothing!" In his frantic gesticulation, Joffrey's hand struck one of the jagged, protruding blades of the throne. He gasped, pulling back his palm to reveal a deep, crimson gash. "Ow! It bit me!"
"Oh, my gods! Grand Maester, help your King!" Cersei Lannister shrieked from her seat beside the throne. Pycelle scrambled up the steps, clutching his robes, but the damage was already done.
In the hall below, the lords of the Crownlands turned pale. They were men steeped in the bloody history of the Seven Kingdoms. They remembered that the throne had "rejected" Viserys I, leading to the rot that killed him. They remembered Maegor the Cruel found dead upon its spikes, and Rhaenyra Targaryen, whose rejection by the blades preceded her being devoured by a dragon. To the superstitious and the strategic alike, the message was clear: The Iron Throne had refused Joffrey Baratheon.
In the shadows, Varys the Spider leaned toward Petyr Baelish. "A fascinating turn of events, wouldn't you say, Lord Baelish?"
"I am a humble servant of the crown, Varys," Littlefinger replied, his eyes fixed on the bleeding boy-king. "Loyal to the memory of Robert and Jon Arryn. Though I imagine the looms in Tyrosh are quite busy these days. Thinking of changing your web?"
Varys smiled, a thin, oily expression. "I serve the realm. But I hear Lord Tywin is already declaring the Riverlands traitors. The game is becoming... expensive."
Winterfell, The Great Keep
In the quiet aftermath of a long-overdue intimacy, Catelyn Stark rested her head against Ned's chest. After nearly losing him to the executioner's block, she refused to let him out of her sight.
"What will you do now, Ned?" she whispered, tracing the scars on his shoulder. "I sent your letters to my father, but Hoster is too frail to lead a charge."
"The storm is here, Cat," Ned replied, his voice heavy with the weight of the North. "We watch and we wait. Tell Edmure to bend the knee to the Iron Throne if he must to save his people, but tell him to hold the Trident. As long as we hold Moat Cailin, the lions cannot march North."
"And Lysa?"
Ned's expression darkened. "Your sister is lost to her own ghosts. She killed her husband for a man like Baelish; she sees us as nothing but stones on a board. We must leave her to her fate and look to Aegon."
He kissed her brow, the old grief of his secrets finally lifted. Ned had told her everything—the promise to Lyanna, the years of lies, the truth of Jon Snow. The brush with death in King's Landing had shattered his need for "honor" at the expense of his family. He no longer felt small compared to his father or brother; he was the Warden of the North, and he would do what was necessary.
"I'm sending Bran and the others to Tyrosh," Ned said firmly. "The pack survives together, but Aegon needs a blood-kin he can trust. The North recognizes no king but the Dragon who was raised as a Wolf."
The Reach, Bitterbridge
The stone bridge was a sea of color. The combined chivalry of the Reach and the Stormlands had gathered for a spectacle of unprecedented scale.
"In the name of the Seven, I crown you, Renly of House Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms!"
A septon draped in a shimmering rainbow robe stood before seven white marble idols. Renly Baratheon, clad in gilded plate and a stag-emblazoned cloak, knelt before the Father, the Mother, the Smith, the Crone, the Maid, the Warrior, and the Stranger.
As the golden antlered crown was placed upon Renly's head, the plains of the Reach erupted in a deafening cheer. Renly was loved here, a stark contrast to his dour brother Stannis.
But as the ceremony ended, the septon—a man known only as The Shepherd—stepped forward. He was a figure of terrifying charisma, reminding the older lords of the fanatic who had once led the mob to slaughter the Targaryen dragons in the Dragonpit.
"Your Majesty," The Shepherd intoned. "The Seven have blessed you with champions. I present to you the Gemstone Group—warriors of unparalleled power from the corners of Essos."
Seven figures stepped from the shadows.
Voltar of the Bloodstone: A man who promised to butcher any who stood in Renly's path.
Glen of the Orange Crystal and his brother Kuger of the Yellow Topaz.
Selena of the Green Emerald: A pyromancer with eyes like jade fire.
Avi of the Shadow Quartz: A diviner and shadow-binder.
Kaseda of the Blue Sapphire: A giant wielding a massive executioner's axe.
Dussel of the Purple Amethyst: A man whose shield looked like an unbreakable wall.
Renly looked at these "Red-Named" warriors, his smile broadening. With the gold of the Reach and the magic of the Gemstones, he felt invincible. The war for the Iron Throne was no longer a game of lords; it was a clash of gods.
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