The smoke of the Battle of Blackwater had not yet cleared when the walls of King's Landing were already hung with victory banners.
In the throne room, Joffrey Baratheon sat comfortably on the Iron Throne. The chair, forged from the swords of Aegon the Conqueror's enemies, now looked especially large beneath him.
He tried to sit up straight, attempting to appear more like a true king.
Cersei sat beside him, her golden hair arranged in an elaborate updo. Her green eyes sparkled with satisfaction in the candlelight.
The lords of King's Landing, the vassals of the Westerlands, and the knights of the Reach filled the hall, all dressed in finery as if they had never experienced yesterday's war, never endured that night of terror.
"Ser Loras," Joffrey's voice echoed through the throne room with deliberate authority, "you are the savior of King's Landing. What reward do you desire?"
The Knight of Flowers stepped forward and knelt on one knee.
He still wore Renly's dazzling armor, gleaming golden in the candlelight.
"Your Grace, it is the duty of the Reach to aid the king. House Tyrell has already ford an alliance with the Westerlands and the true Baratheon line. This is rely the obligation of allies."
He raised his head, his voice steady and sincere: "For the stability of the realm, I hope Your Grace will take my sister Margaery Tyrell as your wife. She was married to Renly but the marriage was never consummated, so she remains a maiden."
Joffrey's eyes lit up.
He looked toward the radiant girl among the crowd.
Margaery Tyrell stood among the noble ladies and maidens, her brown curls lazily draped over her shoulders, a shy yet sweet smile on her lips.
All the noble ladies and maidens beca her backdrop, casting envious glances her way.
"I shall take Lady Margaery as my queen!" Joffrey announced loudly, his face full of pride. "At the sa ti, I appoint Ser Loras as Commander of the City Watch."
Cheers rang out in the hall.
Joffrey raised his hand to quiet the crowd. "There is another great contributor to the victory at the Blackwater — Lord Tywin Lannister, my grandfather!"
"He planned from afar and secured victory from a thousand miles away. Therefore, I, Joffrey of the House Baratheon, the First of His Na, King of the Andals and the First n, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, appoint him as the new Hand of the King! He has already pacified the rebellions in the North and the Riverlands and will soon arrive in King's Landing to take up his post."
He paused, his gaze shifting to the other side.
"At the sa ti, in the na of the king, I appoint Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden as Master of Laws."
Applause rang out again.
Finally, Petyr Baelish stepped forward, smiling as he knelt before the Iron Throne.
His eyes were full of triumph… the satisfaction of a long-cherished wish finally fulfilled.
"Lord Petyr has rendered great service," Joffrey's voice carried a generous tone of bestowal. "In the na of the king, I appoint Lord Petyr Baelish as Duke of Harrenhal, granting him all the lands and taxes of Harrenhal, and make him Overseer of the Trident!"
The hall erupted in applause.
Littlefinger finally breathed a sigh of relief.
Years of scheming, years of endurance, years of humiliation.
At this mont, it was all worth it.
Duke of Harrenhal, Overseer of the Trident.
He had finally climbed from a rootless minor noble to this position.
The smile at the corners of Littlefinger's mouth could not be suppressed.
All the ritorious officials received their rewards. Everyone was happy.
It seed a new golden age was about to begin!
No one ntioned the unfortunate dwarf who had died in the defense of the city… the "Halfman" who had charged into the enemy lines swinging an axe on the banks of the Blackwater, the forr Acting Hand who had destroyed Stannis's fleet with wildfire, the Tyrion Lannister who had shouted hoarsely from the walls, "We kill the brave!"
It was as if the man had never existed!
Just as the award ceremony was about to conclude successfully, Lancel Lannister rushed in frantically.
His face was deathly pale, sweat covered his forehead, and his clothes still bore yesterday's bloodstains. In front of everyone, he handed a letter to Queen Regent Cersei.
Cersei frowned: this was far too rude.
Boom!!!
But when she took the letter and read it, she suddenly sat up straight. Her beautiful face twisted instantly.
She couldn't believe it and read the letter again.
Slap!!!
She suddenly slumped back into her chair.
"Impossible!" Her voice was shrill like a cat being strangled, her face full of disbelief.
Such a sudden change caused imdiate chaos in the hall.
Everyone could see that sothing was wrong with Queen Regent Cersei.
It was the expression of the sky falling.
Joffrey snatched the letter and read it quickly.
His lips trembled. His fingers trembled. Even his eyelashes trembled.
"Tywin defeated and killed… Jai also died in battle." His voice was soft, as if talking to himself.
Boom!!!
Upon hearing this, everyone's faces changed dramatically.
Tywin was dead? Jai was dead too?
The man who had just been appointed Hand of the King, the Lion of the Westerlands, the man feared throughout Westeros… dead?
How was this possible?!
The award ceremony ended in a strange atmosphere.
The ravens from Harrenhal had finally reached King's Landing.
One, two, ten, twenty…
A dark cloud of ravens landed on the towers of the Red Keep, on the spires of the Great Sept of Baelor, on the broken eaves of Flea Bottom…
All the nobles received more accurate news.
The handwriting on the magical paper was neat to the point of being chanical, as if the writer was stating facts in a cold, emotionless tone:
Seven days ago, Luke Jaqenion personally led an army of twelve thousand n from Grey Glen Town straight to Harrenhal. Ser Adam used refugees as a wall and held out waiting for reinforcents. However, the false king Luke flew to the Tower of the Burning King at night, captured Ser Adam, and before ten thousand people displayed his six flaming wings, declaring himself the Son of the Seven Gods. The garrison's courage broke at the sight, and the smallfolk fell to their knees in worship. Harrenhal fell in a single day.
Upon hearing the news, Tywin marched back through the night, intending to retake Harrenhal. When the army reached Harroway's Town, the false king entered the camp alone and challenged Lord Tywin to battle. Lord Tywin deployed twenty-four giant crossbows, but none could hit him. The false king summoned a giant sword from the heavens, thirteen ters long, which fell from the clouds. Tywin perished on the spot, his body split in two. Jai seized a horse and fled, only to have his skull explode on horseback, falling headless.
The lords of the Westerlands were terrified and all knelt in submission. Luke took their soldiers and incorporated their forces. The twenty-eight thousand n of the Westerlands all fell into his hands.
Everyone was filled with dread!
They had thought the war was over, that peace would return to the realm, but such a major change had occurred in the Riverlands.
Harrenhal was lost, Tywin was dead, Jai was dead, and the Westerlands army was gone.
And that man who called himself the Son of the Seven Gods was devouring the entire Riverlands at an unstoppable speed…
The next day, the great nobles of King's Landing received yet another letter.
The wings of ravens cast black shadows in the morning light. One after another, they landed on the windowsills of the Red Keep, in the courtyards of nobles, and on the stalls of rchants.
The paper was the smooth white kind unique to Draco. The wax seal bore a golden dragon emblem. Every detail silently proclaid crushing superiority.
The letter was written by King Luke Jaqenion, demanding that all nobles, great and small, must co to Draco to pay homage before the last day of this year!
Petyr Baelish's hand trembled as he held the letter.
His face flushed red, the veins on his forehead throbbing.
Harrenhal was his. The Trident was his. The ducal title was his!
The things he had sched for his entire life, the things he had finally obtained — now he was being told they might be taken away?
"FUCK—" He crumpled the letter into a ball and hurled it to the ground. "Harrenhal is mine! Mine!"
The weather in King's Landing was fine. The sky was clear and bright. Sunlight poured through the clouds, shining on the walls of the Red Keep, on the surface of the Blackwater, and on the charred wrecks of ships.
But everyone felt that a new layer of mist had once again covered the sky of King's Landing.
The situation had once again beco unpredictable.
Dragonstone.
The sea wind blew in from Blackwater Bay, carrying the salty mist and the burnt stench left by wildfire.
Stannis Baratheon stood by the window of the Stone Drum, looking south.
His fleet had sunk. His soldiers were dead. His crown… had fallen before it could even be placed on his head.
"Why?" His voice was hoarse, not like his own. "Why did I not receive the victory you foresaw in the flas?"
lisandre stood behind him. Her red robe looked like a dying fire in the dim room.
"The Lord of Light only allows to glimpse the truth dimly," her voice was calm as still water. "You cannot abandon this war because of a single defeat."
Stannis suddenly turned around and grabbed her by the throat.
"You lied to !" His fingers tightened, veins bulging. "You know nothing of war! You know nothing of victory! You know nothing of…"
"I lost."
His voice caught in his throat.
lisandre did not struggle. Her eyes looked at him calmly. There was no fear, no anger in those eyes — only a deep, unfathomable pity.
"You will betray your people, your family, your faith," her voice was soft, as if coming from very far away. "Yet all of it will be worth it."
She reached out, took Stannis's hand, and led him to the fireplace.
"Look…"
She pointed to the flas.
Stannis lowered his head and stared into the dancing fire.
Specks of ash rose like black snowflakes.
He saw snow falling. He saw white specters moving in the snow. He saw an endless pale land.
Despite the heat of the flas, he still felt an intense chill.
The chill surged from the depths of the fire, from those white specters, from those blue eyes.
Souls of ice, ancient other gods. Life and death, light and darkness.
This was the true war.
This was the battlefield where Stannis would ride.
A cold wind rose, blowing from beyond the Wall, from the lands of eternal winter.
The Others had reappeared. Beyond the Wall, the shadows lengthened.
Corpses rose again. Giants, mammoths, and wildling tribes began to gather in large numbers and march south.
Stannis released his grip, took a step back, and suddenly laughed.
"Hahahaha—" The laughter echoed through the Stone Drum, carrying a kind of desperate, self-mocking madness. "Is this my fate?"
He had also received the news that Tywin had been defeated and killed, and that the Son of the Seven Gods demanded the submission of the entire realm.
On the path to kingship, he had already lost. He was out.
Could he submit? Submit to whom?
No matter who it was, it would be an insult to him.
He turned his gaze north.
There lay the Wall, the Night's Watch, and the legendary Others…
There lay his final battlefield!
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