299 AC - The Small Council of King Joffrey Baratheon – The Red Keep, King's Landing
The small council chamber in the Red Keep was a crucible of dread and scheming. The air was heavy, the silence broken only by the faint scratch of Lord Varys's fingers drumming on the polished table. Cersei Lannister sat at the head, her golden hair framing a face taut with fury, her green eyes blazing as she absorbed the catastrophic news: Jaime, her brother and lover, defeated and chained in Riverrun's dungeons. Worse still, the Stark bastard—now Aemon Targaryen—was no mere pretender but a sorcerer wielding powers of ice and fire, a force that had shattered the Lannister host.
Cersei's hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her palms. How? she thought, her mind racing. She had clawed her way to power, plotted and murdered to secure Joffrey's throne, and now this abomination threatened to unravel it all. Her son, the boy-king, slouched in his chair, his pale face twisted in a petulant sneer. "I WANT THEM DEAD!" Joffrey's voice cracked as he slammed his goblet against the armrest, wine sloshing over the rim. "The Starks, the Tullys, the Targaryens—ALL OF THEM!"
The chamber fell silent. Grand Maester Pycelle, hunched and trembling, looked as if he might choke on his own fear. Lord Varys's eyes flickered with calculation, while Petyr Baelish's lips curled into a smirk that set Cersei's teeth on edge.
"If only it were that simple, Your Grace," Littlefinger said, his voice smooth as silk, laced with mockery.
Joffrey's eyes narrowed, his temper flaring, but Cersei cut in, her tone sharp. "Speak plainly, Lord Baelish. We've no time for your games."
Littlefinger steepled his fingers, his gaze sliding across the table. "The North and the Tullys were already a thorn in our side, but if the Vale joins them, we face a host of seventy thousand—Starks, Tullys, and Arryns combined. Against our twenty thousand, and perhaps ten thousand more if we raise new levies, we are sorely outmatched."
Cersei's nails dug deeper, drawing blood. He was right, and that truth burned worse than any defeat. Aemon Targaryen, with his unnatural powers, was a threat unlike any other—not Stannis with his grim fleet, nor Renly with his vast host.
Varys, silent until now, spoke in his soft, lilting voice. "This changes the game entirely, my queen. Whispers fill the streets of King's Landing. Some call him the Dragon, others the True Heir. The realm is watching, and belief in his claim grows with every tale of his sorcery."
Cersei's blood ran cold. The smallfolk's whispers could topple thrones as surely as armies. "Then what shall we do?" she demanded, her voice low but edged with desperation.
Littlefinger leaned forward, his smile never reaching his eyes. "I will travel to the Vale and speak with Lysa Arryn. I can persuade her to keep her lords out of this war—her love for me is a lever I know well. As for allies, I ask your leave to treat with the Tyrells. They might be swayed to our cause."
Varys raised an eyebrow, his tone skeptical. "And why would the Tyrells abandon Renly? They back him for Margaery's crown."
Littlefinger's smile widened. "Renly is an usurper, and the Tyrells are pragmatists. They want Margaery as queen, yes, but if we offer her to Joffrey—the rightful heir of Robert Baratheon—they may see reason. A marriage alliance could shift their banners to our side."
Varys's lips pursed, his disbelief plain, but he said nothing. Cersei, too, doubted Littlefinger's plan—his honeyed words always hid a knife—but she saw no harm in letting him try. "Go to the Tyrells," she said, her voice flat. "But do not fail me, Baelish."
Littlefinger bowed, his mind already elsewhere. The Lannisters were a sinking ship, and he knew it. His true plan was to slip into Renly's camp, to broker a deal with the younger Baratheon and secure his own place in the new order.
The same day Littlefinger left King's Landing, Tyrion Lannister arrived that evening. Upon hearing what his sister had done, he thought, 'Every time I think she can't do anything more stupid, she proves me wrong.'
The Camp of King Renly Baratheon – The Reach
In the fertile fields of the Reach, Renly Baratheon's command tent was a riot of color, its silken walls adorned with stag and rose sigils. Eighty thousand men camped across the rolling hills, their tents a sea of green and gold. Renly sat at a carved table, his youthful charm tempered by the weight of war. Beside him, Ser Loras Tyrell polished his sword, his scowl deepening with every stroke. Lord Randyll Tarly, the Reach's finest general, stood before a map, reading aloud from a scout's report.
"Jaime Lannister, defeated and captured at Riverrun," Loras Tyrell said, his voice steady. "Tywin Lannister marches to King's Landing with twenty thousand men."
"We should march on the capital now," Tarly urged, his tone unyielding. "We have the numbers—Hundred thousand strong. If we move swiftly, we can take King's Landing before Tywin arrives."
Renly exhaled, his fingers drumming on the table. "And what then? Even if we seize the city, we'd still face Aemon Targaryen and Stannis. This sorcerer-king in the North, with his ice and fire… he's no mere rebel."
Loras looked up, his eyes flashing. "He's a threat, yes, but so is King's Landing. If we take the throne, we legitimize your claim. The realm will rally to you."
Renly shook his head, his charm giving way to calculation. "No. We stay here. Let Aemon and the Lannisters bleed each other dry. Let Stannis skulk on his island. When they're exhausted, we'll make our move."
Randyll Tarly opened his mouth to protest, but Mace Tyrell, ever eager, clapped his hands. "Excellent idea, Your Grace! Let them weaken themselves, and we'll sweep in to claim the prize!"
Renly nodded slowly, regaining his composure, though his eyes lingered on the map, where the North burned with the fires of a dragon reborn.
The War Council of King Stannis Baratheon – Dragonstone
In the shadowed chamber of the Painted Table, Dragonstone's heart, candlelight danced across the carved map of Westeros. Stannis Baratheon stood at its head, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed carved from the island's black stone. Davos Seaworth, his loyal Hand, delivered the news with a sailor's bluntness. "Jaime Lannister is captured at Riverrun, my lord. Aemon Targaryen's work."
Silence hung heavy. Melisandre of Asshai, her red robes glowing in the dim light, smiled, her eyes alight with fervor. "It is as I have foreseen."
Stannis turned to her, his blue eyes cold as steel. " What more have you seen?"
"A fire reborn," she intoned, her voice like a chant. "A king of ice and fire, forged in the crucible of war. Aemon Targaryen is no ordinary man, but the Lord of Light has chosen another champion."
Davos shifted, uneasy. "And what does this mean for us, my lord?"
Stannis's gaze dropped to the Painted Table, his fingers tracing the outline of King's Landing. "It means this war is no longer between Baratheons. Aemon Targaryen is a real threat to the throne—more than Joffrey, more than Renly."
Melisandre stepped closer, her presence radiating heat. "The Lord of Light has chosen you, Stannis Baratheon, as Azor Ahai reborn. The red star bleeds, and you will wield Lightbringer against the darkness."
Stannis's face remained stone, unyielding. "The Baratheons no longer kneel to Targaryens." His fingers curled into a fist, crushing the air. "Let this sorcerer-king come. I will meet him with steel and fire of my own."
The game of thrones tightened, and across Westeros, the players moved their pieces, unaware that a dragon of ice and fire was rising to reshape the board.