1,112An Emperor's Song
Disclaimer: I do not claim to own anything that is seen as property by the Game of Thrones, A Song of Ice and Fire & Percy Jackson & the Olympians franchises.
Warning: This story showcases violent themes, inappropriate sexual acts, foul language, etc. that is not suitable for most audiences, especially young adults and children. Please read at your own discretion or not at all.
Chapter 25. Beggar King
299 AC
Arc 1: [Clash of King's]
oOo
At Harrenhal…
The sun was hidden, shrouded by dense, gray clouds that threatened heavy rain over the once mighty fortress of Harrenhal.
Preparation for an event that would echo across the pages of history was near completion. The air was thick with anticipation, and the stone walls of the castle, scorched and twisted by the fires of Aegon's conquest, now played host to the hopes and fears of the most powerful families in Westeros and beyond.
The great courtyard was transformed into a living tapestry of noble crests and house sigils. Carriages bearing insignias of the south rolled in, their occupants adorned in silks and brocade, whispering gossips behind dainty, gloved hands. From House Tyrell came Willas and Margaery, escorted by their fiercely loyal family, the Lord and Lady of Highgarden, their two brothers, Loras and Garland, as well as their grandmother, Olenna. The flowers of the Reach were sharp and assessing as they took in the grandeur and history of the event.
From the Riverlands, Edmure Tully and his uncle, Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, and the other lords of the Rivers arrived in a unified procession, their blue and silver banners fluttering in the chill wind. The Blackfish stood close by his nephew, his watchful gaze never straying far from Edmure as the sea of nobles swirled around them.
Far to the west, the gilded procession of House Lannister commanded attention. Tyrion Lannister, ever the observer, sipped from a jeweled goblet, eyes flicking from noble to noble with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. At the head, Tywin Lannister's presence was felt more than seen, the weight of his reputation casting a long shadow over the event.
From the cold and unforgiving North came Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, flanked by his bannermen as well as his long lost sister, Arya Stark. The young man, bound by honor and family, had an expression that seemed carved from stone, eyes dark with unreadable intent.
The Dornish contingent was vibrant, their silks a cascade of orange and crimson. Prince Doran, though frail, sat regally, his breathtakingly beautiful daughter, Arianne, beside him, assessing the gathering with the cunning her house was known for. Oberyn Martell's absence was conspicuous, yet whispers hinted that the prince was personally transferring the Mountain to the dungeons he had specially built for the knight in Sunspear.
To the astonishment of many, even Stannis's former advisor and red priestess, Melisandre of Asshai, was present, crimson robes billowing as she murmured words too soft to be heard, eyes alight with visions only she understood. Aside from her stood Lord Beric, Thoros of Myr, Edric Dayne and the rest of the Brotherhood Without Banners.
But it was not only Westerosi nobles who came. From across the Narrow Sea, envoys from the Free Cities of Braavos, Volantis, and others added an air of exotic intrigue. The Sealord's representative stood apart, face hidden beneath a hood, while the animal themed representative's of the Triarchy exchanged venomous glances with their rivals.
Every person present bore a story, but all of their gazes held a question. Would Perseus Targaryen, one of the last descendants of the dragon lords of old Valyria, prove the house of dragons reborn? Or would Joffrey Baratheon, scion of lion and stag, seize victory as his father, Robert, did and cement his reign as the true king?
Whispers buzzed like insects through the crowd. "So both of them wield blades forged in dragonfire?" a lord from the Vale muttered to his companion. "They say the Targaryen's can wield wildfire like a dragon," another voice chimed in, eyes narrowing at the silver-haired prince standing tall on the far side of the yard.
Amidst the sea of noble faces and cloaked figures, a herald stepped forward, clearing his throat as the courtyard fell into apprehensive silence. "Lords and ladies of Westeros and beyond, witness now the trial of honor that shall decide the fate of these historic plains…"
The scene was set, not just for a duel, but for the spectacle that would determine the fate of the realm. In that instant, Harrenhal ceased to be a ruin haunted by ghosts; it became the stage on which history itself would be built.
oOo
With Daenerys…
The stone chamber within Harrenhal was filled with the radiance of high noon. Light danced across the ancient walls as Daenerys stood near the narrow window, gazing out into the courtyard where the anticipation of the duel thrummed like a heartbeat.
On the other side of the room stood Perseus, his silhouette strong, unyielding without a hint of tension in the lines of his shoulders.
Daenerys moved through the room with quiet grace, her silver-gold hair glinting like a crown in the sunlight. She approached him, the soft rustle of her violet gown whispering words of comfort as she came to a stop by his side.
The natural chill to the air of Harrenhal wrapped around her, but it could not dim the warmth that flared in her chest just from being in his presence. Without turning his attention from his sharpening of Blackfyre, Perseus spoke, his voice low and steady. "They're ready for a spectacle."
"They always are," Daenerys replied, a touch of bitterness woven into her tone. Her fingers brushed the sleeve of his tunic, tracing the crimson stitching of the Targaryen sigil. He turned to face her then, eyes of glittering amethyst meeting hers, and for a moment, the weight of their shared suffering pressed down upon them both.
"Do you doubt me?" His question was half a challenge, half an invitation.
She smiled, small and knowing. "I have never doubted you, Perseus. Not for a moment." Her fingers moved to the clasps at his shoulder, adjusting the armor that lay gleaming with a dark red sheen. The sunlight perfectly caught the chiseled features of her betrothed, and she felt her heart quicken as it always did when they were this close.
For a heartbeat, the fortress and the gathered nobles outside did not matter. It was just them—two dragons bound by blood, ambition, and an even deeper bond of love, something unbreakable that had grown between them over the challenges of their lives and soft words exchanged in the comfort of night.
Perseus slowly leaned into her and she gladly met him halfway as their lips gently collided. An overwhelming sense of love and warmth filled her being as his arms pulled her into his embrace. She would never tire of the feeling of his lips on hers, their individual tastes combining together to form a unique one that was reminiscent of smoked-apples. It was truly heaven on earth for her.
A low whine escaped from Daenerys when he ended their kiss, her needs still very much aching to be met. But he placated her with a warm smile that promised a continuation at a later date.
"Here," Daenerys said before she could forget, slipping a delicate length of silk from around her wrist. It was a deep, rich violet, embroidered with silver threads that caught the light. Her favor. She reached up, tying it gently around the hilt of Blackfyre, fingers brushing his as she did. "For luck."
Perseus's eyes softened, the sharp edge of his focus giving way to something warmer, more human. He captured her hand in his, holding it there for a moment longer, he leaned down to briefly brush his lips against hers before pulling back with a smile. "That was all the luck I needed."
The comforting silence between them was heavy with meaning. She wanted to tell him that she would be watching, that every strike and parry would cut across her heart, but she knew words were unnecessary. He knew.
Noises came from the corridor—the scrape of boots, the muffled commands of guards. It was nearly time. Daenerys pulled her hand away reluctantly, stepping back as Perseus adjusted his sword, the silk tied to it now fluttering in the air with every movement.
"Go," he said softly, the word heavy with unspoken promises. "I'll see you when it's done."
She slowly nodded, unable to trust her voice, and turned to leave. As she walked out into the hall, the roar of the crowd grew louder, filling the corridors of Harrenhal with a sound that seemed to come from the depths of the earth. Daenerys took her place among her brother and their allies.
And when it came time for the two participants of the duel to take the arena floor, her fingers curled around the edge of the stone railing, eyes fixed on the radiant figure of her beloved as he confidently strode out into the light.
oOo
With Tyrion…
The stands of Harrenhal's vast grand courtyard were filling quickly, a sea of noble crests and cloaks unfurling like waves. Banners fluttered in the wind, displaying the sigils of Westeros' most powerful houses: the lion of Lannister, the rose of Tyrell, the direwolf of Stark, the sun and spear of Martell, the kraken of Greyjoy, the falcon of Arryn and now, the dragon of Targaryen.
Tyrion scanned the crowd, his keen eyes taking in every detail with the practiced detachment of a man who had seen too many gatherings in his lifetime. But nothing quite like this one.
Beside him, his father, Tywin sat, as rigid as the stone beneath them, eyes like chips of ice as he watched the proceedings with a disdainful patience. Myrcella and Tommen were seated between them.
The two children shared a whispered conversation that brought a rare smile to Tyrion's lips. Myrcella, her golden hair catching the light and her rare eye condition, one green, the other gray, drawing even more curious eyes, was the picture of serene intelligence; Tommen, wide-eyed and eager, was more transparent in his excitement.
"Uncle," Myrcella's voice, soft but clear, pulled Tyrion from his thoughts. "Do you truly think this duel will end with the death of the loser, or is it just for show?"
Tyrion arched an eyebrow, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, this is no mummer's farce, my sweet niece. Blood will be spilled, and fate will play her hand before the day is done."
A sudden flurry of movement to their left signaled the arrival of the Dornish contingent. Prince Doran Martell, carried in on a litter, was settled with the care of a delicate treasure. His eyes, sharp despite his frailty, found Tywin's, and a hissing air of hostility passed between them.
At the crown prince's side was his daughter, Arianne, a splendid vision of sun-kissed skin, thick curves and silks as brilliant as the desert sands. The heiresses' gaze swept over the Lannisters before settling on Myrcella and Tommen with an expression that was almost unreadable.
"Lord Tyrion," Arianne said, her naturally husky voice laced with the warmth of Dorne and the steel of its court. "It is rare to see the lion cubs so far from their den."
Tyrion inclined his head in a mock bow. "This is a grand spectacle that calls even the smallest lions out into the light, Princess." His eyes twinkled with mischief as he added, "And we were promised good wine."
Surprisingly, Myrcella turned her two toned eyes to Arianne. "Princess Arianne," she smoothly interjected, her voice as composed as a queen's, "I hear Dorne is quite beautiful, full of gardens that bloom year-round. I'd love to visit one day."
Arianne's brows rose at that, and a genuine smile broke across her face. "Well, if you have the spirit for it, little lioness. The heat does not suit everyone, but perhaps you'd find it quite to your liking." She glanced at Doran, who watched the exchange with a glimmer of interest.
The subtle tension of courtly conversation eased as Arianne continued, "It seems the rumors that you are as sharp as you are beautiful ring true."
Tommen piped up, "Myrcella is the smartest of us all. She even corrects Grand Maester Pycelle sometimes and makes him look like he ate a lemon."
A burst of laughter, unrestrained and rich, escaped Arianne. Even Doran's lips twitched with amusement. Tyrion leaned back, sipping his wine, feeling a rare warmth that had little to do with the sun overhead.
"A girl who puts crusty, old-thinking maesters like Pycelle in their place," Arianne said with an amused grin. "You truly are a delight, Princess Myrcella."
In a rare moment, Myrcella blushed, a soft rose blooming across her cheeks, as she met the compliment with a shy smile. If she had taken after her mother more, she would've preened under the compliment like a peacock. But the fact that she was humble in her hubris made Tyrion's heart ache with a fondness that surprised him. In this moment, beneath the watchful eyes of lords and scions, it was a small, tender victory.
oOo
With Robb Stark…
Robb Stark settled into his seat among the noble families of the Riverlands, the cool stone of the bench a stark contrast to the heat of the midday sun streaming through the archways of Harrenhal.
The atmosphere buzzed with anticipation, the crowd growing as lords and ladies took their places for the duel that would soon unfold. At his side, his uncle Edmure Tully adjusted his tunic, the deep blue of House Tully blending well with the blue and gray of his own banners.
"Robb!" Edmure's voice drew his attention. "You're looking as grim as the North itself. Has the weight of your choice to side with the Targaryen's begun to crush you already?" There was a teasing glint in his eyes, but Robb could see the concern hidden beneath the jest.
Robb managed a half-smile, though he could feel the tension in his own shoulders. "No, Uncle, it's not that. It's the company." He nodded toward the crowd, where the lion banners fluttered in the wind.
Edmure leaned closer, his expression growing serious. "I still can't wrap my head around your alliance with the Targaryens. After everything they've done, how can you trust them? They're a house built on the ashes of great bloodlines."
Robb took a deep breath, the memories of what would've been his last moments in Ashemark swirling in his mind like snow in a winter storm. "It's not as simple as that," he said, searching for the right words. "They saved us, Uncle. Perseus and his army turned the tide when Tywin Lannister had us cornered."
Edmure frowned, skepticism etched across his brow. "And you think they did this out of the goodness of their hearts? They wanted something, Robb. They always do."
"They want to survive, just like we do." Robb's voice was steady, resolute. "The Targaryens are only three strong, the last of their house, they're fighting to stop the end of their family, just as I am. And above all else, they stood beside us against the Lannisters. We were outnumbered, our resources dwindling. Tywin was ready to wipe us out. No one else came to our aid, not even you, uncle."
His words sent a jolt through the Tully lord. "Robb, surely you understand that by leaving my people unprotected, any of the other regions could've sacked Riverrun and the rest of my lands overnight."
"I know, uncle." Robb reassured him. "As lord paramount of the Riverlands, you too have a great duty to your people. That's why I hope you can respect my decision."
"But they're Targaryens," Edmure pressed, lowering his voice as if the very name would conjure the dragons of old. "They're as much a threat as they are an ally. Can you truly put your faith in a house known for atrocities?"
"Uncle," Robb replied, his tone firm but patient, "the North has suffered greatly under the Lannisters' tyranny. We need allies, not just to survive but to reclaim our honor. Perseus showed us that he understood our fight, our losses. He personally fought alongside us, and in doing so, earned my respect—and my trust."
Edmure regarded him for a moment, his expression softening as he considered Robb's words. "You've always had a knack for seeing the good in people, Robb. But remember, trust is a fragile thing. It can turn to dust in a moment."
"I know," Robb said, his gaze drifting to the arena, the crowd starting to stir with excitement. "But I believe that sometimes, it's worth the risk. If we're to be rid of the regime that has chosen to oppress the other kingdoms, we must do so together."
Before Edmure could respond, the herald's voice boomed across the courtyard, silencing the murmurs. "Lords and ladies, the duel shall commence shortly! Take your places and prepare for the beginning of a new age!"
Robb straightened, steeling himself for what was to come. The weight of his choices loomed large, but he knew in his heart that he was ready to face whatever awaited him.
"Let's hope it's an age worth witnessing," Edmure muttered, his worry still lingering, but Robb could only nod, a silent promise to do everything in his power to protect those he loved.
oOo
With Cersei Lannister…
The gleam of polished steel reflected the golden rays of late afternoon as Joffrey shuffled with a restless energy. Thin fingers, usually quick to curl into a weak fist or to beckon with a feisty snap, now fumbled with the leather straps of his gleaming armor. His face, pale and taut, seemed so unlike the lion shaped helmet he wore like a crown.
Cersei stood a few paces away, arms crossed over the emerald silks of her gown, watching the way her son's eyes darted about, seeking and yet refusing to meet her own.
"My sweet boy," she called, her voice smooth, concealing the sharp edges beneath. He flinched, but did not turn. The room was empty save for them, yet he moved in place as though he were being judged by his own mind.
"Why do you tremble?" she continued, stepping closer, each word like a challenge. "You are a lion, are you not?"
"I am not trembling," Joffrey snapped, though his fingers slipped as he struggled with a stubborn buckle at his wrist. A flush colored his cheeks, betraying his own words. Cersei's lips turned downward, an unamused tilt that she smoothed away as quickly as it appeared.
"Let me do it," she said, reaching out to still his hands. She worked the strap with deft precision, tightening it until it lay flush. His eyes, so like her own in, met hers at last. Fear flickered there, drowned quickly by the pride she had nurtured, the arrogance she had rightfully fed.
"Do you know what they will see when you take the field?" she whispered, low enough that even if ghosts lingered in the rafters, they could not steal the words. "They will see the strength of House Lannister. They will see a king who does not bow to usurpers."
Joffrey's jaw clenched, a boy's stubbornness painted as a man's resolve. The trembling ceased, stilled by the heat of her gaze.
"You are more than the crown you wear," Cersei continued, resting her palm on the breastplate where his heart pounded. "You are the blood of Lann the Clever. When you step out there, remember that a long line of kings and heroes watches over you. You are a lion. And lions do not have fear."
For a moment, the tension broke. Joffrey's chest swelled, his mouth curved in the cruel smile she knew so well. He stood straighter, eyes hardening with certainty.
"Yes, Mother," he said, the tremor gone from his voice, replaced by that familiar sharpness. It was all she needed to hear.
Cersei stepped back, satisfied. The lioness purred inside her, watchful and proud. Those dragons would rue ever stepping a foot back on Westerosi soil.
oOo
With Joffrey Baratheon…
"Announcing, King Joffrey of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!"
The roar of the crowd filled Joffrey's ears, a maddening chorus that made his heart pound and his blood soar.
He stepped onto the arena floor, his polished armor, the combined craftsmanship of a dozen masters of steel, gleaming brightly as he cast his gaze across the throngs of noble ladies and lords who had gathered to watch, though it was the former that he was particularly interested in. His hungry gaze searched their faces, expectant of the flutter of silken scarves or the toss of delicate flowers—signs of a maiden's favor bestowed upon a handsome, chivalrous king.
And yet the hands that met his eyes were empty, fingers curled into their laps, eyes shifting elsewhere.
A long, awkward pause, more biting than steel, cut through the warm air of the arena as the time to give one's favor to a participant passed by.
Joffrey's jaw tightened, and his fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword. He was the king. Was he not to be adored? But no one ever stepped forward. He was, for lack of better terms, maiden-less.
Trumpets sounded from the far end of the arena, their clarion call piercing and bright. The herald's voice boomed, unlike the moment he had been announced, it was laced with respect and reverence. "Announcing Perseus of House Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen, Lord of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne, Blood of the Conqueror, and Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms!"
An erupting roar, so thundering it swept across the crowd like storm clouds, made Joffrey's eyes snap to the entrance.
There, stepping into the sunlight, was Perseus Targaryen—tall, fit, with ear-length silver hair that caught the light like molten moonstone and deep violet eyes, the color of a scattering sunset. His blood red armor, engraved with depictions of dragons that seemed to writhe with each step, emboldened the cheers that rose to greet him.
Joffrey saw the expressions of the ladies do a complete turnaround. Their faces lit up as if they had just been given the best of gifts for their name day. Countless favors and flowers spawned from nowhere, flailing towards the dragon as if desperate to be caught.
But it wasn't only the reactions of the women present change, the majority of the men who had been stoic about his announcement were now showing signs of interest in the young Targaryen, with some even standing to their feet in a show of respect.
Despite not even being the king, it seemed that Perseus Targaryen was the only contender deemed worthy enough of praise in the eyes of the people.
Joffrey's nostrils widened, his chest heaving with a rage that burned cold, when he saw the wannabe king make his rounds around the stands.
His first stop was Daenerys Targaryen, looking quite resplendent in violet silks, who leaned forward to further fasten her token which she already appeared to have given earlier—a length of silk, as delicate and silver as her own hair.
Arianne Martell followed, her alluring smile a promise of later spoils as she fastened a crimson scarf, embroidered with suns on his sword belt.
Even Sansa Stark, the pathetic, naive girl who once cowered before him, now boldly glared at him with eyes that shone of rebellion and hatred as she tied a ribbon of stark gray and blue underneath the dragon's shoulder.
Joffrey believed that the end would be there. But then, as if to put a blade to his heart, Myrcella, his own sister, suddenly stood to her feet and walked down to the arena floor. An arm ribbon that displayed the lion of Lannister in great detail was held in her hand.
Absolute shock spread throughout the crowd in waves, especially in the faces of the Lannister's. The sister of the king was making her way down to give her favor to the man who would potentially kill her brother.
Perseus Targaryen's face mirrored the surprise of the crowd, but he remained still as Myrcella wrapped the ribbon around his forearm before leaving him with a warm smile that had never in her life been directed at her oldest brother.
On the way back toward her seat, Myrcella's eyes briefly flickered over to him and for a moment he thought she would show some form of guilt, but the only thing in his sister's odd eyes was a cold, meticulous glint. As if she had calculated his existence in depth and deemed him irrelevant to her future. She remained unconcerned about her actions, even as she re-joined their family who looked at her with their intense gazes that demanded an explanation, especially their mother.
"Poor you, even your own sister doesn't see you winning this duel." Perseus's infuriating voice rang across the arena. The bastard's eyes were filled with mirth and his face twisted in mocking pity that made laughter slowly trickle from the crowd.
As the corners of Joffrey's vision filled with tears of embarrassment and rage, for a moment, he felt the world lurch as distant memories revealed themselves in his state of disarray.
He could hear Robert's drunken boasts as if his father stood beside him, the ghost of wine-soured breath whispering in his ear. "I killed him, boy, Rhaegar Targaryen. I smashed in his pretty little armor and made them remember the words of Baratheon, ours is the fury."
It was a story his father had regaled one too many times in his drunken nights, but it rang true nonetheless.
"Yes," Joffrey muttered, half a snarl. This was fate, an echo from the past so epic that it had to be redone in the present. Once again, the son would do what the father had done. He would kill the Targaryen and remind them all whose right it was to sit upon the Iron Throne. He drew his sword, Widow's Wail, reforged from the ancestral greatsword of House Stark, Ice, its blade dark and rippling with the telltale patterns of Valyrian steel. He felt a surge of destiny travel beneath his skin, the heat of a victory already won.
He barely acknowledged when the signal to begin came, a bellowing horn that silenced the arena.
Joffrey lunged forward, his sword arcing down in a wild strike meant to cut through flesh and prophecy alike. This was his moment in history, his immortal tale of how the lion king had slayed the dragon pretender.
But then, Perseus Targaryen moved with a grace that seemed almost bored, stepping to the side with a fluid motion that left Joffrey swinging at air. The blade met only dust with a dull thud, sending a vibration through his bones that made him stumble around to regain his sense of balance.
A smattering of snickers and laughter rippled through the crowd, cruel and unforgiving. Panic surged through him, an icy tide that threatened to drown the fires of his rage. So he struck again, a wild, desperate swing, and again Perseus evaded with ease, eyes bored, watching, judging.
Already Joffrey's breath was coming in gasps, the truth beginning to claw its way through the shroud of his delusion.
He saw fit to charge forward on the offensive once again, only to be met with a boot that he couldn't even register. The jolt behind the strike put him straight on his ass and stars in his eyes, his sword was somewhere forgotten as he struggled to stay conscious.
"You gotta be fucking kidding me," He heard the blood of the dragon laughed in disbelief and utter disappointment. "One hit, seriously!"
The laughter of the crowd was deafening as Joffrey struggled to regain himself, groaning helplessly on the sand.
A harsh stomp to his sternum made all of the air in his lungs escape and before he could even think to recover he was suddenly under assault by a flurry of powerful blows to the face and body that made his teeth rattle and his bones shake.
There was nothing he could do to prevent the humiliating beating he began receiving. Nothing he could do to stop the Targaryen from whooping him like he was a squire boy.
The roaring laughter swelled and Joffrey felt its sting sharper than any blow. He was no Robert Baratheon, no legendary warrior crowned in glory. He had not inherited destiny; he was being mocked by it.
And he could almost physically feel it, the Iron Throne, the power, the control—it was all slipping through his fingers, leaving him exposed as the small boy he truly was, a king in name only.
oOo
With Perseus…
Disappointment was the barest term to describe what Perseus was feeling. When he had received the royal family's offer for a duel of honor he hadn't for one second thought that he could possibly lose to Joffrey Baratheon, or anyone they could muster, but a small part of him had hoped for at least something, a challenge, however infinitesimal it might have seemed.
But this, it was simply a beating. This wasn't a duel, or a fight, but a simple and brutal correction of a delusional boy's massive misconceptions about his own power.
Apparently, putting belt to ass had never been a disciplinary action made by the boy's father figure, and surely not by his mother. So now Perseus had to assume the role. If he had been wearing an actual belt, he'd probably have used it just to further emphasize the lesson in humility. But he'd settle for doing it the old fashion way.
The nonexistent clash of steel had long given way to the thud of flesh on sand and the anguished cries of a wannabe tyrant brought low.
Perseus stood above Joffrey, who lay sprawled on the arena floor, dust clinging to the gold embroidery of his torn doublet. His crown-like helm, once perched with pride, was now crooked and half-buried in the dirt. The Valyrian steel sword that was wasted on its owner lay discarded several paces away, glinting under a sun as unforgiving as the mocking jeers of the audience.
Joffrey's eyes, wide with terror, met Perseus's, searching for mercy. But he would find none in the gaze so sharp it might as well have been another blade. His voice calmly rang out, steady and commanding, cutting through the laughter of the audience.
"Beg," Perseus offered, the word weighed down on the boy like a mountain. "Beg for your life and perhaps I may let you keep it."
The crowd slowly quieted down as the words registered in their heads. They shifted, murmurs of curiosity and anticipation growing like storm clouds on the horizon.
Joffrey's mouth opened, and then closed. His terrified gaze flickered over to his mother, who had been watching the scene with anger. She was trembling in her seat, boundless rage evident in her elegant features. But she didn't give him the answer he was searching for.
His eyes shifted to his grandfather but that only made his dread more apparent, because in the old lion's eyes was nothing but an ice cold look of uncaring. A realization that the aged man didn't care whether his grandson lived or died revealed itself to him. Perhaps the lord had never cared.
Joffrey's trembling lips moved soundlessly before they shaped a choked plea. "Please," he first whispered, then louder, his voice cracking under the strain, "please, spare me!"
Perseus's lips curled into a smile, satisfaction flickering in his violet eyes. "And this boy dared to call himself a king," he declared, turning to the assembled nobles. "Would any of this coward's allies come forth in his place?"
The silence deepened, the weight of the offer pressing into the hearts of those present. Cersei, her face pale with a fury edged in fear and her eyes darting like a cornered lioness. "Dog!" she barked, her voice shrill, lashing out like a whip. "Do your duty!"
Perseus's gaze snapped to the large knight with the promise of agonizing death blazing in his eyes.
The Hound, once unflinching even in the face of his older brother, the Mountain, now stood as if rooted to his spot. His eyes, normally shadowed with indifference, were locked onto violet eyes that eerily flickered with a flame-like intensity. A poorly concealed terror so raw that a ripple passed through the crowd was evident in the man's face. Cersei's command fell to dust in the silence that followed.
Joffrey's sobs reached a shrill pitch, pathetic wails that cut through the tension and laid bare the illusion of his kingship.
The lords of the Crownlands, who once stood firm in their allegiance, shifted uncomfortably, their eyes betraying doubt. It was then that a voice, deep and resigned, broke through the commotion.
"I will stand for him," said Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, stepping into view.
The crowd gasped, whispers hissing like snakes in the grass. His eyes met Perseus's, but there was no fear, only the weary resolve of a man who had made peace with his role in history. He turned, looking first at Cersei, whose eyes widened in shock, then at the crowd.
"After all, the sins of the son," Jaime said, his unshaken voice cutting through the air like a confession to the gods, "are the father's to atone for."
More gasps swept the arena, shock turning to disbelief as a startling revelation was revealed to the Known World.
Jaime continued, his voice growing firmer with each word. "I am the true father of Joffrey, as well as Tommen, and Myrcella. The death of the former Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, as well as the execution of Lord Eddard Stark, was ordered by the boy's mother, the price for uncovering our darkest secret. And Bran Stark…" His voice faltered, the faintest tremor before he steadied himself. "I pushed Bran Stark from the tower in Winterfell because he saw what no boy should have seen."
Chaos erupted, lords shouting accusations, others recoiling in fury. In particular, the lords of the North were adamant in their calls for an immediate reckoning, some even daring to draw their swords which caused many to stand and draw their own.
The crowd was a sea of rage and stunned disbelief, a storm ready to peak. But Perseus raised his sword, the Valyrian steel seemed to perfectly catch the light of the sun in an almost blinding reflection that forcefully commanded attention once more.
Ignoring the way Sansa covered her mouth as if something even more shocking had been revealed to her, Perseus's gaze, cool and unwavering, met Jaime's. "So you would die not only for a coward, but a bastard as well?" he asked, his tone flat, as if testing the weight of the knight's word.
"Yes," Jaime replied, lifting his chin. "Let the boy live, and I will pay his debt with my life."
A moment passed, a heartbeat that stretched into eternity.
Perseus looked out at the crowd, their eyes locked on him, waiting. He could see the disbelief, the dawning fury, the stunned silence etched across their faces.
"No," Perseus finally said, voice cold as the shadow of death. "The crown sits on his head. This is his burden to carry." He turned to Joffrey, who began crawling back like a cornered animal.
"W-wait, please! I'm begging you, spare me. You can have the crown, you can have the throne, you can have anything you want. Just spare my life!" Joffrey's pleas bounced harmlessly off the certain death that slowly stalked
him.
"That's the difference between a boy and a man. You were given what you wanted. I take what I want. You are no man, you are no king," Perseus declared, his voice rising in his mockery, "you are nothing but a pathetic coward with a fake crown."
Blackfyre, the ancient sword once wielded by Aegon the Conqueror himself, was raised high in the air. Its blade had tasted the blood of countless descendants of heroes in order to create the Seven Kingdoms. And today, it would once again be used to usher in a new era.
"Long live, Joffrey Baratheon, the Beggar King." Before another word could be uttered, Perseus's sword swept down in a single, unerring stroke.
The noise of the crowd rose, a symphony of shock and chaos, as Joffrey Baratheon, who would become known to history as the illegitimate king who pathetically begged for his life, fell silent forever.
oOo
At the same time, with Joffrey Baratheon…
The world spun in a blur of noise and pain. Joffrey crawled on the hard-packed arena floor, the grit biting into his palms, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue. His body and face throbbed with the sting of a dozen bruises, but a deeper ache twisted in his chest, where no fist had struck. It was shame, the realization of his defeat cutting deeper than any wound.
How did it come to this? A king, broken and humiliated, cast down before the eyes of his own lords and ladies.
He remembered the gilded halls of the Red Keep, where he sat on the Iron Throne, the cold, jagged steel swords digging into his back like a constant reminder, one he should have heeded. The throne had been his. His by right, by birth, by the blood of heroes. Or so he had believed.
Memories came in flashes: the triumph of hearing "Your Grace" for the first time, the chorus of reverent voices bowing and scraping before him, his mother's approving gaze as she whispered that he was her lion, stronger than any who came before him.
Yet now, the words echoed hollow in his mind, their power lost beneath the weight of Jaime's confession—the apparent truth behind his birth.
"The sins of the son are the father's to atone for." The words stabbed through him, each one more brutal than Perseus's blows.
His mother's reaction only further confirmed it. He was a bastard. Not a Baratheon, not the true king, but an abomination in a crown of gold and lies. He was nothing, a mimicry of a king propped up by his mother's ambitions and his father's shame.
His uncle-or rather his father's face, was firm and accepting as he declared the truth to the crowd. It would forever be burned in his memory and history.
Did he know? His neglectful father, Robert, who drunkenly mumbled venom and insults into his ears. Had the Baratheon king known how fragile their rule truly was? Of course, he did. But he simply hadn't cared enough to make things right. His father had been content with letting his mother spin the tale, golden and gleaming, while he downed his wine and fucked his whores, until everyone believed the lie was real.
Joffrey had believed he was chosen by fate to be king. That it was his divine right to wear the crown. Now, he saw the crown for what it was—a burden much too heavy for his frail shoulders to bear.
His eyes, swollen with tears he uncaringly let fall, found Perseus. The Targaryen stood above him, radiant in the sunlight, the shadows of dragons etched into his armor. He was everything Joffrey was not—strong, commanding, adored, the blood of the rightful rulers.
Fate had not chosen Joffrey; they had only tolerated him for a set time. Since the very beginning, they had wanted Perseus.
Fate was cruel, he numbly thought, but perhaps it was just. If he had never been the rightful king, if his origins had been a lie from the beginning, then of course it should be Perseus who would be the one to bring him down from his undeserved perch.
The blood of the dragon had returned for its birth right, and Joffrey could almost hear the echo of his grandfather Tywin's voice, 'A king who must say he is king is no true king.'
He had been a puppet, an act, and in this moment, he understood why the new gods had never blessed him with the strength or courage to pick up a sword. He was never meant to even be a warrior, let alone a king. He was a bastard, an easily replaceable placeholder, waiting for the true heir to come.
A ragged breath left him as he tried to lift himself, only to falter. He met Perseus's gaze, violet eyes blazing like embers of a fire that would consume his soul.
Joffrey's chest heaved, a choked sob escaped his throat. There was no use in defiance now, no false pride left to wield as a weapon.
"It was always meant to be you," he whispered, the words stolen away by the wind, unheard and unheeded. But Perseus Targaryen seemed to hear them, and that was enough. The true king of the realm hearing his final words was more than what he deserved.
Joffrey closed his eyes, surrendering to the fate that he no longer denied. The last thing he heard was the crowd, a roaring sea of judgment that would drown his soul in darkness, as the final stroke fell.
A/N: And scene! Joffrey Baratheon is officially dead, may he rest in pis-*cough* I mean peace. Anyway, the Clash of Kings arc is basically over, the only thing left to do is to officially crown Perseus as king, but afterwards we move on to a temporary portion of the story I'm sure a lot of you were anticipating, nation developing marriages babbling politics. The development won't be too expansive because unlike most authors on this site, I don't believe any solid kingdom can be built within a few months, it just doesn't sit right with me. At most, Perseus will use this time period to plant the foundations of what he wants his nation to look like in a hundred years as well as putting the right people in place and getting the much needed resources in order so that big changes can be made in the near future without any discrepancy. But that will all be explained in the filler arc.
Anyways, review your thoughts on the climax of the first arc, your excitement and predictions for the filler arc and so on. Until next time!