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The Young Lion
Act 2 Ch 20: A Crowned Pig
Three days had passed since the night Joffrey collapsed in his solar.
The king still felt the lingering effects of whatever had struck him. The violent pain that had seized his chest that night had faded quickly, yet his body had not fully recovered. A faint weakness hung over him like a shadow that refused to leave, and even now he occasionally felt a dull exhaustion creeping through him when he exerted himself too much.
Thankfully it was subtle enough that no one had questioned it.
When the guards had discovered him unconscious on the floor of his chambers, Joffrey had explained to them that he simply had too much wine while working late. Though some had found it out of character for the serious young king, most had chalked it up to him celebrating the surrender of the North and Riverlands.
It had been a lie, of course, but a necessary one.
The alternative was telling his council that some unseen force had nearly killed him in his chamber, which would have led to far worse outcomes than a simple drunken stumble. Half the castle would assume their king had lost his mind, while the other half would begin whispering that dark magic could strike the throne at any moment. And panic inside the Red Keep was the last thing he needed at the moment.
Even so, the memory of that night continued to gnaw at him.
Joffrey sat at the head of the long council table, listening absently as voices discussed the daily matters of governance. The flickering candlelight danced across polished wood and parchment scrolls, illuminating the gathered members of his Small Council.
Yet despite the ongoing discussion, the king's thoughts remained elsewhere. He could still remember that night clearly. The sudden pressure in his chest. The way his breath had vanished as though someone had wrapped iron chains around his lungs. The veins that had darkened beneath his skin, spreading like ink, crawling up his throat and across his jaw before vanishing just as suddenly as they had appeared.
It wasn't poison, he knew poison. Poison worked slowly, spreading through the body with predictable symptoms. Whatever had struck him that night had been something far stranger. Something that could only be found in a medieval fantasy world.
Magic.
Specifically blood magic.
And there was only one person in Westeros who he knew practiced that particular brand of madness.
The red priestess who whispered in his uncle's ear, Melisandre.
His uncle Stannis Baratheon might be the man claiming the crown, and was a tried and true battle commander who led victories not only in one war but two, but she was the true threat behind his forces.
Joffrey knew her reputation well—both from his own research into their religious cult thanks to Varys' spy network and from the memories from the world he once called home.
The woman believed herself a prophet of fire, chosen by her god to guide Stannis to victory. More importantly, she had little hesitation when it came to using blood rituals to remove her enemies.
In the original timeline he remembered, she had even used the blood of Gendry, Robert Baratheon's bastard, to cast curses upon rival kings. So the idea that she might attempt something similar against him now was hardly surprising.
What did surprise him was the result. Whatever ritual she had attempted had clearly failed since he was still breathing. Which meant either the spell had been interrupted, or something had interfered with it.
Thoughts of that night continued to linger in his mind as the voices around the table continued discussing logistics and reports. Eventually, the king became aware that the room had grown strangely quiet.
"Your Grace?"
Joffrey blinked and looked up.
Across the table sat his recently appointed Master of Trade, Lark, who was currently watching him with polite patience. Several other council members had also turned their attention toward him, clearly waiting for a response to something he had entirely missed.
The king exhaled quietly before straightening in his seat.
"My apologies," he said calmly. "Repeat the question."
Lark nodded and shuffled the parchment in front of him before speaking again.
"I was reporting on the progress of the new Dragonpit fortress, Your Grace."
At that, Joffrey leaned forward slightly.
"Go on."
The Master of Trade allowed himself a small smile as he continued.
"I am pleased to report that construction is ahead of schedule. Your decision to have the builders adopt your Industrial Sector's labor shifts has proven remarkably effective. With workers rotating throughout the entire day, construction has continued without interruption."
A few members of the council nodded unsurprised. Since they had already seen the effectiveness of the king's new model first hand
"The industrial laborers from your new manufacturing districts have also integrated smoothly with the Tyroshi builders we hired," Lark continued. "Their techniques combined with your engineers' innovations have accelerated the process significantly."
The king allowed himself a small, satisfied nod.
The original Dragonpit had once housed the dragons of the Targaryen dynasty, an enormous structure capable of containing some of the most dangerous creatures the world had ever seen. Now it would be used to house his own personal army and the more dangerous weapons he planned to create.
"Good," he said simply, then his eyes narrowed slightly. "Have there been any further attempts at theft?"
Lark's smile widened faintly.
"None, Your Grace."
He folded his hands calmly atop the table.
"The example you made of the first batch of greedy rats appears to have been quite…effective."
Several council members shifted slightly in their chairs.
The memory was still fresh in everyone's mind. A handful of laborers were caught attempting to steal construction materials and his concrete recipe, and had been publicly punished in a manner brutal enough to send a message through every workforce in the capital.
Apparently, the message had been received.
"Excellent," Joffrey replied, his gaze moved further down the table. "Overseer Mott."
The large man seated there inclined his head respectfully. Tobho Mott, the renowned master armorer and Overseer of his Industrial Sector had been invited to attend the council meeting at the king's direct command.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Joffrey steepled his fingers thoughtfully.
"How are the new trip-hammers handling the workload?"
The old smith's expression brightened with professional pride.
"Perfectly, Your Grace. After refining the prototype, we have not encountered any further mechanical issues. The improvements to the counterweight system allow the hammer heads to strike with consistent force without overheating the mechanisms."
He leaned slightly forward as he spoke.
"In simple terms, Your Grace, the machines are functioning at full efficiency. The forges have never produced steel at this speed before."
Joffrey nodded approvingly. That alone would revolutionize weapon production, but there was another project he needed an update on.
"And what of my personal commission?"
Tobho Mott did not hesitate.
"They will be ready on time." His voice remained steady, though there was a faint hint of anticipation behind the words. "You have nothing to worry about."
Several members of the council exchanged confused looks. Clearly, none of them had any idea what the king and the smith were discussing.
Joffrey noticed their curiosity immediately, and decided not to comment on it. Instead, he turned his attention toward the thin bald man seated near the far end of the table.
"Lord Varys."
The Master of Whispers turned his head to the king.
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"What news from the front?"
At the middle seat of the long council table, Varys folded his soft hands together within the sleeves of his pale silk robes. The eunuch inclined his head slightly in deference to the king before speaking, his voice smooth and measured as always.
"The realm continues to settle in the wake of recent events of the war, Your Grace. News of Robb Stark's surrender has spread quickly throughout the kingdoms thanks to your ravens."
A faint murmur moved through the chamber.
"The banners of the Riverlands have been lowered," Varys continued. "Their lords have withdrawn their forces and begun returning to their lands. It would appear that they are honoring Robb Stark's agreement and the war in that region is effectively over."
Joffrey leaned back slightly in his chair, steepling his fingers together as he absorbed the report. That outcome alone had drastically altered the political landscape of Westeros. With the northern rebellion neutralized, a massive portion of the realm's manpower had effectively been removed from the conflict.
That left fewer active enemies—and fewer fronts to worry about.
"Good," Joffrey said at last. "The fewer fires we have to put out the better."
His eyes shifted back to the Spider.
"And my grandfather?"
Varys nodded slightly, clearly anticipating the question.
"Lord Tywin Lannister has already begun capitalizing on the situation. With the Riverlands pacified, he has marched east with the western host and begun engaging the Knights of the Vale."
The king raised an eyebrow.
"Already?"
"Indeed," Varys replied calmly. "Initial reports indicate that the Lannister host has successfully driven several Vale forces from their forward positions. They are gradually pushing them back toward The Redfort, which appears to be the current defensive line."
Joffrey nodded slowly, clearly picturing the map in his mind. The Vale's geography had always made it difficult to invade, but once their forces moved beyond the mountains they became far more vulnerable on open ground.
"And Lady Arryn?" Joffrey asked.
Varys allowed himself a small sigh.
"She has refused every attempt at negotiation thus far. Our envoys that managed to return alive reported that she appears convinced any diplomatic approach is merely a trick meant to lure her into a trap."
Joffrey snorted quietly.
"Paranoid fool."
Next to him, Sansa stiffened slightly at the words. Her blue eyes narrowed faintly as she looked toward the king, clearly displeased by the insult directed at her aunt.
Joffrey noticed the look immediately and raised one hand slightly.
"My apologies,my lady," he said calmly. "I meant no offense to you."
Sansa hesitated before releasing a quiet sigh.
"Truthfully, Your Grace…my aunt has not been well for some time," she admitted. "Even before the war, there were rumors. My mother had once told me childhood stories of my aunt, when I had asked about her, and none of them painted a stable picture.
Joffrey nodded slowly.
That matched what he remembered from the story. Lysa Arryn had always been dangerously unbalanced, her paranoia and emotional instability growing worse over time.
"Then perhaps it is fortunate for us that my grandfather is the one dealing with her," Joffrey said lightly.
Several council members chuckled quietly at that, Varys cleared his throat gently before continuing.
"There is also news regarding your uncles."
That immediately got the king's full attention.
"Go on."
The Spider's expression remained as unreadable as ever.
"It would appear that Lord Stannis has successfully taken Storm's End."
Several members of the council exchanged surprised glances.
"With only five thousand men," Varys added.
Joffrey's eyes narrowed slightly.
That matched the general outcome he remembered, though the details had clearly shifted. In the books, Stannis had relied heavily on shadow magic to eliminate the castle's castellan and secure the fortress without a prolonged siege, while the event was cut entirely from the show.
"And Renly?" the king asked.
Varys inclined his head.
"Lord Renly has mobilized the full strength of the Stormlands to reclaim the fortress. Scouts report that he marches east towards Storm's End with more than thirty thousand men."
The room grew noticeably quieter as the implications settled in. The king leaned back in his chair thoughtfully.
"So the brothers finally move against one another." For a moment he said nothing, simply considering the situation, then slowly, he smiled. "Good."
Several members of the council looked confused by the reaction. Joffrey rested one arm along the chair as he spoke.
"Let them bleed each other dry."
His gaze moved across the assembled councilors.
"Every day they spend fighting one another is a day they're not marching on this city. The longer their conflict drags on, the stronger our position becomes."
He turned back toward Varys.
"Keep your birds watching both armies closely. I want regular reports."
"Of course, Your Grace," the Spider replied smoothly.
At that moment, Tyrion leaned forward slightly in his seat at the other end of the table.
"With respect, nephew," Tyrion said dryly, "I suspect Stannis will not last long enough for the conflict to drag on very far."
Several councilors glanced toward him curiously.
"Thirty thousand men against five thousand," Tyrion continued. "Even Stannis Baratheon cannot change basic mathematics."
Joffrey turned his head slowly toward his uncle.
"That may be true," he said calmly. "But numbers alone do not always determine victory."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
Joffrey's lips curved faintly.
"Many people would have said the same about my Royal Guard when they faced the northern army."
For a moment Tyrion simply stared at him, then he sighed and leaned back in his chair.
"Point taken."
The king allowed himself a small smirk, having expected some witty retort from his uncle, but receiving none. He then shifted the conversation in a new direction.
"Enough of the war for now," Joffrey said. "Grand Maester."
The ancient figure of Pycelle straightened slowly in his seat, his long chain of office clinking softly as he moved.
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"My uncle, Jaime," Joffrey said simply. "How is he?"
Everyone in the room grew quiet. After all the Kingslayer had returned captivity battered and weakened after nearly a year in enemy hands.
Pycelle stroked his beard thoughtfully before answering.
"Ser Jaime continues to recover well, Your Grace. He suffered several bruised ribs during his confinement and has lost a considerable amount of weight due to malnourishment. However, none of his injuries appear permanent, your grace."
Joffrey's expression remained neutral.
"How long?"
Pycelle blinked.
"Your Grace?"
"How long until he has fully recovered?"
The old maester hesitated before answering.
"At least a month, perhaps longer. He must avoid any strenuous activity during that time. Sparring or combat training would be most unwise until his strength returns."
Joffrey nodded.
"That will not be a problem."
He turned toward the legendary knight seated to his left.
"Ser Barristan."
The old knight bowed his head.
"Your Grace."
"My uncle is banned from the training yard until the Grand Maester clears him," Joffrey said calmly. "If he attempts to ignore that order, you have my permission to physically remove him."
A few council members chuckled quietly, while even Barristan's lips twitched faintly.
"As you command, your grace."
Joffrey turned back toward Pycelle.
"If my uncle gives you any difficulty regarding your instructions, you will inform me immediately."
"Of course, Your Grace," the old maester said quickly.
The king then shifted his attention toward another man seated along the table.
"Ser Jacelyn."
The commander of the City Watch inclined his head respectfully.
"The men have continued their training with renewed determination since the battle, Your Grace," Jacelyn reported. "Morale remains high."
"That is good to hear."
"There is more," Jacelyn continued. "The soldiers who were injured in the fighting—those who lost limbs or suffered wounds preventing them from returning to combat—have all been reassigned to the roles you requested."
Joffrey nodded approvingly.
"No man who fought and bled for this crown will be cast aside." The words carried quiet weight in the chamber. "Have the fallen been honored as well?"
Jacelyn's expression grew solemn.
"Yes, Your Grace. As you ordered, their swords have been planted."
Inside the Red Keep's gardens, a long stretch of earth had been set aside where the blades of the fallen Royal Guards that had been blackened from the flames of the funeral pyres now stood upright in the ground like silent markers. It was a place that the king designated as ground to honor those that had died honorably in his service.
"Good," Joffrey said quietly.
The meeting continued for some time after that.
Trade matters, supply reports, grain shipments, harbor traffic—dozens of smaller issues passed across the council table as each member presented their updates. The discussion stretched on for more than an hour before the king finally pushed his chair back and stood.
"That will be all for today."
The council members rose with him. Chairs scraped softly across the stone floor as the meeting came to an end.
One by one the councilors gathered their papers and began filing out of the chamber. As Sansa passed him, Joffrey reached out and gently took her hand.
The young lady looked up in surprise. Then the king pressed a brief kiss to the back of her hand before releasing it.
Sansa's cheeks flushed faintly as she curtsied and departed.
Nearby, Tyrion was gathering a stack of ledgers and parchments, clearly preparing to leave as well.
"Uncle."
Tyrion paused and looked up.
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"We are not finished."
The dwarf blinked in confusion.
"Oh?"
Joffrey stepped away from the table and began walking toward the chamber door.
"We're taking a short trip into the city."
Tyrion hurried after him, struggling slightly to keep pace with the king's longer strides.
"And why exactly are we doing that?" Tyrion asked.
Joffrey didn't slow.
"We have someone we have to speak with."
"And who might that be?"
The king reached the doorway and pushed it open.
Without turning around, he answered.
"A pig with a crown."
Tyrion frowned in confusion as he followed him out of the room.
"…I'm almost certain I'm going to regret this."
Joffrey simply smiled as they continued down the corridor.
o-O-o
The royal carriage rolled steadily through the streets of King's Landing, its iron-rimmed wheels rattling softly across the uneven stone roads. Outside, the sounds of the city drifted faintly through the thick wooden panels—vendors shouting in crowded markets, the distant clatter of carts, and the low murmur of thousands of voices living their daily lives beneath the looming shadow of the Red Keep.
Inside the carriage, however, the atmosphere was far quieter.
Joffrey sat opposite his uncle, leaning slightly back against the padded seat as the carriage swayed with the motion of the road. The young king kept his posture relaxed, though he could still feel the lingering weakness in his body whenever the vehicle lurched too sharply.
The aftereffects of the spell that had struck him days earlier had not completely faded. While he had regained most of his strength, there was still a lingering fatigue that crept through his limbs if he pushed himself too hard.
That was precisely why he had chosen a carriage for the journey.
Ordinarily, the king of Westeros riding through the city atop a horse would have been a powerful image for the people to witness. But Joffrey knew better than to test his body's limits while it was still recovering. A moment of dizziness while mounted could easily lead to embarrassment—or worse.
Across from him, Tyrion studied him quietly.
For several minutes the dwarf had remained silent, watching the king with a mixture of curiosity and calculation. Tyrion was rarely a man who allowed questions to remain unanswered for long, and eventually his patience reached its limit.
"I must admit, Your Grace," Tyrion said at last, resting his elbow casually against the carriage wall, "I am rather curious."
Joffrey raised an eyebrow.
"About?"
"Well for starters, why am I here?"
The king tilted his head slightly, while Tyrion continued, his tone thoughtful.
"You have an entire council of advisors available to you. Your Master of Laws, your Master of Coin, even Lord Varys himself would have been logical companions for a meeting such as this." He paused briefly before finishing. "And yet you chose me, why?"
Joffrey held his gaze for a moment before answering.
"Because you're my family, uncle." His words made Tyrion blink, his eyes widening slightly.
The words settled into the air between them, and for a moment Tyrion said nothing at all.
The expression on his face shifted slightly, surprise flashing briefly across his mismatched eyes before he masked it behind his usual calm demeanor. Yet the king could see that the simple statement had affected him more deeply than he expected.
After all, Tyrion Lannister was not a man accustomed to hearing words of familial trust.
For a time the dwarf remained quiet. Joffrey allowed the silence to linger for several moments before leaning forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees as he finally gave his uncle his full attention.
"There is another reason why I brought you," the king said.
Tyrion raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
Joffrey's expression grew more serious.
"You are the only person on the council who would both understand the situation and know how to react if things don't go exactly as planned."
That was enough to fully capture Tyrion's attention. The Hand of the King leaned forward slightly in his seat.
"And what situation would that be?"
Joffrey exhaled slowly before beginning to explain.
Over the next several minutes, the king laid out his intentions for the meeting ahead. He spoke calmly and methodically, outlining both his objectives and the delicate balance of pressure and persuasion he intended to apply.
Tyrion listened carefully.
The dwarf's expression shifted gradually as the explanation continued, curiosity slowly giving way to quiet understanding. By the time Joffrey finished speaking, Tyrion had leaned fully back in his seat again, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"Well," Tyrion said after a moment, "that is certainly one approach to the problem."
Joffrey smirked faintly.
"Do you disagree?"
"Oh no," Tyrion replied calmly. "Quite the opposite. I simply did not expect such creativity."
Before Joffrey could respond, the carriage slowed. The rumble of the wheels gradually faded as the horses came to a halt.
A moment later, the door of the carriage opened as one of the king's white-cloaked guards stepped aside to allow them to exit. Ser Barristan himself stood nearby, watching the surrounding courtyard with the steady vigilance of a seasoned knight.
Joffrey stepped down first, followed by Tyrion.
They had arrived at the massive white structure dominating the center of the hill.
The Great Sept of Baelor towered above them, its marble domes and towering columns shining beneath the afternoon sunlight. The enormous building stood as one of the most recognizable landmarks in the city, a monument to the power and influence of the Faith of the Seven.
Several septas were already waiting near the entrance. The eldest among them stepped forward as the king approached, bowing her head respectfully.
"Your Grace," she said warmly. "We are honored by your visit."
Her gaze shifted briefly to Tyrion.
"And you as well Lord Tyrion."
Joffrey inclined his head politely.
"Thank you for receiving us."
The septa gestured toward the entrance.
"If you would follow me, His High Holiness is expecting you."
The two men stepped inside the sept, their Kingsguard falling into formation behind them. The interior of the building was just as impressive as its exterior.
Joffrey found himself quietly admiring the craftsmanship as they walked. Towering marble columns rose toward the domed ceiling above, where colorful stained-glass windows cast beams of red, gold, and blue light across the polished floor. Statues of the Seven lined the walls, each carved with extraordinary detail.
The craftsmanship alone must have taken decades to complete. For a moment, Joffrey allowed himself to appreciate the sheer scale of the structure. Whatever else could be said about the Faith, they certainly understood how to construct a building meant to inspire awe.
Eventually the septa guided them away from the main sanctuary and into a quieter corridor that led to a smaller private chamber deeper within the sept.
When the door opened, the man waiting inside immediately stood.
The High Septon was a large man, his robes straining slightly against his heavy frame as he rose from his chair. Upon his head rested the ornate crystal crown that symbolized his authority within the Faith.
Joffrey's eyes lingered on the jeweled circlet for a moment. Internally, he found the sight both ridiculous and mildly insulting.
There was only one crown in Westeros that truly mattered. Still, the king kept those thoughts to himself.
"Your Grace," the High Septon said warmly as he stepped forward. "It is a blessing to welcome you to the house of the Seven."
"And Lord Tyrion," he added.
Pleasantries were exchanged, polite smiles offered, and soon the three men were seated around a small wooden table within the chamber.
At first the conversation remained pleasant and harmless.
They discussed the city's current state, the ongoing war, and the various difficulties facing the capital. The High Septon spoke at length about the Faith's charitable efforts for the war, as well as praising the crown's own charitable efforts regarding the breadlines for the small folk.
Yet as the discussion continued, Joffrey quickly noticed a pattern. The man was flattering him.
Constantly.
Every time the king mentioned the city's resilience, the High Septon praised his wisdom. When Tyrion referenced the enforcement of the realm's laws through his Royal Guard, the man spoke of Joffrey's "divinely guided leadership."
The compliments came one after another, thick and excessive.
Outwardly, Joffrey smiled politely and accepted the praise. Internally, however, he recognized the tactic immediately.
The pig was trying to butter him up. Eventually the conversation shifted, and the High Septon leaned forward slightly, folding his hands together across the table.
"It was most generous of Your Grace to repay the gold previously owed to the Faith," the man said.
Joffrey nodded calmly.
"The crown honors its debts."
"Indeed," the High Septon agreed.
Then he hesitated slightly before continuing.
"However… there remains the matter of the interest that has not yet been accounted for."
There it was. Joffrey pretended to look mildly confused.
"Interest?"
"Yes," the High Septon said gently. "A rather standard expectation when such large sums are involved."
Joffrey leaned back in his chair.
"I was under the impression the debt had already been settled."
The man smiled politely.
"Settled, perhaps… but not fully resolved."
Joffrey understood exactly what he was attempting.
Extortion.
The man believed the crown needed the Faith's support for the upcoming coronation ceremony and intended to squeeze a little more gold out of the treasury before offering his blessing.
Joffrey had already decided how he would respond, which is what he briefed Tyrion on as they journeyed over from the Red Keep. Signaling his uncle with his eyes, he hesitated before speaking, giving Tyrion the chance to interject into the discussion
"Your Holiness," the dwarf said casually, "have you heard the latest news from Dragonstone?"
The High Septon blinked with clear confusion.
"I cannot say that I have." He answered.
Tyrion sighed softly.
"A troubling development, I'm afraid."
"And what might that be?"
Tyrion glanced briefly at Joffrey before answering.
"It would appear that the traitor Stannis Baratheon has formally converted to the worship of R'hllor, the so-called Lord of Light."
The High Septon froze.
"I beg your pardon?"
Tyrion nodded solemnly.
"More troubling still… reports claim he has ordered the statues of the Seven on Dragonstone burned, alongside the septon himself."
The color drained slightly from the man's face.
"Burned?"
"So the reports claim," Tyrion replied calmly "Apparently the Red Priestess has convinced Stannis to burn his enemies to honor the Lord of Light."
He paused before adding the final blow.
"And if he were to take this city… one can only wonder whether he might do the same here."
Silence filled the chamber.
The High Septon sat frozen in place for several seconds, clearly struggling to process the information. Finally he turned slowly toward the king.
"What…would Your Grace suggest we do?"
Joffrey leaned forward slightly, his expression calm.
"The people of Westeros hold the Faith of the Seven close to their hearts," he said.
The High Septon nodded quickly.
"Then perhaps it would be wise," Joffrey continued, "for your septons and septas to remind them that Stannis Baratheon is not merely a pretender… but a traitor to both the realm and the gods themselves."
The High Septon swallowed. After a moment, he nodded again.
"Yes… yes, that would be wise."
Joffrey leaned back in his chair.
"As for the interest you mentioned earlier," the king continued calmly, "you will have it once the war is won."
The man's anxiety melted away almost immediately.
"Of course, Your Grace," he said eagerly. "The gods surely smile upon such wisdom. I will ensure that the Faith speaks clearly on this matter."
Joffrey inclined his head politely.
"It would be much appreciated."
The meeting between the three ended shortly after that.
o-O-o
After that, uncle and nephew found themselves back in the royal carriage as it began the journey back toward the Red Keep.
For several moments neither man spoke, then Tyrion sighed.
"Gods," he muttered.
Joffrey glanced at him.
"What?"
"That ridiculous crown," Tyrion replied flatly. "A jeweled crown on a man who can barely see his own feet."
Joffrey let himself chuckle at his uncle's words.
"Yes, I think both of us can agree he is a fool." He said, then added, "a useful fool, but a fool nonetheless."
Tyrion chuckled softly before turning his gaze toward the king.
"Joffrey I just have to know.."
His nephew raised an eyebrow.
"About what?"
"Where did you come up with this plan of yours?" Tyrion asked. "To turn the Faith of the Seven and all its followers against Stannis."
Joffrey leaned back against the carriage seat.
"It seemed kind of obvious."
"How so?"
Joffrey shrugged lightly.
"Stannis now follows a foreign god. One that demands the burning of other religions."
He gestured vaguely toward the city outside.
"The Faith holds enormous influence among the common people. Even the Targaryen dynasty struggled with them at the height of their power."
Tyrion nodded slowly.
"That is certainly true."
What Joffrey did not say was where the strategy had truly come from. In his mind, he remembered another empire… another civil war.
He remembered reading of how Octavian turned public opinion against Mark Antony by framing the conflict as a war against the foreign queen Cleopatra rather than a Roman civil war.
It had been propaganda, and it had worked perfectly. Now he was using the same strategy against his treacherous uncle.
Tyrion leaned back in his seat, studying his nephew with open admiration.
"I must say," he admitted, "that was rather brilliant."
Then he added thoughtfully,
"Though if I were you, I would focus more attention on Renly. He will almost certainly defeat Stannis."
Joffrey said nothing. Instead, he turned his gaze toward the carriage window as the streets of King's Landing rolled past outside.
His thoughts drifted toward the future. Towards events he alone knew were coming. Particularly of a shadow with Stannis's face stabbing the youngest Baratheon brother through the back. Inside his mind, a quiet thought surfaced.
"You have no idea, Uncle."
They just remained silent as they continued their ride back to the castle.
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