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"May the Warrior grant him courage and see him safely through every danger."
"May the Smith…"
"Under the light of the Seven, I proclaim Joffrey of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men…"
Joffrey listened to the High Septon—fat, wheezing, and dragging out that endless string of titles—while fighting the sudden urge to just snatch the crown and slap it on his own head.
He killed the thought before it could settle.
He didn't have the old royal guard at his back, and he sure as hell hadn't built any cannons yet.
Down here in the south of Westeros, the Faith of the Seven ran deep. Only a king crowned by the High Septon was seen as "blessed by the gods" in the eyes of the church and the smallfolk. Skip that step and legitimacy would bleed away like water through a sieve.
Even the Targaryens, riding their damn dragons, had bent the knee to the Seven after the Conquest to make ruling easier.
A boy king whose writ barely reached past the city gates? He'd wait.
Finally the fat priest finished the litany.
He caught his breath, turned to the altar, and lifted the golden crown Robert had left behind.
With the last of his strength he placed it on Joffrey's head and boomed:
"May his reign endure forever!"
The Great Sept of Baelor exploded with cheers so loud the rafters shook.
The crown was heavier than Joffrey expected. He lifted his chin and scanned the applauding faces.
Cersei stood front and center in sea-green silk that made her glow. The gold circlet in her hair caught the light, and her eyes curved into happy crescents.
She'd thrown herself into this ceremony for two straight days and nights—guest lists, candle counts, every last detail run through her own hands.
Jaime stood beside her, clapping with both good hands. He wore a dazed expression, like he was still half-convinced he was dreaming.
Tyrion stayed glued to his brother's hip, head tilted, studying everything with those mismatched eyes as if trying to work out what it all really meant.
Lord Eddard stood on the other side with Sansa and Arya, clapping and smiling.
Joffrey's gaze swept farther back.
Almost every lord from the Crownlands had come.
Rosby, Stokeworth, Harford, Rykker…
The ones who lived close had shown up in person; the rest sent kin who were already in the city.
Many of these men had marched with him, drawn steel at Buckle's Ford, or ridden through the Bloody Gate and gone home loaded with spoils.
Today they were here—maybe ready to fight for him again.
Or maybe just terrified they'd be the first ones fed to the meat grinder in the war coming.
By the time the rite ended, afternoon sunlight slanted across the sept, turning the white stone golden.
The steps outside were packed shoulder-to-shoulder. The crowd spilled from the square all the way down the streets.
Joffrey stepped through the great doors and raised his hand in greeting.
A roar went up. Flowers rained down on him.
His reputation in King's Landing had been carefully tended; no one was throwing rotten eggs or shit today.
Besides, the spectators had been hand-picked.
And he'd planted one very special extra.
From behind the sept colonnade, a white shape emerged.
Sunlight slid over its coat like liquid gold.
After a mouthful of corn, the stag knelt without hesitation so Joffrey could swing onto its back.
The crowd went dead silent for half a heartbeat.
Then it lost its mind.
"Gods be good!"
"Seven bless the king!"
"Long live King Joffrey!"
The shouts fused into one thunderous chant.
"Long live the king!"
…
Back inside Maegor's Holdfast, Joffrey yanked the crown off and tossed it onto the table.
"This thing weighs a damn ton. No wonder Father hated wearing it."
The Imp sat across from him, pouring himself wine.
He'd followed Joffrey back from the sept with a grin that hadn't left his face.
"It's gold, not iron. Gold's heavy." He took a sip and smacked his lips. "Still, it looks good on that pretty face of yours."
"Sansa nearly fainted down there."
Then he hopped off his chair, climbed the windowsill, and peered out.
"Seriously, nephew—do you actually know magic? Why the hell does that beast let you ride it?" Tyrion sounded genuinely annoyed. "Is even the wildlife picking sides based on looks now?"
When the white stag had first been brought back, Tyrion had tried to pet it and almost lost half his face.
Joffrey joined him at the window.
Down in the Red Keep's courtyard, guards were changing shift. Firelight flickered along the city walls.
Eddard walked in.
"Replies from the Crownlands lords have arrived." He spread a sheet of parchment on the table.
"Lord Gyles offers a hundred household guards and three hundred levies to help hold King's Landing. Lady Tanda is sending a hundred of her own."
"Lord Rykker is only sending two hundred levies and begs your pardon. He says Duskendale sits too close to Blackwater Bay and Dragonstone. He's pulled every man back in case Stannis strikes there first."
Joffrey nodded. Exactly what he'd expected.
The smaller houses were all sending one or two hundred men—mostly farmers and fishermen with pitchforks and fish-spears. After a little training they'd at least be able to stand on the walls.
"Where's Lord Tywin?"
"Westerlands infantry are moving at full speed along the Goldroad. Vanguard's already entered the Reach."
"And the North?"
"Robb has mustered twelve thousand." Eddard's face flickered with something complicated. "His letter says they've reached the Neck."
Joffrey rubbed his temples again.
The Riverlands and Vale were the same story.
Eddard claimed he could raise thirty thousand, but his bannermen were dragging their feet.
The Lords Declarant swore the Vale knights were riding hard and could reach King's Landing through the Bloody Gate in a single night march.
But Jaime—the Warden of the East—wasn't even there. Cersei refused to let him leave.
All those troops were still at least a month away.
Stannis could be at the city walls with his fleet in two days.
"How many warships does Dragonstone have right now?"
"Well…" Tyrion refilled his cup with golden Arbor red. "Most of the royal fleet is with him—about a hundred and fifty. Plus he's hired a ton of Lyseni pirates. He's probably past two hundred by now."
"We've got maybe forty left here, and our biggest flagship sailed off with dear old Robert."
He took another swallow.
"Stannis holds the initiative."
Initiative.
Joffrey rolled the word around in his mouth.
"What about your other uncle?" Tyrion asked. "The Stormlands have no navy, but their foot can reach us fast."
"My father's fleet is too far away. Redwyne's would have to sail all the way around from the Arbor."
"Oh, and you still haven't told us how many men the Reach is sending." Tyrion glanced at the Hand.
Eddard's face darkened even more.
He unrolled a second parchment.
"Renly and the Tyrells have rebelled too."
Tyrion took the letter, read it, then squeezed his mismatched eyes shut.
"'Cleanse the court'?"
"'Save the realm'?"