73 Revolution

Dawn broke in King's Landing with the caws of roosters and the snarls of overseers. Whips cracked as the glum slaves - matched by tens of thousands of impressed 'free' citizens - marched robotically towards their work details. Guards and Faith Militant thugs watched them with indifference, as a cruel child would view a line of chickens. Not human. Beasts of burden less valuable than the massive Essosi Mammoth used for heavier loads. Mere playthings for their whims and for the whims of their betters. Such occupations didn't draw footsoldiers from a pool of decent citizens.

The massive pyramid loomed over the entire city. Despite the war, treasure, resources, and blood secured by mass looting of the Reach, Dorne, and the Stormlands were still being poured into Joffrey's vanity project - loaned money financed the Army of the Divine Chimera, the Iron Bank basically owning the crown at this point. A golden statue, gilded copper of Joffrey resplendent in a Lannister military uniform atop a horse, rested at the summit of the pyramid. Work continued unabated, the base being finished off with smooth cuts of stone while the slaves labored on the middle and top.

Siegeworks being needed, Joffrey forbade any diversion from the project. Daario ordered the Goldcloaks to instead impress the smallfolk of Flea Bottom in order to handle the increased workload, creating a city on the brink. Food was scarcer than during Renly's siege, terror widespread, and the illicit faith of R'hllor upending centuries of religious tradition. King's Landing was wildfire, and all it would take was a tiny spark to ignite a confligeration.

It was in this that Jon and his elite warriors filtered into. Weapons were hidden, buried under sand or tucked into haystacks and bales of cotton - tucked away till the right moment, predators donning the same clothing as the sheep all around them. Jon, Robb, Gendry, Grey Worm, Barristan, Jorah, Bronn, Tormund, Davos, and dozens of others all donned cheaply spun wool or faded, dirty burlap, some tucking their faces underneath cloaks.

None of the guards noticed. The Imperials didn't find it shocking that hired thugs only in it for the perks of raping and looting would be so lax.

Each knew their role. Their task in the upcoming orchestra of rebellion. Brotherhood agents spread word far and wide of a distraction, a symbol of liberty that would ignite the flame of uprising. But only the central core knew the actual plan. It was a plan simple in its complexity - dependent on factors that only Jon or Tormund had faith in. None of the others had dealt with the facts and players involved, man or beast. But it was the only way, and so they trudged with the slaves and impressed smallfolk towards their assignments.

Burlap shift over his cuirass, hood covering his head, Jon made his way through the throng of people. To his side towered the mammoth, normal serene and playful hooting and trumpeting nonexistent - beaten out of them by whip and spear. "Remember," he breathed. "Act a proper, cowed slave till my signal."

"We're with you, sire," Jorah replied.

"For Empress Daenerys," said Grey Worm, not happy to be back in bondage - if only for a little while.

Sandor Clegane only grunted, spitting on the ground. "Fuck King's Landing." That would have to do.

He weaved his way till he found Beric and Thoros. "All taken care of on your end, Lord Beric?" Jon asked in a low whisper.

"Aye." Beric spared his Emperor and Promised Prince a glance out of his one eye. "The word of revolution has been spread." At the closeness of a Faith Militant, beating a helpless woman - talisman of R'hllor on the dirt belying the reason - Beric hushed up.

"Grevy pryjatas," finished Thoros, swigging from a small waterskin once they were out of range of the thug. Seeking to replicate his drunk charge at Pyke so many years before.

A small upward twitch of the lip. "Break the Wheel," Jon murmured.

"...all just spokes on a wheel. This ones on top, then that ones on top and on and on it spins crushing those on the ground." Dany's words flooded his mind, ones of inspiration, of pure selfless duty rather than selfish ambition. "We're not going to stop the wheel, Jon. You and I, together, are going to break the wheel."

"Ready, Jon?" He looked up to see Robb next to him. "This better work."

"It will," he echoed Tormund's confidence… only they had seen it happen.

Nodding, an odd glint sparkled in Robb's eye. Jon raised an eyebrow, and Robb slapped his back. "You know what today is, brother?"

Jon blinked in confusion, wracking his brain. "Lib… Liberty day?" But that would be a holiday that he would have to create, not one that currently existed…

Laughing, Robb ruffled his hair. "Happy name day, Jon. You turn four and twenty today." He chuckled once more, leaving Jon stupefied. He had completely forgotten his own name day - it hadn't been important growing up, only Arya, Robb, Bran, his father, and sometimes Sansa even recognizing it. Daenerys would have, and if she hadn't been captured likely planned a realmwide celebration… 'I will save you, my love.' He looked heavenword. 'Gods give me strength, for I will save her.'

"Move you scum!" screamed an overseer in Valyrian, whip cracking as it smacked into Jon's cloak. Skin protected by a concealed cuirass, the vicious snap still stung. Looking back in barely repressed anger, Jon shrugged it off and continued forward - an Emperor hiding in plain sight.

"Grevy pryjatas," he whispered to Kinvara as he passed her, the creed of the new revolution that Jon was brewing. Gaze trained on his back, soon disappeared into the throng of the crowd, the High Priestess of R'hllor smirked darkly.

Winter has come for Joffrey Waters.

Turning the corner, unseeing eyes gazed upon the scene in the King's private audience room - from the sounds, it wasn't a pleasant gathering. Wasn't pleasant even under Joffrey's sadistic median. With perceptive ears, she could hear everything. Starting with the blubbering of someone completely pathetic. Even hearing it was embarrassing to anyone with self respect.

"Please, take it." Gold coins clinked on the stone floor as a prostate Grand Maester Pycelle emptied the sack Jaime had given him several weeks before. "Take it all." Tears and snot coated his wizened beard. "Forgive me, your Highest…"

"Silence Traitor!" Joffrey kicked him in the head, drawing out a whimper and further blubbering.

To his left, Jaime rolled his eyes in complete disgust at Pycelle and indifference to the entire proceeding. "Can we please get on with this?" he whined sarcastically. To his left, Daenerys and Sansa had something to lose, and were merely quiet. He had nothing to lose, and therefore did not hold his tongue. "Death is preferable to hearing a grown man piss himself."

Cheeks coloring to the complexion of a ripe tomato, Joffrey clenched his fists. "Ser Gregor!" Stepping forward nonchalantly, the Mountain slammed his mailed fist into Jaime's lower back. Gritting his teeth, Jaime couldn't help letting out a low grunt of pain from between his lips - mentally cursing a storm upon his hellspawn.

"I should have ran a sword through your back as I did the Mad King. You are no son of mine." Catching the muttered last sentence, Cersei's look could have killed a dragon. Jaime knew he had sealed his death warrant. With the woman he had loved being the one to swing the blade or deliver the poison. Once again, he couldn't find it in himself to care.

Too caught up in his rage, Joffrey didn't hear it as his mother did. Instead he crouched by Dany, taking the aforementioned hand in his own. Dany fought the urge to recoil in disgust at the clammy touch and metallic feel of Joffrey's fingerclaws. "These scars look like nothing!" He could barely make out any pattern at all. "How could this be the fucking Mark?!"

"We measured it, all Highest," replied the High Sparrow, trying his best to remain stoic - inwardly, his sovereign's mood and the nature of the prophecy filled him with dread. "Many times. It matches the stars exactly."

"How did she even get these?" Joffrey lurched back onto his feet, gossamer robes swishing upon the dusty stone. "Enforcer, you never saw them during your time together?"

Daario shook his head from behind his palms, covering his face as the High Sparrow did. "No. Not in Meereen. Her hand seemed injured after I carried out your will in Dragonstone, all Highest."

It was then the voice returned, that of his father - Robert Baratheon. "Mark of the Warrior, branded by one employed." Daario was his employed… "One God she crowns, one God destroyed." 'No.' Joffrey recoiled from imaginary demons… not imaginary to him. 'Not possible.'

It morphed into the Northern brogue of Ned Stark. "On female flesh, his sigil doth enjoyed. Azor Ahai lives, your reign will fall."

"Her husband," he choked out, voice hoarse. "The Stark Bastard. Who is he?" His heart began to beat out of his chest. 'He is but a bastard.' "What is his story?"

Cersei hid her scoff. "He is but the lowly bastard of Ned Stark." Gleeful hate tinted her voice. "The great and honorable Ned Stark, devoted to his family. And yet he disgraced himself and his harpy of a wife."

It started off faint, but grew in volume. Sansa and Daenerys, almost as if they coordinated with each other, began laughing. Quiet chuckles, but soon turned into painful howls of humor - bawling over in an inside joke that the Divine Chimera, born of the Womb of the Maiden, had no idea about.

Turns out, he didn't much like that. "What is so fucking funny?!" He grabbed Sansa's hair and tried to yank her up, but the awkward fingerclaws slipped through her silky locks once he could.

Sansa made it easy, abruptly pushing onto her knees… staring directly at him. The first time anyone had ever done that in years. "You are a fool Joffrey. You were always one, and now such idiocy brings you to your doom." She pushed her hair back from her face, ensuring her scorching blue eyes gazed directly into his black soul. "Jon is no bastard."

Joffrey blinked. "What?"

"Of course he is a bastard," Cersei stated haughtily. Daario simply kept his eyes behind his hands, having heard the truth from the Imperial commanders at Dragonstone. He certainly wouldn't be the one to tell his King.

Shaking off the final series of chuckles, Daenerys rose just as Sansa did. Her gaze was that of a Queen… of an Empress. A gaze that Joffrey had never managed to exude. "Jon is the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark… the true heir to the throne you have usurped." An ominous gust of air wafted through the high slits in the room, her silver locks billowing as the wings of a dragon. "He is the Union of Ice and Fire."

"Lies!" Cersei shrieked, but Joffrey once again didn't hear.

"The Lord of Light, the previous son. His rule will win, his time will come."

Previous son. It all tumbled into place for Joffrey. Not the son of the previous king… one of Robert's bastards. 'I was the Crown Prince…' No, the son of his predecessor, Rhaegar…

"Son of your former, beware his call. The Stormborn sees thy eyes, thy reign will fall."

He felt his knees buckle, the voices bringing pain to him. Arms hauled him up from his near fall, but all Joffrey could think about was the prophecy. A prophecy… a prophecy come full circle. One that would lead to a certain outcome.

"The Stormborn sees thy eyes, thy reign will fall." And the Stormborn looked directly at him, violet eyes blazing directly into his soul.

"You will die before the sun sets, Joffrey," Sansa stated, beholding the first and final monster in her life.

Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, Cersei strained to keep her beloved son from collapsing bonelessly. "Your Highest. What troubles you?"

Joffrey trembled, shaking near violently. "Azor Ahai is reborn."

The blind servant disappeared from around the corner.

The mid-morning sun beat down on the main ramp towards the great pyramid. It dwarfed the one in Meereen, the famous statue of the Harpy having nothing on the garish splendor of Joffrey's statue. Even to someone not used to great art - as Jon had in his stay in Meereen or Dragonstone - the thing was an eyesore. Instead of look at it, he focused his thoughts on the backbreaking labor. He and his fellow warriors were assigned to a crew hauling a block of limestone up the ramp. Wooden rails on the sled made it mobile, but only just. He was in decent shape, but Jon could feel his muscles close to giving way.

Muffled curses left those around him, kept muffled by the presence of the guards not sparing in their use of whip or truncheon. Jon seethed but kept going, ignoring the rope rubbing his hand raw as he pulled with all his might.

Ahead of him, Grey Worm couldn't take his gaze off a line of crucifixes, each bearing a slave of various age or origin. It made his blood boil, anger building underneath his hard, docile exterior.

Bones aching, muscles on fire at pulling the thick rope, Robb threw his head back in agony - only to spot something. "Jon…" He nudged his brother, gesticulating with a jerk of the head. "That one?"

Jon looked at where his brother motioned. An eyebrow rose. "Tormund?" he asked the wildling behind him.

"Aye." Tormund nodded. "That's the one." The Essosi Mammoth plodded down the ramp, skin wrinkled and frayed with a long, hard life. What were once large and magnificent tusks had been sawed off, but the stumps were thicker than any other's. Towering at least two head above all the other mammoth, it was clearly the lead bull. Head of the herds - true of Essosi bulls as were those north of the wall.

"Beric," Jon told the highborn Lord and commander in the Brotherhood. "We've found the lead bull." Nodding, Beric whispered something Valyrian to a group of water carriers, who quickly scrambled up and down the ramp towards the various clusters of at least two dozen mammoth. "Now!"

The command of their Emperor found the entire work gang halt in place, devolving into a melee of squabbling and milling as Sandor pushed forward to pick a fight with a Ghiscari member of the brotherhood. Jeers and catcalls rang out, overseers and Faith Militant immediately drawn to the scene like flies. Irritation coursed through them at the interruption of the work, distracted from the docile water carriers busy unhooking each mammoth from its harness. "Back to work, dogs!" they yelled, whips cracking in the air and truncheons smacking into flesh and bone.

One overseer, his Ghiscari features and absolute zeal in his work a common sight in the old slaver city states of New Valyria, grabbed Grey Worm by the back and began whipping him raw. The Unsullied commander gritted his teeth.

"Grey Worm, not yet," Jon commanded, peering up the ramp - where Beric had escaped to. Suddenly, gratefully, the warrior of R'hllor gave his signal. Completion. "Break the Wheel!" Jon yelled.

Dropping the rope, Grey Worm spun around with the fluidity of an Unsullied and wrapped his hand around the overseer's throat. Eyes bugged out, never expecting a beaten dog to lash out,

the overseer gasped a breath out of his lungs before the freed slave soldier tossed him to his death off the ramp. His was the first action of the complete transformation of the warriors from cowed slaves into trained partisans. Overseers and Faith Militants, drawing their swords, axes, and knives for the first time, waded in but were overwhelmed. One darted forward with a spear and skewared a teenager from Volantis before Jon slammed a knife into his spine.

Spear cluttering to the ground, Jon grabbed it and raced forward to the lead bull. The beast drew back, ponderous feet plodding as the strange little man before him - shift doffed to reveal his dark grey battle cuirass, waved at him with the spear. Just as Mance had taught him all those years before.

Grabbing an axe from a fallen guard, the Hound hacked off the head of a Faith Militant that was beating a slave boy. Another swing slammed into the groin of an overseer. Blood spurted on the dusty stone, the man falling to his knees. Walking around him, Sandor couldn't help but snort. "Well, well, we meet again." It was the same overseer that had interrogated him after Arya disappeared.

"Fuck you!" he snarled.

The Hound wrinkled his nose in disgust as the others finished off the last of the on site guards. "Last words? You can do better."

Blood gurgling in his mouth, a word spurted out with a splatter of crimson liquid. "Cunt."

"You're shit at dying." With that, Sandor brought the axe down on the sadist's head with a grunt.

Beric came upon the scene. "Stop playing with your food, Hound." He found it quite amusing.

"Come on you cunts!" Robb yelled, slicing the head off the last guard. "Form up! We must form up!" He jogged to where the Hound, Davos, and Tormund waited together. "Where's Jon?"

Davos pointed up the ramp. "His Majesty is up there." Jon was still swiping his spear at the beast, coaxing and fighting it in a deadly game of bait the bear.

"He will not charge," Tormund breathed. "Fucker is tame."

Running a hand through his hair, Robb looked at him. "Beaten for too long?"

"Aye. Had I been on a farm, I wouldn't be a fuckin' killer like I am."

"I doubt that," Clegane muttered, when the blaring of a horn reached his ears. Turning, he rolled his eyes. "Oh for fuck's sake." Continued blasts from the horn resonated across the city, fighters, slaves, and citizens alike gazing at the hundreds of Goldcloaks racing up the massive ramp. There was a general lack of formation, spears and shields carried haphazardly as the commander sacrificed skill for speed.

But skill wasn't needed to overwhelm a mere few dozen Imperials and rebelling slaves.

"Get everyone up the ramp!" Robb yelled, the others barking orders simultaneously. Devoid of weapons other than a smattering of knives, spears, and truncheons, no matter how a well-trained highborn could stack up man to man against a barely-trained thug in armor, quantity was its own quality. Fighters and slaves alike - the former disciplined while the latter a shrieking mass of humanity - careened towards the top of the ramp like an oncoming flood. None of which stopped the advancing Goldcloaks.

Staring at the ragged column, then at the Emperor still busy trying to coax the mammoth bull from the docility beaten into it, and finally back to the column, Ser Barristan made a choice. While his bones ached from age, he was still a knight of the Realm, former commander of the Kingsguard. He failed to save his Prince, but he could save his Emperor. Knife clenched tightly in one hand, Barristan picked up a workman's hammer from the ground as he charged at the Goldcloaks.

"Barristan! No!" Jorah yelled, only for Beric Dondarrion to literally push him to join the retreating mass.

Panting, the knight's momentum carried him forward as an expert blow sliced open the exposed neck of the lead Goldcloak. Another, having leapt into the fray too quickly to grab his helmet, found his skull caved in by Barristan's hammer. It was here that the ragged charge - for the sake of shaving valuable time in quashing the rebellion - boomeranged on the Goldcloaks. Essentially it allowed Ser Barristan the fortune of facing one man at a time. His knife and hammer grew slick with blood as Barristan the Bold felled man after man like a soul possessed.

Such fortune ran out quickly, four Goldcloaks advancing at once. His hammer dropped one, while a spear pierced through his side. The pain registered as a mere thud, and with a grunt Barristan slashed forward with his knife. A flash of steel to his right nearly found a sword lopping off his head, but a spear flew out of nowhere to run through the Goldcloak. "Thought you could use a hand," drawled Thoros of Myr, flaming sword in hand. A sword that soon met flesh as it disemboweled the remaining Goldcloak.

"Hope you're not too drunk,' quipped Barristan. The onrushing pain from his wound didn't stop him from dropping his weapons and picking up a fallen sword.

As the middle of the column approached, mouths open in a savage battlecry, Thoros shrugged. "Not too drunk."

Looking back, Jon had a perfect view of his bodyguard. The bodyguard of his father, the Great Barristan the Bold, essentially sacrificing himself for Jon… and Dany. His will rallied, a surge of power and fire coursing through his blood.

"HAAAAAGGGGH!" Jon slammed the spear forward, steel tip slicing through skin and flesh. A growling rumble left the massive mammoth, spear yanked out. "AAAARRRRGGGGH!" Another guttural cry left the Emperor - the spirit of Mance Rayder likely nodding from beyond the grave - Jon raising the spear horizontally above his head as the mammoth reared back on its hind legs, trumpeting an enraged, vengeful tone of an animal driven beyond its breaking point.

The commander of the Goldcloaks, an old veteran of the Battle of Blackwater Bay, suddenly had enough. Driven to fury by two men holding up his entire attack - dozens falling victim to them - he mustered ten men to charge in a halfway cohesive formation. Spears and shields advanced, Barristan and Thoros struggling and giving back ground. It was the infamous Thoros of Myr that fell first, his flaming blade dispatching two before his throat was cut. Barristan the Bold lashed out, blade tasting blood once more before the commander buried a spear into his heart. Coughing out blood, the great Barristan Selmy managed to kill his attacker in one final blow before collapsing into the sweet embrace of death.

Bloodlust up, enraged at the death of their comrades and ready to sate said anger upon the innocent slaves and outnumbered Imperials, the Goldcloaks surged forward in a final dash towards the top of the ramp. Only for their stoppable force to meet one even greater.

Vision blinded with fury, the lead bull mammoth charged at a top gallop. Behind it, the rest of the herd followed its leader, trumpets hooting and echoing across the landscape - heard far and wide, by slave, citizen, guard, soldier, and beast for miles, including six specific winged monsters of the skies. Battlecries of the Goldcloaks turned into blood-curdling screams of terror as the bull barreled into them. What would have been a restoration of order turned into a rout for the Lannisters, use of the wild creatures turned beasts of burden against their captors a complete triumph of the Imperials.

As the last of the mammoth herd passed him, Jon leapt to his feet. He raised the spear in the air to his men and the rebelling slaves. "Grevy pryjatas! Break the wheel, boys!"

They surged forward, behind the charging mammoth. Wolf whistles and battlecries rang proud into the air, only to be drowned out by distant but still air-splitting roars. Jon grinned, for the battle had been joined.

"Grevy pryjatas!"

At the sight of the Goldcloaks fleeing, those not swift enough trampled to death by mammoth or decapitated by sword, Kinvara was the first of the onlookers around the entire city to raise her arms and shout the cry of rebellion. Brotherhood agents joined in not long after, tools, paving stones, and artfully concealed knives turned on the guards. Slaves and freedmen rose as well - first a trickle, and then a torrent that engulfed the building sites and stone quarries of King's Landing. All shouted in Valyrian, even those that spoke the common tongue.

"Grevy pryjatas!"

"Grevy pryjatas!"

"Grevy pryjatas!"

Brotherhood agents were everywhere, not just among the slaves. Years had been spent cultivating the denizens of Flea Bottom, the slum of King's Landing that had grown larger and larger as the gap between the wealthy elite and the expanding underclass grew. They only wanted bread for their bellies and circuses for their eyes, only for Joffrey to deny them the former without backbreaking labor and use mass executions of their own people for the latter. They were primed to rise, and upon the call of the Emperor's Revolution, they gladly joined the call. Flea Bottom burned as Faith Militant strong points were torched and their denizens butchered by angry mobs.

Long waiting for their call, forced by their father to ignore their baser instincts to find their mother and burn down all that stood in their way, the dragons flew low over the city. The three larger ones cast their shadows upon the city. Inciting fear and hope among the people. The three juveniles used their size and agility to assault anti-air positions, jets of flame immolating scorpion tenders and rocket artillerymen with impunity. Rhaegal and Edderon saved their dragonfire for whenever a cluster of Goldcloaks or mercenaries attempted to stop the onrushing mammoth, leaving them blackened husks and the charge continuing.

Balerion, the Dread reborn, darted at five of the six great landward gates surrounding the city. Each, heavily fortified, was turned into a scorching pyre for the defenders, wooden doorways collapsing into ash from his jets of flame.

A situation that the Imperial Army and commanding general Podrick Payne would insert itself into quite forcefully.

"My Lord," one Goldcloak asked of Littlefinger. The Lion Gate overlooking the goldroad was the most heavily armed of all of them. Scorpions bristled along its battlements, a personal rocket battery under the guard captain's personal command. But approaching were a line of Imperial troops, and a dragon in the air ready to deliver death to those that defied its rider. "What do we do?" He did not want to die.

Smirking softly, Littlefinger didn't even look at him. It was his moment, the culmination of decades of backstabbing and ladder climbing. Of hedging on all sides, now he knew exactly the winner, and the strongest connection of all to it. "Open the gate."

"My Lord?"

"Our King is defeated, his cause poisonous. We shall join the Targaryen, so open the gate and let them in." As such, the orders were carried out, the Imperial Army racing into the city under cover of dragonfire.

The Revolution was here.

Muscles burning, Qyburn scrambled down the same steps that the High Sparrow had only twelve hours before. "Seven hells…" he murmured. "Seven hells… Seven hells…" Over and over. Only now a harried pace was turned into an out an out sprint, his thin body barely able to take having to run all the way across the Red Keep in a mere five minutes. Lancel Lannister was better off through youth, but was even more terrified than Qyburn.

They both burst suddenly into the audience room. In their fear and desire to inform their King, both forgot protocol. "All Highest, the slaves! They've risen!"

Frantic voices piercing the haze and whirring thoughts Joffrey had been clouded with, the clarity brought his eyes towards the intruders. And how they weren't bowing to him. Unlike the Dragon Empress, they were his subjects. A vicious snarl left his throat, rising as high as his middling height and platform boots would secure him.

Eyes widened in fear, the High Sparrow gesture wildly. "Bow before your sovereign!" he nearly screamed.

The realization upon them, Qyburn and Lancel both collapsed onto their knees. Mollified, Joffrey approached them. "What do you mean, they have risen?!" It was a nightmare, a nagging spearpoint to the gut that this was the work of the prophecy. His fall happening in real time - that he would be dead by the end of the day as Sansa had so confidently stated.

"One god she crowns, one god destroyed."

Catching his breath… never having been so terrified in his life, Qyburn raised his head with his palms draped over his face. "The Stark Bastard." He noticed how his sovereign tensed underneath his veil at the words. "He led a small detachment of men onto the monument. They caused a stampede of mammoth, and the slaves and citizenry have drawn inspiration and are rising up in revolution."

"Flea Bottom has already fallen, all Highest. A large Imperial host has broken through the outer defenses of the city." Lancel was trembling - here he was, transformed into the same coward he had been while Robert's squire. "They will come here next."

Breaths heavy, Joffrey swiveled his head from one figure to the other. He was at a loss. Normally he had his grandfather… or his uncle… or Littlefinger. But Tywin was a prisoner of the Starks, his uncle was his prisoner, and Littlefinger was nowhere to be found. Everyone else was useless for strategic and tactical matters. He was the King, and still had no idea how to truly rule…

"My brother will kill you," Sansa said flatly. "You could try to flee, but there is nowhere to go."

"Shut up!" Joffrey grabbed Sansa by the cheek, claws digging into her skin. "Perhaps I should take his whore on a ship with me. Her presence close to me would stop any attack!"

"A dragon does not burn, usurper." Daenerys could feel energy surging within her. The blood of the dragon burning fiercely as her other half drew closer. "My Dragonwolf would only burn all of you alive, knowing I would be safe." She smirked. "On this day, the day the Emperor Jon Targaryen, first of his name, was born upon this world, you have nowhere to go but the deepest of the Seven Hells."

Snarling, Joffrey lashed out. His fingerclaws slammed into Dany's cheek, leaving small cuts and sending her sprawling. "All guards in front of the Red Keep." He pointed at Dany. "She will stop them. If the bastard wants his whore, he can have her. IN PIECES!"