Chapter 157: Coronation

"Not good at all," said Tyrion. "Only bandits, thieves, and killers want to join the Night's Watch anymore… oh, and bastards too."

Hearing the word "bastard," Samwell took the opportunity to ask, "I heard that the Hand of the King, Lord Eddard Stark, sent his own bastard to the Wall?"

"Yes. His name's Jon Snow—a decent lad."

So he's still followed the same fate as before, Samwell mused to himself. Unfortunately, Samwell's own path had drastically changed, making any journey to the Wall—and the friendship he might have shared with this northern bastard lord—a distant prospect. Who knew what might become of the Night's Watch in this world, now without "Samwell Tarly the White Walker Slayer?"

"Lord Tyrion, allow me to congratulate you," Samwell said, "for your nephew is about to become the King."

"Oh, don't congratulate me," Tyrion muttered, clearly far from pleased. "The gods save us from a fool like that on the Iron Throne. Seven hells, as if the world isn't mad enough."

"I hear he plans to name you Master of Coin, which does deserve congratulations, doesn't it?"

"What?!" Tyrion shot up in bed, aghast. "You're not serious?"

Samwell shrugged, amused. "Just something I heard from some girls; it might not be reliable."

"No, no! I need to know if this is true." Tyrion leaped out of bed, hastily tugging on his clothes. "Seven hells! I don't want that charlatan's mess of debts and schemes—I'll refuse!"

Samwell shook his head, grinning. "I doubt the King has time to meet with you now; he's likely at the pools in fervent prayer ahead of his coronation. I just came to remind you to pull yourself away from lovely distractions in time for the ceremony."

With that, Samwell left, bidding Tyrion farewell. Hurrying to prepare, Tyrion tore himself away from the beautiful Summer Islander and, now dressed, dashed out of the brothel.

After stopping briefly at the Red Keep to don more formal attire, he climbed Visenya's Hill and entered the Great Sept of Baelor.

Inside the sept, the central hall was awash in the sheen of jewels, furs, silks, and brocade as King's Landing's nobles paraded their finest robes, all eager to outshine one another on this grand occasion.

Tyrion's arrival went mostly unnoticed. As the Lannisters' second son, he was nothing compared to his radiant elder siblings, Cersei and Jaime. It was as if the gods had given all the beauty to them, leaving him only the scraps.

Yet the gods had also gifted Tyrion the intelligence that both his brother and sister so often lacked. Unfortunately, the common folk rarely bothered to look beyond his outward deformity to see what lay within.

Now that Jaime, as a member of the Kingsguard, could no longer inherit titles or lands, Tyrion was technically first in line to be Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock. But no one truly saw him as the next lord, least of all his father, Tywin Lannister.

The great Lion of the West made no secret of his disgust for his youngest son. Were it not for the fear of angering the gods, Tyrion was sure he would have been dead long ago.

Unbothered by the usual glares and snubs, Tyrion meandered around the prayer hall.

The coronation hadn't yet begun, so he took his time, noting that the High Septon was positioned at the center of the hall, wearing his crystal crown. Standing beside him was Queen Regent Cersei.

Today, Cersei wore a burgundy velvet gown with gold-trimmed sleeves that trailed to the floor, giving her a look of regal elegance.

Tyrion approached. "Hey, Elder sister!"

Cersei lifted her chin to look down at her brother. "Tyrion. When did you return? I half expected you'd frozen to death on the Wall."

"Arrived last night," he replied, ignoring her sneer. "Thanks so much for caring about my health. Where's Jaime?"

"He's a Kingsguard knight. By the king's side, of course, you dolt."

"Ah, sister, it's a comfort to see that widowhood hasn't dimmed your natural warmth. I'd mourn your death just as deeply, you know."

"Oh, if you died, I would surely shed a tear," she retorted icily.

"If I die, it'll be with joy knowing you won't be far behind me, dearest sister."

Cersei's lips twisted in barely concealed rage, and Tyrion smirked, toddling off to enjoy her reaction.

Soon after, a familiar voice called his name.

Turning, Tyrion spotted the lord of Eagle Point, Samwell, who he had parted from only a short while earlier. Lord Caesar! Tyrion greeted him cheerfully, though his heart gave a small twinge of jealousy.

Who wouldn't envy this young, dashing lord, with a beautiful woman on each arm? To Tyrion's left, he recognized the famed "Rose of Highgarden," Margaery Tyrell; on the right, a noblewoman from Dorne with the sigil of the Dawnstar—likely the Dornish Lady Nathalie.

So you have such beauties by your side, yet you go around buying brothels? Tyrion thought wryly. Outwardly, he remained polite, exchanging pleasantries with Samwell and his company.

Nathalie observed Tyrion with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, while Margaery quickly warmed to him, drawing him into a lively conversation.

Just then, the sound of bells filled the sept, and everyone hushed. The coronation was about to begin.

At the door, Joffrey appeared, the stag of his House proudly emblazoned on his chest, the lion of his mother's family on his gilded buttons. His dark green robe shimmered with golden threads, and a crimson Lannister cloak trailed behind him.

Surrounded by the seven white-cloaked Kingsguard, the young king stepped into the hall.

Sunlight filtered through the stained glass, casting rainbow hues around the hall, illuminating the towering statues of the Seven that gazed down at the young king's solemn approach.

As he reached the High Septon, Joffrey knelt on one knee, head bowed.

The High Septon lifted a golden crown above Joffrey's head and recited:

"Joffrey Baratheon, son of the late King Robert Baratheon, I crown you this day in the name of the Seven, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. May the Father grant you justice, so you may judge all with fairness. May the Mother grant you mercy, so you may be kind to all your subjects. May the Warrior grant you courage…"

After reciting the lengthy blessing, the High Septon lowered the crown onto Joffrey's head.

With that, Joffrey was officially crowned the new ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, lord of Westeros.

Joffrey leaped to his feet, his face a mask of arrogance and triumph.

"Ladies and lords!" Joffrey proclaimed loudly. "We gather here not only to witness my coronation but also to bear witness to a judgment!"

At this, a murmur of curiosity rippled through the crowd.

"Oh, my foolish nephew, can't you just shut up?" muttered Tyrion beside Samwell.

Samwell stifled a smile, shaking his head. This "Young Mad King" was about to stir trouble during his own coronation, it seemed. With Robert gone, Joffrey would no longer have anyone restraining his cruelty.

"Your Grace," Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King, stepped forward. "What judgment are you referring to?"

"Justice for the guilty!" Joffrey gestured to the doors. "Bring her in!"

Samwell turned to see a familiar woman being escorted inside. It was Tyerne Sand, the daughter of Prince Oberyn of Dorne, whom Samwell remembered as the one who had mischievously tried to mislead him during his visit to Oberyn.

"My lords and ladies, this is Tyerne Sand, daughter of the Red Viper Oberyn Martell, who murdered three of the Small Council! Today, in the sight of the Seven, I will judge her!" Joffrey proclaimed loudly.

"Hold on!" Lord Stark interjected. "Your Grace, her father's crimes are not her own. We cannot condemn the innocent."

"Innocent?" Queen Regent Cersei sneered. "This daughter of the Red Viper knows poisons of every kind, and she has seduced the servants of the Seven!"

"She seduced a holy man!" added the High Septon, his jowls shaking with indignation.

"It was his lack of faith, not my seduction," Tyerne countered coolly. "If he were truly devout, he'd have resisted me. And my father did not murder Jon Arryn! You all framed him!"

"See?" Joffrey sneered. "She's defiant and unrepentant. She must be judged!"

Varys softly suggested, "Your Grace, for her crime, she could be stripped and paraded through the streets, then locked in the dungeons…"

"That's far too merciful!" Joffrey snapped. "I want her dead!"

"Your Grace!" Lord Stark pleaded. "You cannot condemn someone to death without a fair trial."

"Yes, Your Grace," Tyrion interjected. "Killing her will only make Oberyn Martell less likely to ever set foot in King's Landing again."

Cersei smirked, fanning the flames. "As if sparing her would bring Oberyn back to King's Landing. Don't be naive."

"Indeed!" emboldened by his mother's support, Joffrey shouted, "As king, I now sentence Tyerne Sand to death! Bring me her head!"

"Your Grace! This is the Great Sept of Baelor! You cannot shed blood here!" Stark tried to reason.

"Your Grace!" echoed another voice, urging restraint. "Think of the realm, and of Dorne…"

"Enough!" Joffrey's face twisted with fury, seeing his commands defied. "I am king! I will kill whom I wish!"

Tyrion stepped forward again, raising his voice for all to hear. "The last king who behaved this way was Aerys Targaryen, the Mad King. Need I remind you how he met his end?"

"Get out of my way, dwarf!" Joffrey snarled at his uncle. "Ser Barristan! Execute her!"

Ser Barristan Selmy hesitated, shifting his gaze between Joffrey and the assembled lords and ladies.

But Joffrey's patience had snapped. With a furious roar, he drew his own sword, storming forward to take Tyerne's life himself.

Tyerne, kneeling and staring defiantly at her would-be executioner, barely had time to react as the young king's sword descended.

Blood sprayed as Joffrey's first blow struck her, but his strength faltered halfway through the swing. Tyerne let out a wrenching scream, her body writhing in agony as Joffrey hacked at her again, splattering the sept with crimson blood.

The once-reverent hall erupted in chaos. Nobles recoiled in horror, some turning away, others murmuring in shock or even gagging at the sight. Screams and gasps echoed around the hall as Joffrey, drenched in blood, slashed madly, each stroke more brutal than the last.

Finally, Jaime Lannister could bear it no longer. Striding forward, he delivered a swift, clean stroke that mercifully ended Tyerne's suffering.

But Joffrey, covered in her blood, laughed, his eyes glinting with wild triumph. "Send her head to Dorne! Tell them to hand over the Red Viper, or they will suffer the same fate! If they resist… then they'll have war!"

He raised his blood-stained sword high, his voice ringing through the hall. "War!"

(End of Chapter)