The great pavilion stood in the wilderness like an island of civilization amidst a sea of lesser tents. Within its crimson-and-gold confines sat the most powerful people in all the Seven Kingdoms.
King Robert occupied the ornate wooden chair at the center, elevated above the others as befitted his station. Queen Cersei and Crown Prince Joffrey flanked him on either side, golden-haired and resplendent in their finery. Ser Barristan Selmy, white-cloaked and dignified despite his years, stood to one side while the Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister, gleamed in his gilded armor on the other. The remainder of the gathering consisted of various councilors and courtiers—those trusted enough to attend such a meeting in these uncertain times.
The King's traveling retinue included nearly half the court, though perhaps not coincidentally, most of these lords and ladies maintained cordial relations with House Lannister.
Every eye in the pavilion focused on the King as he unfolded the parchment that had arrived by raven that morning.
In the space of a heartbeat, a crimson flush spread across King Robert's face, rising from his neck to his brow like wildfire. The letter in his meaty hand crumpled beneath his grip.
"Damn them all!" he roared, spittle flying from his lips. "May the seven hells claim them! I've been gone but a fortnight—a bloody fortnight—and this calamity befalls King's Landing!"
He slammed his fist against the arm of his chair. "This is my kingdom, my court!"
None present dared speak. After all, their king had just received word of his brother's violent death.
Though the ties between Robert and Stannis had been strained at best, no one doubted the authenticity of the king's fury—whether born of wounded royal pride or the responsibility of a surviving brother.
The King's wrath showed no signs of subsiding naturally.
"The laws of the Seven Kingdoms and the bonds of blood forbid me mercy in this matter," he growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "The murderer must be punished with the utmost severity."
His hand clenched into a fist that could crush stone. "Let him understand that my fury can ignite the very land beneath his feet!"
His voice rose once more to a thunderous bellow. "I shall personally dash his brains upon the ground! I'll raze his family's holdings to rubble and hang him from the ruins of his own castle!"
King Robert's face had darkened to the color of a ripe plum. "My warhammer has not yet rusted! The might that broke Rhaegar Targaryen still flows in these arms!"
For several tense moments, the King paced the confines of the pavilion like a caged beast, his heavy footfalls causing the goblets on the table to tremble. Only after this physical release did his fury begin to ebb.
"How does one find the true murderer?" he demanded, looking at his assembled advisors. "Not that wretched beggar boy, but whoever sent him. Tell me!"
Uncomfortable glances passed between the gathered nobles.
Ser Barristan Selmy, white-bearded and resolute, finally broke the silence. "Your Grace, if I may... by all rights, even if Lord Stannis's guards were momentarily distracted, they should have been vigilant. And given Lord Stannis's own martial prowess, he ought not to have fallen to an untrained child."
The King's heavy brow furrowed in confusion. "Stannis's smuggler—that Onion Knight of his—claims it was some manner of sorcery that rendered the beggar impervious to steel and turned Stannis's armor to silk beneath the knife." Robert spat contemptuously. "But he produces no evidence of such nonsense. Absurd."
Joffrey, of course, knew precisely why the assassin had succeeded.
The magic of the Fortification Rune had indeed made the boy temporarily invulnerable while imbuing the simple knife with an edge keen enough to cleave armor. The Fire Rune had ensured Stannis would have no chance of survival once struck.
As a final precaution, Joffrey had attached a mirror image of the Fortification Rune to the knife itself. Once he sensed the assassination was complete, he had immediately destroyed the mirror, returning the weapon to its mundane state and leaving no evidence of magical interference.
Now this foresight had borne fruit—no one truly believed Stannis had fallen to supernatural forces.
The assembled courtiers lapsed into uncomfortable silence, none willing to proffer theories that might later prove embarrassing.
After a prolonged stillness, Tyrion Lannister rose to his feet, his mismatched eyes gleaming with intelligence.
"Your Grace," the dwarf said carefully, "I fear it will prove difficult to discern the truth from our present position. Perhaps it would be prudent to command Lord Baelish and Lord Varys to conduct a thorough investigation in King's Landing."
He spread his hands in a gesture of practicality. "Given Lord Stannis's... exacting reputation, discovering who might have wished him ill will undoubtedly require considerable effort."
A half-smile touched his lips. "This sort of delicate inquiry is precisely what such men excel at."
King Robert glanced around the pavilion. "Does anyone else have counsel to offer?"
Tyrion's suggestion satisfied the immediate need without implicating anyone present. Who among them would willingly invite scrutiny upon themselves?
Besides, perhaps it truly had been nothing more than a beggar's vengeance.
For Stannis, with his rigid adherence to law, such a thing would hardly be surprising.
The King waved a dismissive hand, his anger giving way to weariness. "Leave me. Proceed as Lord Tyrion suggests."
The gathering dispersed with impressive speed, none wishing to remain within range of royal displeasure.
The tent seemed suddenly vast and empty, the atmosphere somber.
Joffrey approached King Robert, displaying an uncharacteristic sensitivity.
"Father," he said, his voice gentle, "do not grieve overmuch. Even if the assassin's master remains undiscovered, Uncle Stannis will surely look down from the seven heavens and recognize your efforts to bring him justice."
He placed a tentative hand on the King's massive shoulder. "You still have us—Mother and me—as well as Uncle Renly and Lord Eddard."
Robert clasped his son's shoulder with unexpected tenderness.
"I'll endure, boy, as I always have," he sighed heavily. "Stannis would not have me wallow in grief—he never had patience for such indulgence."
His rheumy eyes studied Joffrey's face with newfound appreciation. "You've grown, my son. There's wisdom in you now. That's good... that's good..."
The King's gaze drifted to some distant point beyond the pavilion walls, his mind lost in memories Joffrey could not share.
With a chorus of fluttering wings, dozens of ravens took flight from the royal encampment, dark messengers scattering toward every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.
The King's proclamations informed the lords of Westeros of the tragic demise of Lord Stannis Baratheon and expressed Robert's profound mourning. More significantly, they announced the conferral upon his eldest son, Joffrey Baratheon, of the ancient title of Prince of Dragonstone.
News of the King's decision spread through the encampment like wildfire through dry grass.
As Joffrey walked among the tents, those he passed offered greetings with newfound deference.
"Good day, Crown Prince," called a knight of the Stormlands, bowing deeper than was his previous custom.
"Your Highness," murmured a servant, eyes cast downward. "Always at the disposal of the Prince of Dragonstone."
"I, Tyrion Lannister," proclaimed the dwarf with exaggerated formality as he approached, "offer my highest respects to our most esteemed Crown Prince, the Prince of Dragonstone!"
Joffrey led his uncle toward the secluded area where Rain's cage stood.
"Uncle Tyrion," he remarked with affected nonchalance, "why such sudden courtesy? It's merely an additional title, nothing more."
Joffrey's tone suggested indifference, but Tyrion was not deceived.
Though Dragonstone was indeed a harsh and barren island, it had been House Targaryen's first foothold in Westeros. For more than two centuries, Targaryen kings had bestowed it upon their heirs as the traditional seat of the Prince of Dragonstone.
With this title, Joffrey's position as heir to the Iron Throne became all but unassailable.
From a strategic perspective, control of Dragonstone carried considerable significance.
Any man with a modicum of military understanding recognized that Dragonstone and its surrounding territories commanded the vast expanse of Blackwater Bay. A well-positioned fleet could strangle King's Landing's maritime commerce at will.
Its fortress, reportedly constructed with lost Valyrian sorcery, was both formidable and easily defended—a fact of no small importance.
"Prince," Tyrion ventured, his voice lowered conspiratorially, "do you truly harbor no desire for Dragonstone?"
Having personally arranged matters regarding Stannis, Tyrion certainly comprehended the depth of Joffrey's ambitions.
"Let us speak no more of such matters, Uncle," Joffrey replied, changing the subject with practiced ease. "Would you care to mount this magnificent beast and enjoy a brief excursion?"
He stroked the giant lion's mane with casual familiarity, signaling the nearby soldiers to open the cage door.
He had indeed tamed the formidable creature.
Power held fascination for all living things, and the loss of autonomy, once accepted, became tolerable.
The giant lion understood this primal truth.
It had accepted a powerful master and responded to its new name—Rain.
Upon hearing the name, Tyrion instantly grasped Joffrey's intent.
He could not resist singing a verse of the infamous ballad in a melodious tone:
"And who are you, the proud lord said,That I must bow so low?Only a cat of a different coat,That's all the truth I know.In a coat of gold or a coat of red,A lion still has claws,And mine are long and sharp, my lord,As long and sharp as yours."
"And so he spoke, and so he spoke,That Lord of Castamere,But now the rains weep o'er his hall,With no one there to hear.Yes, now the rains weep o'er his hall,And not a soul to hear."
Joffrey's enthusiasm remained undimmed.
"In all seriousness, Uncle, Harrenhal lies not far from our present position. We might ride Rain there for a brief visit." His eyes gleamed with mischief. "Imagine the consternation our arrival would cause!"
Rain emerged from the cage with languid grace, stretching its massive body like a common housecat waking from slumber. It shook its magnificent mane and released a roar that seemed to make the very air tremble.
Soldiers throughout the encampment suddenly found themselves neither tired nor drowsy, watching the enormous beast's movements with barely concealed terror, each silently praying they would not become its first meal.
Rain lowered its body slightly in a gesture of submission.
Joffrey settled himself upon the specially crafted seat secured to Rain's back, and Tyrion—with considerably more trepidation—took his place behind his nephew.
The giant lion released another thunderous roar before leaping forward. In mere moments, they had vanished from sight, leaving only disturbed earth and wide-eyed witnesses.
The soldiers who had beheld this mythical tableau stood in reverent silence.
The Stag Crown Prince astride a legendary lion of impossible size—not one of them would forget the sight, nor did any wish to. Indeed, none could forget if they tried.
To a man, they determined to recount this epic vision to their brothers, wives, daughters, sons, and eventually grandsons. The tale would be told in taverns, at inns, and beside countless campfires, until at last they carried it with them to their graves.
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