The afternoon light slanted through the high windows of the Red Keep as the priestess of R'hllor, the Lord of Light, took her leave, her white robes trailing behind her like wisps of smoke.
King Joffrey, first of his name, summoned a servant with a flick of his wrist. He adjusted the golden clasp of his crimson cloak, smoothed the wrinkles from his doublet, and made his way toward the throne room. There awaited a council meeting with the true Daenerys—one of many tasks that required his attention this day.
Despite the gravity of the matters before him, Joffrey found himself in high spirits.
His meeting with Melisandre had proven exceedingly fruitful. Her illusions alone were remarkably realistic—entrancing visions that stirred one's appetite for more. Though like the patterns dancing in flames, the two distinct symbols that appeared when the red priestess cast her spells remained things to be admired from afar, not trifled with carelessly.
He could sense, however, that these two patterns must be connected to the runes of light and the runes of spirit. The appearance of three types of patterns—simultaneously familiar yet strange, all seemingly beyond his grasp—could not be mere coincidence.
An evolved version of the runes? he wondered. Or perhaps the very rules of the world, nurtured by heaven and earth themselves?
Joffrey's mind raced with possibilities. He had glimpsed, however briefly, the deeper source code of the world—the power of gods, the very foundation of the song of ice and fire. The existence and might of the true god, R'hllor, had been thoroughly verified before his eyes.
More importantly, the Lord of Light had shown no reaction whatsoever to his probing, indicating either divine indifference or inattention. This was welcome news indeed.
Joffrey could only hope that He would value the mortal realm as late as possible. Ideally, after Westeros had transformed into a terrestrial paradise—a golden age of magic with himself as master of the world—only then would the Lord of Light deign to arrive. By then, even a true god might fall to the empire Joffrey envisioned, becoming nothing more than another subject to study on the path forward.
Renly and the lords of the Stormlands would be but the first stepping stone. The empire would rise from this moment, built on their bones if need be.
Joffrey stepped into the throne room, where a crowd of courtiers had already gathered. Their eyes followed his entrance, then shifted to the girl beside him—silver hair cascading like moonlight, violet eyes clear as amethysts, delicate features betraying pure Valyrian blood.
Those with good information had already discerned the truth. The new Master of Whisperers, Alyn Lantell, had risen to his position because of this girl. After all, she and her brother were the last descendants of the direct Targaryen line—the greatest challengers to the Baratheon throne.
The King settled himself upon the Iron Throne, which had been modified to appear less threatening, its edges dulled and its seat better fitted to his form. Many courtiers could not help but recall that day of fiery iron during the King's coronation, and the giant who had radiated infinite light and heat—a memory that still woke some from their sleep, drenched in sweat.
"I regret to inform you all," Joffrey announced, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the court, "that my uncle Renly sent a letter of challenge this morning. He claims I am not my father's true son, and according to the laws of gods and men, he intends to use swords to reclaim what he calls his rightful Iron Throne."
The courtiers below stood dumbfounded, as if they had heard the seven trumpets heralding the end of days.
"Gods be good, how dare Lord Renly make such accusations?" a voice cried out.
"The Seven Kingdoms shall face disaster again!" lamented another.
"His Grace Robert loved him so dearly, and this is how the brother repays him?!"
"Alas, why didn't we see this treachery before it festered?"
"Could it be that His Grace Robert and Duke Stannis..." The whispers grew like weeds after rain.
The small council members seated at the table remained calmer, observing the agitated courtiers with grave expressions, like maesters watching the symptoms of a disease manifest.
The King's face betrayed nothing, though his mind contemplated the timing of completely replacing the Iron Throne. It could be just a chair, true enough, but it was also the symbol of kingship and rule. Replacing it would be equivalent to rejecting the legitimacy of the regime inherited from the Targaryen dynasty—tantamount to revolution.
But what in the future would not be revolution? Joffrey thought.
He secretly arranged the steps in his mind: first defeat Renly, the Reach, and Dorne; then replace the Iron Throne; resist the Others; and ascend to imperial power. By then, the throne beneath him would not be Targaryen or Baratheon, but an imperial seat belonging solely to himself, and none would dare question it.
After the uproar gradually subsided, like a storm moving out to sea, Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, shook his head and offered a thin smile. "Lord Renly is truly unfortunate in his timing. Had he delayed his departure but a few days and witnessed His Grace's coronation and the divine blessings bestowed upon him, he would not have penned these ridiculous slanders. Would the gods favor bastards?" His question hung in the air like a dagger.
Ser Loras, standing below with the other knights, could not help but feel confused. Was Lord Renly merely finding a convenient excuse, or did he truly believe this accusation?
The people nodded in agreement, their eyes constantly darting forward, seeking reassurance.
The three regents all wore expressions dark as storm clouds, and none could tell that two of them already knew the answer to the question that now plagued the realm.
Only the Hand of the King, Lord Eddard Stark, felt his thoughts churning like a northern blizzard.
Joffrey not Robert's son? The notion was terrible to contemplate. If true, everything that had transpired this year would take on a different meaning—marriage alliances, Bloodraven, the miracles, wars, Hand Jon Arryn, the deaths of Stannis and Robert...
The vortex of possibilities was too dark, and Eddard could no longer see clearly through the shadow of doubt.
Who truly harmed Robert? Setting aside honor and emotion, not only Bloodraven, Joffrey, and Renly, but almost anyone could have wished the king harm.
Looking at the current situation, what chaos had Robert's death truly wrought? Renly approached the Iron Throne with blood and fire. Regardless of victory or defeat, how many would die in this conflict, and how many would rise from the ashes of others?
The only certainty Eddard clung to was the need to protect his eldest son. Robb must remain in Winterfell. The South was not suited for him—not suited for any proud Northerner with ice in their veins.
Regent Tywin Lannister spoke with the stern authority that had once made seven kingdoms tremble: "Thanks to Lord Eddard's timely warning, the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale have accepted the royal call to arms. Twenty thousand elite troops of Lannisport stand ready for battle, and more gather by the day."
"The King's Landing City Watch has already begun to expand," the Hound added, his burned face twisting as he spoke. "The young men will be bathed in divine grace, fighting one against a hundred."
"The royal fleet stands at the ready," another voice confirmed.
Queen Regent Cersei raised her chin, emerald eyes flashing with defiance. "Do they mean to bully my son and myself? Renly's ambition shall bear bitter fruit, not a crown."
What thorough preparations indeed! The atmosphere in the hall grew solemn as a funeral pyre.
Master of Whisperers Alyn rose to his feet, his voice carrying to the farthest corners of the room. "Lords of the Stormlands and the Reach, I urge you to contact your families without delay. Let me speak plainly—Renly, who is destined to fail and be reviled by history, is not the true king. The more you contribute to his cause, the more tragic your ending shall be."
The courtiers grew restless, shifting like leaves before a storm. Who indeed would dare suggest His Grace might fail?
A crack split the air as the door to the throne room opened unbidden.
All eyes turned toward the entrance, where a slender man with silver hair and violet eyes approached, leading what appeared to be a pure white stag. The man kept his head bowed, his steps faltering as if walking to his execution, until he reached the center of the hall and fell to his knees.
"Your... Your Grace," he stammered, voice weak as watered wine, "may the gods bless you. This white stag from the Kingswood is truly a miracle. It should be... Your Grace's mount."
The King tilted his head, puzzlement crossing his features. "A stag? Viserys Targaryen, why does it appear as a dragon to my eyes—a fire-breathing dragon?"
As if in response to the king's words, the white "stag" exhaled a plume of flames that illuminated the entire throne room with sudden, terrible brightness.
Every gaze in the hall pierced Viserys like Valyrian steel, nearly driving him mad with their intensity. Yet in the end, he humbled himself further, pressing his forehead to the cold stone floor.
"Your Grace, forgive me," he pleaded, "it is indeed a dragon, a fire-breathing dragon. I was mistaken. It is a dragon."
This was the last hope of House Targaryen? The gathered nobility could not help but exchange glances of pity or mockery. The Dragon dynasty was well and truly finished.
King Joffrey yawned with languid indifference. "That will be all for today. Return to your duties and rest well. Do not trouble yourselves—Uncle Renly shall not see King's Landing again, unless he comes in chains."
"Long live His Grace!" The cry echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
Everyone present understood the truth of the moment. Though no swords had yet clashed, no armies yet faced each other across a field, the war had already begun.
This was war. It came too slowly at first, almost as if it did not exist, making people unable to help but complain and even look forward to it. But when it truly descended upon them, it was too violent and hurried, like a storm that appears on the horizon one moment and drowns you the next.
In any case, blood and fire were approaching, as inexorable as the tide.
==============================================
Support me at p@treon.com/goldengaruda and check out more chapter of this or more early access chapter of my other fanfic translation.
New fanfic : Marvel : The God Of Punishment System
=============================================