Disclaimer: Just in case nobody realized I don't own nor do I claim ownership of Game of Thrones, all characters and worlds belong to their real world respective owners. I'm just having some fun, that's all.
The Young Lion
Act 2 Ch 13: The Young Wolf Arrives
The Small Council chamber had always carried a certain weight, but today the air pressed down heavier than stone.
Tall windows lined the eastern wall, their colored glass muting the midday sun into fractured shades of red and gold that crawled across the table like spilled wine. Outside, the capital breathed as it always had since Joffrey had taken his throne: distant shouts from the streets, gulls crying over Blackwater Bay, and the low, constant murmur of a city too large to ever truly fall silent. Yet within these walls, the world paused, as if everything were balanced on the tip of a very sharp knife.
Servants moved with frantic efficiency, laying out fresh parchment and refilling inkpots. They replaced candles that had barely burned halfway, their movements frantic and hushed, as if loud speech might shatter the fragile peace.
The council members arrived one by one, summoned with such urgency that even Grand Maester Pycelle moved with a hurried, shuffling gait. Lord Lark entered first, his merchant's mind already racing; he clutched a stack of ledgers under his arm, though his darting eyes suggested he knew numbers would offer little comfort today. Lady Ros followed, her expression composed and her posture regal, though her sharp eyes scanned the room for any sign of the coming storm.
Ser Jacelyn Bywater arrived next, clad in the gold-and-black of the Royal Guard. His jaw was clenched, his scarred knuckles flexing rhythmically as if he already felt the hilt of a sword in his hand. Ser Barristan Selmy was close behind, his white cloak catching the air. The old knight looked as calm as a summer pond, but the way he positioned himself near the head of the table spoke of a man ready for a breach.
Tyrion Lannister, the acting Hand of the King, entered last and alone. He paused in the doorway, his mismatched eyes flicking across the gathered faces, reading the room with practiced ease. Whatever he saw made his mouth tighten before he waddled to his chair.
Once everyone was seated, the heavy oak doors groaned open one more time. The King entered without proclamation or herald. He didn't wear his crown, and he didn't wait for his councilors to finish rising.
"Sit," Joffrey ordered, his voice cutting through the scraping of chairs. "We don't have time for the nonsense of protocol."
They complied, sinking back into their seats as Joffrey took the head of the table. He didn't offer a greeting.
"I've received word that Robb Stark is marching south," he said, his voice slow and deliberate. "He leads an army of twenty thousand men."
The words plunged the room into a silence so thick it felt like it could swallow them whole. For a heartbeat, no one breathed.
Tyrion was the first to break the tension with a dry, raspy exhale. "Well," he said, "that explains the urgency of the meeting. And here I had hoped we were going to discuss some more exciting wool tariffs."
No one laughed.
Joffrey ignored his uncle, his fingers steepled. "The Stark boy apparently split his host, leaving false camps and burning wagons behind to lure Lord Tywin toward the Vale."
Ser Barristan's eyes narrowed. "A feint?"
"Yes," Joffrey nodded. "And a clever one. It would appear my good-brother is living up to his reputation."
Ros leaned forward, her brow furrowed. "Then why hasn't Lord Tywin moved to intercept him once he discovered the trick?"
"Because he was already engaged," Joffrey replied. "Lady Lysa Arryn has committed the full force of the Vale to an all-out attack on my grandfather's army."
Pycelle's mouth fell open, his many chains clinking as he shook. "The… the entire Vale? Your Grace, Lady Lysa is a woman of… of cautious temperament. To descend the Bloody Gate in such force…"
"She commanded the attack personally, according to our scouts," Joffrey said. "Every knight, every levy. My grandfather is pinned in the riverlands, fighting a war on two fronts."
Ser Jacelyn let out a low, disbelieving sound. "Seven hells."
The implications settled over them like a shroud. The Vale had been the executioner's axe held over their necks for months. Now the axe had fallen, but it had missed the capital and struck the root of Lannister power instead.
"So the Young Wolf slips south unopposed," Lord Lark said quietly.
"Yes," Joffrey replied. "Lord Lannister is occupied, and Lord Stark is free to move across the board as he wishes."
"How long until he reaches us?" Tyrion asked, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the table.
"Three weeks," the King responded. "Maybe less."
Pycelle swallowed hard, his voice trembling. "Your Grace… the city is not prepared for a siege of that scale. The granaries are only half-full, the populace is restless, and the defenses—"
"The defenses will be ready," Joffrey retorted.
The old Maester shifted uncomfortably. "Might I suggest then, that the crown consider… relocating? A strategic withdrawal to the Westerlands, perhaps Casterly Rock. The city is—"
"Filled with people," Jacelyn cut him off sharply. "Men, women, and children. You'd leave them to be butchered by the Northmen?"
"Robb Stark is supposed to have honor like his father," Pycelle insisted. "Surely he wouldn't order such violence on innocents."
"No, but his men might," Jacelyn shot back. "His army is filled with desperate soldiers, and desperation breeds tragedy. A city breached is a city raped, Maester."
The argument threatened to swell, voices overlapping and tension spiking, until Joffrey raised a single hand. The room went dead silent.
"I will not flee King's Landing," the King said. His voice was low, but it carried the absolute finality of a gavel. "I will not abandon my subjects to be a footstool for a conqueror."
"Speaking of which, Your Grace," Ros asked, her eyes searching his, "where is Lady Sansa?"
"Sansa and Lord Eddard have been given the day together in the Hand's Tower. She will not be present for this particular council meeting."
Tyrion studied his nephew, surprise flickering across his face. "You spared her the discussion of her brother's march? That is… uncharacteristically merciful of you."
"I spared her a choice no girl should be forced to make," Joffrey replied. "I will not have her torn between her blood and her future."
He turned his gaze back to the table. "Now, let us speak of the defense."
"Diplomacy is our best path," Tyrion countered. "We have leverage. Stark leverage. If we threaten the safety of the girls and Lord Eddard—"
"No," Joffrey said.
"Joffrey, if we—"
"I said no," he replied, his voice hardening into steel. "I will not debase myself by threatening a man's family to gain his submission. That is the tactic of a coward, not a King. I won't gamble their lives on 'maybes' and 'what ifs.'"
"Then what is your plan, Your Grace?" Ros asked.
"Honest diplomacy," Joffrey said. "I will speak to Robb Stark personally, one ruler to another. But I will do so from a position of absolute strength. If he refuses to hear reason, then we must be capable of breaking his army against these walls."
Tyrion exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Your Grace… with respect. You only command around two thousand men in your Royal Guard."
"Sixty-four hundred," Jacelyn corrected automatically.
Tyrion blinked, his head snapping toward the one-handed knight. "When did the number grow so high?"
"The King has been… insistent on recruitment and drilling for the past few months, My Lord," Jacelyn said with a hint of pride.
"Be that as it may," Tyrion continued, "the Young Wolf has twenty thousand at his back. No matter their discipline, numbers matter. You cannot hold a city of this size against those odds with six thousand men. It's basic arithmetic."
"Under normal circumstances, Uncle, you would be correct," Joffrey nodded. "But I have not been sitting idle these past months."
The King stood and signaled to the guards at the door. "Bring him in."
The heavy doors opened, and Tobho Mott entered the chamber. The master smith looked out of place in the finery of the council room, his hands thick with the soot and scars of the forge. He bowed deeply.
"Your Grace," Tobho said.
"Tobho," Joffrey replied. "The council was just discussing our lack of 'numbers.' I believe you have the solution."
Tyrion leaned forward, his curiosity sharpening into suspicion. "A smith? Are we going to throw horseshoes at them?"
Joffrey ignored the quib. "Tell them, Tobho. Are the new Scorpions ready?"
The word Scorpion caused a visible ripple of unease. Ser Barristan straightened his back, his mind likely drifting to the history books—to the weapons that had brought down dragons.
"They are, Your Grace," Tobho said, his voice gruff with pride. "We've moved past the old wooden frames. We're using reinforced steel-core limbs and a new torsion system. The reload time is halved, and the tension is high enough to put a bolt through a stone wall at two hundred paces."
Ros inhaled softly. "How many have you built?"
"At the moment we only have three that are operational," Tobho said. "And we've begun experimenting with the idea of mobile carriages."
"Mobile?" Tyrion echoed, his eyes widening. "You want to put scorpions on wheels?"
"I found the static defenses of the city… lacking," Joffrey said, walking toward the window. He looked out over the sprawling city, his silhouette framed by the red-and-gold glass. "A wall is only as strong as the men behind it, but a man is ten times stronger when he wields the power of surprise."
He turned back to the council, his eyes burning with a cold, calculated light.
"Robb Stark thinks he is marching toward a frightened boy in a golden crown. He thinks he is marching toward a city that will crumble under the weight of his numbers." Joffrey's smile was thin and dangerous. "I want him to keep thinking that. Right up until the moment he reaches the gates."
He looked at Tobho. "Is the prototype ready for the field test?"
"Waiting in the courtyard, Your Grace. Hidden under the tarps as you ordered."
Joffrey looked at his councilors. "Then I believe it's time for a demonstration. Let us see if twenty thousand men can stand against the sting of the Scorpion."
o-O-o
The training grounds of the Red Keep had always been a place of noise.
Steel rang against steel, shouts of command echoed off stone walls, and the thud of boots on packed earth never truly ceased. But today, as the Small Council and a select group of Royal Guards descended the stone steps toward the yard, an unusual hush followed them. It was the heavy, expectant quiet that precedes a storm.
The sky overhead was a pale, cloudless blue; the sun sat high, its light gleaming off the rows of Royal Guards standing at attention along the perimeter, their polished black armor gleaming off the sunlight, their faces were alert and curious.. A light breeze carried the scent of sweat, oiled leather, and hot iron. Whatever this was, word had spread quickly enough that anticipation buzzed through the ranks. Every eye was fixed on the center of the yard.
There sat something new.
It was low and broad, mounted on a reinforced oak frame bound with heavy iron bands. At its heart was a grid-like rack holding dozens of narrow, blackened shafts, each tipped with blackened carbon points that glinted faintly in the sunlight. Torsion arms flanked the device, reminiscent of a scorpion but far more compact, reinforced with layered steel springs and a complex series of levers.
Tyrion slowed, his mismatched eyes widening as he took it in. "That," he said carefully, "doesn't look like any scorpion I've ever seen in the histories."
"That's because it didn't exist until a few months ago," Joffrey replied, his voice level.
Tobho Mott walked beside the King, his gaze lingering on the weapon like a father watching a child take its first steps. "It took quite a few attempts, My Lord," the master smith said. "And a great deal of shattered wood."
Joffrey looked at the device, memories of the modern world flickering behind his eyes—schematics from history books, the physics of torsion, the necessity of massed fire. He remembered the burned fingers and the failed releases that had snapped the early prototypes.Springs that lacked power, then springs that had too much power. A dozen designs were discarded before they finally got it right.
He shook the thoughts away.
"Positions," Joffrey ordered.
The crew moved instantly. Two Royal Guards in their customary black armor stepped forward, their motions practiced until they bordered on instinct.
Tobho raised his voice for the Council. "This is a volley-launcher. It is modeled after a foreign concept, but adapted for our materials."
"A Hwacha," Joffrey added.
Several heads turned toward him, expressions clouded with confusion.
"A name from the East—Qohor, I believe," Joffrey lied smoothly. "Apparently, it translates to 'Fire Cart.'"
Tyrion arched an eyebrow. "Does it breathe fire, then?"
"It breathes death," Joffrey replied.
At a signal, the first operator engaged the primary lever. The steel-core springs tightened with a low, ominous creak, tension vibrating through the frame. The second operator slid a reinforced firing pin into place with a metallic clack.
Two hundred yards away stood three tight formations of straw dummies, dressed in boiled leather and simple helms to mimic an advancing infantry line.
"How many arrows?" Ros asked softly.
"One hundred," Tobho replied. "Hardened carbon-steel tips. Balanced for penetration."
"Loose!" Joffrey commanded.
The operator pulled the release.
The sound was not a crack, but a violent, mechanical roar—a ripping howl as the stored energy vanished all at once. A cloud of black-tipped shafts surged forward in a dense, screaming wave, blotting out the light between the weapon and its target.
A heartbeat later, the dummy formations exploded.
Straw burst into the air like golden snow. Leather tore with sickening wet thuds. Shafts punched clean through the targets, some burying themselves deep into the packed earth while others remained lodged, vibrating with lethal energy. The entire front rank was gone, shredded in a single breath.
Silence followed, broken only by the distant crying of gulls.
Tyrion did not speak. Ser Barristan's expression was grave, his sharp eyes measuring the devastation. Lord Lark exhaled a shaky breath. "Seven hells," he murmured.
The guards moved again. Without hesitation, they disengaged the spent rack. A third man stepped in, sliding a fresh, pre-loaded array into place. Levers were reset; springs were re-cocked.
Tobho counted aloud. "Eight. Nine. Ten."
"Loose!" Joffrey said again.
The second volley screamed out, shrieking across the yard to shred what little remained of the dummy formations. Arrows split through forms already fallen, pinning them to the dirt. An awkward silence fell over the group, unsure how to feel about the new weapon.
"Nothing marches through that," Ros said, her voice barely a whisper.
"No," Jacelyn Bywater agreed, his tactical mind already calculating. "At least, not twice."
Grand Maester Pycelle looked as though he might faint. "May the Mother have mercy on the men who face it."
Joffrey watched with measured satisfaction. It wasn't glee he felt, but the cold relief of a commander who had just tilted the odds. A weapon like this wouldn't just win a battle; it would end a siege before the first ladder touched a wall. He preferred the cost of war to be gold and wood rather than the blood of his men.
"How many fully functional units do we have, Tobho?" Joffrey asked.
"Just the one at the moment, Your Grace. The others are in the final stages of adjustment."
"How many can you produce in three weeks?"
Tobho's brow furrowed as he ran the numbers. "If you grant me the authority to divert all production—steel, timber, and labor—I can guarantee at least ten."
"Granted," Joffrey confirmed. "Divert everything. I want every Hwacha and every bolt we can forge ready before the Northmen reach our gates."
"It will be done, Your Grace," Tobho said with a firm nod.
Tyrion stared at the field, his mind still reeling. "With enough of these... we might actually hold the city."
"No," Joffrey disagreed, stepping closer to his uncle and placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "With enough of these, we will break them."
He looked down at the dwarf, his tone almost gentle. "Have faith, Uncle. This city shall never fall. Not while I draw breath."
Tyrion found himself at a loss for words. Before he could respond, Tobho cleared his throat.
"There is one more thing, Your Grace," the smith said. "The new armor. Yours, and the set for the Kingsguard. It is finished."
Joffrey blinked, a spark of genuine surprise crossing his face. "Already?"
"Ahead of schedule, meeting every specification you requested," Tobho replied. "Multi-layered steel. Lighter than standard plate but reinforced at the vitals. All tested against the new bolts."
A slow, dangerous smile grew across Joffrey's face. "Well done, Tobho. Truly."
The smith bowed deeply at the praise.
He turned back to Ser Jacelyn. "I'll need operators as well as archers.
"How many, your grace?" Jacelyn asked.
"Select five hundred of our best, a thousand would be preferable." Joffrey responded immediately. "Pull them from the individual units the best you can get and have them manning the city wall. They need to be steady, men who don't flinch and have steady hands. I want them drilling on these machines until they can reload in their sleep."
"It shall be done, Your Grace," Jacelyn promised.
"Good," he nodded. "I want formation drills doubled. No mistakes and no hesitation."
"It shall be flawless, your grace."
The council members began to speak in hushed, urgent tones, the fear that had gripped them in the chamber replaced by a grim, burgeoning hope.
Joffrey stood apart from them, his gaze already drifting to the horizon. The Young Wolf was coming, but he would find the Lion had grown some very sharp claws.
o-O-o
Three weeks of marching had hardened the men of the North into something leaner and sharper than when they had first broken camp.
Boots had worn deep paths into the Crownlands' roads. Armor bore the dull scuffs of dust and sweat rather than the bright spray of blood. Camps had been raised and struck in disciplined rhythm, banners unfurled and furled again beneath changing skies. High above the column, the direwolf sigil of House Stark snapped in the wind—grey against white, a cold promise of justice.
Robb Stark rode at the head of it all.
He looked older now, no longer the green boy who had ridden out from the gates of Winterfell. His face had gone lean, his eyes darkening with the weight of every life under his command. That weight had settled onto his shoulders as naturally as his fur-lined cloak, yet it had not grown any lighter with time.
King's Landing lay just ahead.
Robb's thoughts returned, as they had a thousand times during the march, to his sisters. He had to take the city without destroying it; he would not let Sansa or Arya come to harm in the chaos of a breach. The very idea of his father or sisters being caught in the crossfire twisted his heart like a knife.
"There has to be a way," he thought. "A way to end this without a massacre."
His mind wandered to Theon. He had sent his foster brother to seek the aid of the Ironborn fleet, but since the message had been sent, there had been nothing but silence. Robb gripped his reins a fraction tighter. The Iron Islands were not so far by sea, and his letter had been crystal clear about the urgency of the situation. He felt a creeping dread that something had befallen Theon—or worse, that Balon Greyjoy had turned his back.
"Theon please hurry," he thought.
"Brooding again?" a voice boomed, shattering his focus.
Greatjon Umber pulled his massive warhorse alongside Robb. The man was a giant even in the saddle, his beard braided with silver and his heavy plate scratched from the road. He grinned like a man riding toward a feast rather than a siege.
Robb exhaled, shaking his head. "I'm just thinking, Jon."
"Dangerous habit," the Greatjon laughed. "Save the thinking for the Maesters. We're almost there."
Robb nodded, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "If the Greyjoy fleet doesn't appear, it will take weeks to build the engines necessary to crack those walls."
"Aye," Lord Umber agreed, his smile fading slightly. "Walls like those don't fall easy. But the North remembers, and the North is hungry."
Robb said nothing. Deep down, a foolish, childish part of him hoped that when Joffrey saw the Northmen at his gates, he would simply surrender. Memories flashed before his eyes—memories of the Royal visit to Winterfell. He remembered the blonde prince standing up for Jon, defending his half-brother from the Kingslayer's barbs. They had trained together, drank together, and for a brief moment, Robb had felt they were kin in spirit.
He didn't want to kill that boy.
Eventually, the treeline thinned and the horses slowed instinctively as the land rose into a broad, grassy hill overlooking the Blackwater plain. Slowly, the city came into view: King's Landing, the supposed jewel of the Seven Kingdoms. Its tall, red-stone walls stretched wide and high beneath the midday sun.
As they crested the hill, the land opened up, and Robb lifted a hand, signaling his army to a halt. The sight that greeted the King in the North left him stunned, his breath hitching in his throat.
Thousands of men stood between the Northern army and the city gates.
They were not the disorganized rabble of a City Watch, nor the gold-and-crimson levies of House Lannister. They were arranged in long, terrifyingly precise lines, shields locked edge-to-edge, long spears held upright like a forest of blackened needles. Their armor was dark steel, tinted almost to the color of midnight, catching the sunlight in muted, oily glints.
Every helm was identical. Every shield bore the same new device: a seven-pointed golden crown on a field of black.
The walls loomed behind them, bristling with more soldiers standing at a rigid attention that felt seamless with the men on the ground. There was no shouting. No clashing of swords against shields. There was only a silence so absolute it felt heavier than a scream. They weren't just waiting; they were ready.
A sudden, uneasy hush rippled through the Northern ranks as they took in the professional scale of the force.
"What in the Seven Hells is that?" someone muttered from the rear.
Robb felt a chill crawl up his spine. He could tell with a single glance that these weren't men pulled from shops or farms. They stood with the disciplined stillness of veterans. The formation was perfect—the flanks were anchored by the city walls, funnelling any possible Northern advance straight into a killing zone in the center.
"Who are they?" Robb asked, his voice barely a whisper.
No one answered. The Northern lords murmured among themselves, their earlier bravado replaced by confusion and a growing sense of caution.
"I've never seen that sigil in any book of heraldry," Lord Glover said, pointing to a massive banner at the head of the lines. "A golden crown on black? Those aren't Lannister colors."
"It's not just the colors," another lord added, his voice grim. "Look at them. They aren't moving. Not a man, not a horse. It's like they're made of stone."
Robb stared at the silent, black-clad wall of steel. He had come to fight a spoiled boy-king. Instead, he found himself staring into the eyes of a professional machine.
Before anyone could say another word, movement rippled through the midnight-dark ranks. Two riders broke from the formation, their horses moving in a synchronized trot that looked more like a choreographed dance than a simple ride.
Robb's soldiers reacted instantly, the dry clack of nocking arrows echoing across the Northern front. A thousand bows were drawn, but the riders did not slow. They carried white banners that snapped cleanly in the wind, their posture so rigid they looked bolted into their saddles. Neither man reached for a weapon.
"The flag of parley," Robb said, raising his hand to hold his archers back. "Stand down!"
The two riders halted twenty paces away. Up close, the psychological effect of Daniel's reforms was even more jarring. Their armor wasn't just dark; it was a matte, light-absorbing black that made them look like shadows given weight. Their visors were down—narrow slits of steel that betrayed no hint of the humans beneath.
They sat in absolute, unnerving stillness. No shifting in the saddle, no patting of their horses. Even the beasts seemed to have been trained into a state of unnatural calm.
"Lord Stark," one said. His voice didn't carry the rasp of a common soldier; it was level, hollow, and entirely devoid of emotion.
Greatjon bristled, his horse dancing beneath him. "That's King Stark to you, southern cunt!"
The guards didn't flinch. They didn't even turn their heads to look at the Umber giant. The speaker kept his gaze locked on Robb.
"Our brother is the only true King of the Seven Kingdoms," the guard replied, the word brother carrying a weight of terrifying, cult-like devotion. "All others are simply traitors... and pretenders."
Lord Umber snarled, his hand white-knuckled as it gripped the hilt of his greatsword. The air between the two parties grew thin, charged with the threat of immediate violence.
"Enough!" Robb shouted, spurred by the strange chill he felt looking into those motionless visors. He rode his horse forward, putting himself between his lord and the messengers. "What is your message?"
"His Grace bids you welcome," the guard said. "He wishes to discuss terms of peace on neutral ground."
For a heartbeat, the words felt surreal. Then Greatjon barked out a loud, booming laugh that lacked any real mirth.
"Hear that, men?!" he roared to the ranks behind him. "The boy-king wants to surrender before we've even drawn steel! Gods, I knew the whelp was a coward!"
A wave of mocking laughter rippled through the Northern lines, but it died quickly. The two guards didn't react. They didn't defend their king's honor with shouts or insults. They simply waited, their silence acting as a vacuum that sucked the energy out of the Greatjon's taunts.
Robb studied them. He saw no fear, no arrogance—just a cold, mechanical certainty.
"How do I know this isn't a trap?" Robb asked. "The Lannisters aren't known for their hospitality."
"Feel free to bring your war council and your personal guard," the speaker replied. "Salt and bread will be provided at the threshold. The King's word is steel."
The mention of the ancient guest right silenced the last of the laughter. Robb looked back at his lords, then at the looming walls of the city. He had to know what Joffrey had become.
"Very well," Robb said. "I will meet him."
The guard bowed his head—a sharp, efficient motion. "A tent will be raised within sight of both hosts. Our men will stand down while you approach. See that your men do the same."
As they turned to depart, the second guard, who had remained silent the entire time, slowly turned his head toward Greatjon Umber. The movement was slow, deliberate, and deeply unsettling.
"If it comes to a battle," the guard said, his voice a flat, metallic promise, "you will be the first we kill."
The Greatjon's grin turned feral. "Aye," he rumbled. "I've heard that before from men who are now rotting in the ground."
The guards didn't respond. They turned their horses in perfect unison and rode back toward the black-and-gold wall of their brothers.
As they disappeared into the ranks, which opened and closed around them like a living organism, the murmuring among the Northern lords returned—louder and more frantic than before.
"They must believe us to be fools," Greatjon growled, though his hand remained on his sword. "We outnumber them four to one. We could smash through those lines before they could even set their spears."
"We could," Lord Karstark agreed, his eyes narrowed. "We should just water the ground with their blood and take the city."
Robb didn't join the debate. He watched the city, his mind racing. He had expected to see the gold-cloaked thugs he remembered from the capital, or the arrogant knights of the Westerlands. This... this was something else. This was a temple of iron.
"Joffrey," he thought, a bead of sweat tracing down his neck. "Just what have you done?"
Orders were given, and the Northern host began to settle. They made camp at a measured distance, using the treeline for cover, their fires dotting the landscape like stars fallen to earth. But even as the sun began to set, every Northern eye remained fixed on the silent, black wall of soldiers that guarded the gates of the Lion.
o-O-o
A few hours passed before the gates of King's Landing finally groaned open. The iron-bound oak moved slowly, deliberately, the hinges screaming just enough to be heard across the silent field.
From the shadowed mouth of the gate, the black-armored ranks of the Royal Guard parted in perfect, mechanical symmetry as the King rode out.
Joffrey Baratheon sat tall in his saddle, his posture effortless and assured. His horse moved at an unhurried pace, hooves striking the earth with a slow, measured rhythm that seemed to pulse across the clearing. Behind him, his Kingsguard flanked him in a gleaming white crescent.
The garish gold and soft copper of the past were gone. Their new plate was pearl-white, polished to a mirror-bright sheen that caught the sun and flung it back in blinding flashes. It was armor sculpted for the field, not the ballroom—layered for maximum defense while remaining light enough for a man to move with lethal grace. Joffrey had even replaced the traditional, impractical long cloaks with short white pelerine capes that rested cleanly against their pauldrons.
Lord Commander Barristan Selmy had voiced his opposition to the change, but he had fallen silent when the King asked how many brothers had died because a heavy length of wool had snagged on a spur or been stepped on in the heat of a melee.
Sandor Clegane rode among them, his armor a darker, soot-grey steel that acted as a grim counterweight to the pristine light of the others. At the center of the white knights rode the King himself.
Joffrey's armor was night-black, its surface chased with fine gold lines that caught the light only when he moved. His pauldrons were shaped into the snarling visages of lions, and two golden stags reared upon his breastplate, their antlers framing a small, seven-pointed crown at his solar plexus. Around his shoulders fell a heavy royal brocade of crimson and black, trimmed with the pelt of a shadowcat. The beast's head rested on his left shoulder, its glass eyes fixed forward in a cold, predatory stare.
Upon his brow sat a simple circlet of gilded steel, set with square-cut rubies.
As he passed, the Royal Guards filed back into formation behind him, sealing the line to the city like a wall of stone. Across the field, the battle-ready Northmen watched, and this time, not a single man laughed.
The parley tent stood alone between the hosts. Inside, Robb Stark waited, surrounded by his war council. When Joffrey dismounted and pulled aside the tent flap, the sight of him sent a ripple of genuine shock through the Northern lords.
"He's grown," Robb thought, realizing he had to tilt his head back slightly to meet Joffrey's gaze.
The King wasn't just taller; his shoulders had filled out like boulders, and the softness of youth had been replaced by the hard, sharpened angles of a man who spent his days in the yard and his nights over maps. His eyes held no nostalgia—only a cold, piercing focus.
Joffrey's gaze flicked briefly across the assembled northern lords, cataloging and measuring each of them, before settling on Robb himself. For a moment heavy silence filled the tent before Robb finally spoke.
"Your Grace," Robb greeted, his tone even.
"Lord Stark," Joffrey replied, his expression impassive. He looked at Robb's thick red beard and the crown of winter roses and iron swords as if cataloging a specimen.
Greatjon Umber snorted, his hand resting on his belt. "That's King Robb to you, boy."
The air in the tent instantly curdled. Several of the Kingsguard shifted, their gloved hands hovering inches from their hilts. Sandor's lip curled into a silent snarl. Joffrey didn't even acknowledge the giant; he simply kept his eyes on Robb.
"Shall we get to it, then?" Joffrey asked.
"We should," Robb inclined his head.
Before another word could be said, a soft, papery voice cut in. "You still have time to save your city, Your Grace."
Joffrey turned his head. Roose Bolton stood there, his pale, leech-like eyes unreadable. Joffrey felt a surge of visceral disgust. He knew the man's history—knew the treachery that breathed behind that quiet mask.
"Ah yes the traitor," He thought, his dislike and disgust immediate.
"Oh?" Joffrey asked, his voice dangerously smooth. "And how may I do that?"
Robb stepped forward. "I have two conditions. Grant them, and none of your people need to die. First, you will return my family and any other Northmen you hold captive, unharmed. Second, you will acknowledge the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale as a free and independent kingdom, outside your authority."
The Northern lords murmured their approval.
"King in the North," someone whispered.
Joffrey's expression didn't flicker. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm—almost gentle. "It would seem there's been a misunderstanding."
The murmurs died.
"I didn't come here to discuss my surrender," Joffrey said slowly. "We're here to discuss yours."
The Greatjon exploded. "Are you blind or just stupid, boy?! There are twenty thousand men standing outside those gates!"
Joffrey's gaze finally drifted to the Umber lord. It wasn't a look of anger, but one of clinical observation.
"Then there will be twenty thousand corpses fertilizing the ground before the sun sets," Joffrey responded, his voice flat. "Don't try to frighten me old man."
The tension reached a breaking point, hands dropping to sword hilts on both sides.
"Enough!" Robb shouted, commanding the room. He turned back to Joffrey. "If you had no intention of negotiating, why come at all?"
Joffrey studied him. "The same reason as you, I imagine. Curiosity. Our families have been at each other's throats for months, yet we haven't exchanged a single word."
Robb shook his head. "Words won't make a difference now."
"Perhaps," Joffrey agreed. He reached down and drew his longsword, the steel whispering as it cleared the scabbard. Instantly, the tent was a forest of drawn blades as every man followed suit.
But then, Joffrey casually flipped the sword in his grip and held the hilt out to Ser Barristan.
"But I would still have them."
"Leave us," he ordered.
The old knight hesitated. "Your Grace—"
"Obey your King, Ser Barristan," Joffrey said sternly.
After a heartbeat, the Kingsguard bowed and withdrew. Robb, sensing the shift, handed his own blade to the Greatjon and nodded. One by one, the lords filed out until only the two Kings remained.
The silence was deafening. The weight of two armies outside seemed to press against the canvas walls.
Then, Joffrey let out a long, heavy sigh. The rigid, royal posture vanished. His shoulders slumped, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose with a gloved hand.
"Gods," he muttered, his voice suddenly sounding years younger and infinitely more tired. "That was exhausting."
Robb stared, his mouth slightly agape. The terrifying, black-clad monarch had vanished, replaced by a teenager who looked like he'd just finished a double shift on a battlefield.
"Do you want a drink, Robb?" Joffrey asked, walking over to a side table and picking up a wine pitcher. "Because I'm having a drink."
Joffrey filled two glasses with Arbor Red, took a seat at the table, and drained half his cup in one go. "I needed that," he said, looking at the liquid with a wry smile. "Well? Are you going to keep standing there like a statue, or are you going to join me?"
Robb just blinked, staring at the King as if he'd just seen a ghost.
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