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Chapter 65:– Aftermath of the Lion's Demise
The Red Keep, King's Landing
The air in the Small Council chamber was thick with tension. The torches lining the walls flickered, casting dancing shadows over the long table where the most powerful figures in the capital had gathered.
At the head of the table, Joffrey Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, sat rigid and fuming, his face a mask of barely concealed rage. His blonde curls shook as he slammed a goblet of wine onto the table, spilling red drops onto his golden tunic.
"That dragon-loving bastard burned my grandfather alive! He must be punished! I'll have his head!"
Across from him, Tyrion Lannister sat stone-faced, his fingers laced together as he listened. He had expected this reaction from Joffrey, but hearing it aloud still grated on him.
Cersei Lannister, however, was a different matter.
The Queen Regent was not fuming like her son. She was silent, but her emerald eyes burned with something deeper—something dangerous.
Tywin Lannister was dead.
The man who had held House Lannister together, who had ruled the Seven Kingdoms from the shadows, was now nothing but charred bones.
Cersei's grip on the armrest of her chair was so tight that her knuckles had turned white.
Varys was the first to break the silence, his tone as smooth as ever.
"King Daeron has proven his ruthlessness, Your Grace." He looked at Joffrey, his expression unreadable. "And his strength."
Joffrey snarled. "I am the king! Not him! I—"
"Enough, Joffrey."
Cersei's voice was low, but it cut through the chamber like a knife.
The boy king turned toward his mother, confusion flashing across his young face.
"But Mother—"
"Do you think screaming will bring my father back?"
Her tone was ice.
Joffrey hesitated, then fell silent.
Cersei turned her gaze toward the rest of the council.
"What is the state of our armies?"
Tyrion sighed, rubbing his temples. "The Westerlands are in chaos. Our remaining forces are scattered, leaderless. With Father dead, there is no one left to hold them together."
Littlefinger leaned forward, ever the opportunist. "It would seem, my queen, that the power of House Lannister is... waning."
Cersei's fists clenched, her nails digging into her palm.
Her father was dead.
Her brother Jaime was still a prisoner of the Starks.
And now, the throne rested on the shoulders of Joffrey—an impulsive, violent child.
For the first time in her life, Cersei felt true fear.
Renly Baratheon's Camp, Bitterbridge
In the command tent, King Renly Baratheon sat at the head of the war table, surrounded by his knights and bannermen.
The banners of House Baratheon, House Tyrell, and their many allies fluttered in the warm Reach winds outside.
Ser Loras Tyrell, clad in golden armor, leaned over the table, his brow furrowed. "So it is true?"
Lord Mathis Rowan nodded. "It is. Tywin Lannister is dead. Executed by dragonfire."
A murmur rippled through the tent.
Renly, however, simply smiled.
"Well, well. The boy king in the North truly is his Grandfather's descendant." He chuckled, swirling the wine in his goblet. "This changes things, doesn't it?"
Lord Randyll Tarly, ever the strategist, stepped forward. "With Tywin dead, the Westerlands are leaderless. If we move quickly, we could take the capital before Daeron Targaryen does."
Renly sipped his wine. "Hmm. A fair point."
He set his goblet down and looked around at his gathered lords.
"We march for King's Landing."
The tent erupted in shouts of agreement.
Renly smiled.
Let the dragons and lions tear each other apart.
He would take the Iron Throne before either of them could claim it.
Dragonstone
The chamber was dark, lit only by flickering torches and the eerie glow of red candles. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, the flames casting twisting shadows on the walls.
At the head of the table, Stannis Baratheon sat rigidly, his jaw clenched. His fingers tapped against the wooden surface, his mind deep in thought.
Beside him stood Melisandre, the Red Woman, her red robes flowing like liquid flame.
Ser Davos Seaworth, his most loyal man, stood opposite her, his face tight with concern.
"Tywin Lannister is dead," Davos said, his voice even. "Daeron Targaryen burned him alive."
Stannis did not react immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the table, where a map of Westeros lay before him.
Finally, he spoke.
"Good."
Davos frowned. "Good?"
Stannis's expression was stone. "Tywin Lannister was a corrupt, honorless man. His death was long overdue."
Davos shifted. "It is not his death that concerns me, my king. It is the boy who ordered it."
Melisandre smiled.
"The dragon has returned," she said, her voice like a whispering flame. "And the night grows darker."
Davos's frown deepened. "You sound almost pleased, my lady."
Melisandre stepped closer, her red eyes gleaming. "I have seen him in the flames."
Stannis finally looked up. "And?"
The Red Woman tilted her head. "He is not the one who was promised."
Silence fell over the chamber.
Davos exhaled, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter if he is or isn't. Daeron Targaryen has an army, a dragon, and now the Riverlands too."
He looked at Stannis urgently. "If we do not act soon, my king, there will be no throne left to take."
Stannis leaned back in his chair.
For years, he had fought for what was rightfully his.
For years, he had watched Renly and others claim what should have been his by law.
And now, this boy, this bastard of Rhaegar, was sweeping through the realm like a storm of fire and blood.
Stannis clenched his fists.
It would not stand.
He would not stand for it.
His blue eyes burned as he spoke his next words.
"We prepare for war."