Kapitel 43: The Messiah

Third person pov :

The next day :

The atmosphere in the capital was a strange blend of sorrow and anticipation. Sorrow, for the beloved King Robert Baratheon had passed away, leaving a void in the hearts of many. The streets were lined with mourning citizens, and the great Sept of Baelor overflowed with those paying their respects to the fallen monarch.

Yet, there was also a palpable sense of anticipation in the air. Joffrey, the blessed Prince, was soon to be crowned as king. The hope and promise of a new era hung in the balance, and the people awaited this transition with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.

The capital, a city of contrasts, had witnessed both joyous celebrations and somber vigils in quick succession. It was a reflection of the unpredictable and ever-changing nature of the realm, where joy and sorrow often walked hand in hand.

The fervor of the church had reached its zenith. Septons, dressed in their holy robes, took to the streets, fervently preaching to the masses about the blessed king who was destined to be the realm's savior. Their voices, powerful and unwavering, rang through the cobbled streets, carried by the wind to the ears of all who passed by.

These holy men spoke of Joffrey as the chosen one, handpicked by the gods themselves to guide the Seven Kingdoms to an era of unparalleled prosperity and righteousness. Their words ignited a fervent belief in the hearts of the people, and many bowed their heads in reverence, their faces illuminated by the hope that their new king would be a beacon of virtue and justice.

The church's sermons were like wildfire, spreading the gospel of Joffrey's divine selection far and wide. The city was alive with anticipation, and the echoes of these zealous teachings reverberated through the capital, creating an atmosphere of religious ecstasy that added to the already charged air of change and uncertainty.

Inside the imposing walls of the Red Keep, the atmosphere was electric with anticipation. The grand hall, adorned with rich tapestries and gleaming chandeliers, had been transformed into a sea of nobility, courtiers, and the realm's most influential figures. Distinguished lords and ladies, draped in their finest attire, mingled with soldiers in polished armor and even a few wealthy peasants who had been granted the privilege of witnessing this historic moment.

The vast hall echoed with hushed conversations and whispers of excitement. People craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the imminent coronation ceremony, their eyes drawn to the raised dais where the Iron Throne stood, its dark, imposing presence looming over all. It was a sight to behold, a symbol of power and authority.

At the heart of the gathering, Prince Joffrey Baratheon, the center of attention, stood resplendent in his royal attire. His chiseled figure and princely bearing had undergone a transformation over the past weeks, and he radiated an air of confidence and regality that had not been present before. His golden hair glinted like a crown, and his every movement exuded a sense of purpose.

As the courtiers and nobles watched with bated breath, the moment drew near. The impending coronation of Joffrey Baratheon as king promised to be a turning point in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, an event that held the promise of both great change and great uncertainty.

Queen Cersei Lannister, in her regal attire, stood at a vantage point within the grand hall. Her green eyes, like shards of emerald, were fixed upon her son, Joffrey, with a mixture of profound happiness and unbridled pride. A soft smile graced her lips, revealing the depths of her satisfaction.

In that moment, Cersei saw not just her son but the embodiment of her ambitions and desires. The prince who would soon be crowned king was the living testament to her influence and power within the court. His rise to the throne promised to secure her family's dominance over the Seven Kingdoms, and she reveled in the realization of her long-held plans.

As she watched Joffrey, her firstborn, stand tall and poised to ascend the Iron Throne, Cersei felt an overwhelming sense of fulfillment. Her pride for him, her puppet king, was both a testament to her cunning and a dangerous harbinger of the days to come. In her eyes, Joffrey was not merely a son.

He was the fulfillment of her grand ambitions, and that realization filled her heart with an intoxicating sense of triumph.

Yet, amidst her pride and anticipation, a shadow of unease crept across Cersei's features. The memory of the brutal confrontation between Joffrey and Ser Barristan Selmy lingered in her mind like a haunting specter. The sight of her son's maniacal laughter as he wielded his blade in battle, unleashing a brutality that she had not seen before, sent a shiver down her spine.

For a brief moment, Cersei's thoughts shifted from the enthroned Joffrey to the crimson-stained floors of arena where the fateful duel had taken place. It was a stark reminder that the boy she had raised was not without a dark and unpredictable side. The madness that had gripped him during that fight had been as unsettling as it was unexpected.

Myrcella and Tommen, the younger siblings of the newly crowned King Joffrey, sat near their mother with forced smiles gracing their young faces. Though the courtly proceedings of their brother's coronation were meant to be a joyous occasion, the siblings could not conceal the underlying sorrow that weighed upon their hearts.

Their father, King Robert Baratheon, had met a sudden and tragic end, and his absence cast a somber shadow over the celebrations. Myrcella and Tommen, still tender in years, struggled to understand the complexities of courtly politics and the gravity of their family's situation. In their innocent eyes, they had lost not only a beloved father but a source of comfort and security.

Renly Baratheon, the younger brother of the late King Robert, maintained a facade of outward calm as he observed the coronation of his nephew, Joffrey. He was a man with ambition, and the thought of sitting upon the Iron Throne had crossed his mind more than once. However, recent events had shaken his resolve and sown the seeds of doubt.

While he displayed a composed demeanor in the grand hall of the Red Keep, Renly couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at him from within. He had witnessed firsthand the inexplicable occurrences that seemed to follow Joffrey—strange and unnatural events that defied explanation. The young king's transformation from a petulant boy into a ruler capable of inspiring religious fervor was as unsettling as it was inexplicable.

"Ah, my dear sister, lovely niece and nephew, and our noble Renly!" Tyrion's voice rang out with mirth as he weaved slightly, a testament to his fondness for wine. "We find ourselves gathered here on this fine day for a most splendid occasion—kings!"

He gestured dramatically to young Joffrey, who stood as the center of attention. Tyrion's words took on an air of celebration as he continued, "Kings are a curious breed, you see. They're born from the lineage of kings, and by the grace of the gods—or in this case, perhaps a touch of divine intervention—they ascend to the throne."

Tyrion's gaze drifted to the newly crowned Joffrey, and a mischievous glint danced in his eyes. "Our young king here, Joffrey Baratheon, has the fortune of royal blood coursing through his veins, and he's been chosen by the gods themselves! Or so they say."

He raised his goblet, and his tone shifted to one of mock solemnity. "May he rule with wisdom, fairness, and a bit of that Lannister charm. After all, kings are as unique as the stories told about them, and in Joffrey, we have quite the story unfolding."

Cersei's lips curled into a disdainful smirk as she directed her gaze toward her younger brother, who had just delivered his lively speech. With a condescending tone, she remarked, "And what, pray tell, is a dwarf doing here? Shouldn't he be busy cleaning sewers or some other suitable occupation for his... stature?"

Tyrion raised an eyebrow and asked Cersei in a feigned tone of surprise, "Didn't your beloved son, the soon-to-be king, inform you of my presence here?"

Before Cersei could reply, he burst into laughter, a hearty and infectious sound that filled the chamber. With a jovial grin, he leaned closer to Cersei and whispered, "My dear sister, I'm here to witness the grand spectacle, to see the birth of a new era. Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the show. I promise you won't want to miss a thing."

Tyrion's words were delivered with a knowing smile, leaving Cersei both puzzled and intrigued as she watched the unfolding events, a touch of uncertainty hidden beneath her regal facade.

But before she got the chance to demand what Tyrion's meaning was , the High Septon's voice soared with divine fervor, filling the grand chamber of the Red Keep as he proclaimed, "By the grace of the Seven, and in accordance with the will of the gods, I hereby declare Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!"

As the words resounded through the hall, the crowd erupted in a thunderous cheer, and the bells of King's Landing rang out in jubilation. Joffrey Baratheon stepped forward to claim the Iron Throne, the symbol of his dominion over the Seven Kingdoms....or so it should have been...

But Joffrey stood unmoving before the Iron Throne, the symbol of his newfound power. The assembled crowd in the Red Keep watched in anticipation, a collective hush falling over the chamber as they awaited his next move.

Rather than ascending the throne, Joffrey remained on his feet, his regal presence commanding attention. His eyes scanned the chamber, meeting the gazes of courtiers, nobles, and commoners alike. It was a moment of uncertainty, as murmurs of curiosity and bewilderment rippled through the onlookers.

With a sense of purpose, Joffrey finally addressed the crowd, his voice projecting with the authority of a king. "My lords and ladies, honored guests, and faithful subjects of the Seven Kingdoms," he began, his words deliberate and filled with gravitas. "I stand before you today not as a king who seeks the Iron Throne for its power, nor as one who revels in the trappings of monarchy."

He continued, his tone resolute and unwavering. "No, I stand here as a servant of the gods, chosen by them to guide our realm. It is not my desire for riches or conquest that has brought me here, but a solemn duty to uphold the divine will."

The crowd watched with rapt attention, a mixture of awe and confusion etched upon their faces. Joffrey's words were unlike any they had expected to hear on this momentous occasion.

"In the days to come," Joffrey continued, "I shall devote myself to the welfare of the realm, to justice, and to the guidance of the Seven. I shall rule not with an iron fist, but with compassion and understanding, for it is their divine guidance that shall light my path."

With that, Joffrey Baratheon stepped away from the Iron Throne, leaving it unoccupied.

And with thundering words that reverberated through the chamber, Joffrey addressed the assembly once more. His voice carried the weight of authority and conviction as he made a solemn request of the gods and his subjects.

"Today, I beseech the Smith, the divine craftsman, to lend his strength to my will," he declared, his words echoing with regal authority. "For this Iron Throne, a symbol of power and rule, I ask that it be transformed into a lasting monument to my father, King Robert Baratheon."

As he spoke, his gaze fixed upon the massive Iron Throne, its imposing presence casting a shadow over the proceedings. "Let the Iron Throne be reforged, not as a seat of power, but as a tribute to a king who was taken from us far too early," Joffrey proclaimed. "May it stand as a testament to his reign, his strength, and his legacy."

His words resonated with those in attendance, and a hushed reverence settled over the chamber. Joffrey's request was unexpected, and the gravity of his words left a profound impact on all who listened.

"I shall rule in his memory," Joffrey declared, "with the wisdom he imparted upon me, and with the gods as my witness, I shall strive to be a worthy successor to his legacy."

A moment of stunned silence hung in the air after Joffrey's proclamation. The hall was filled with anticipation and a sense of reverence. Then, as if answering the young king's request, a phenomenon beyond explanation unfolded.

A colossal pillar of radiant light descended from the heavens, bathing the Iron Throne in its divine glow. It was a sight unlike any other, a dazzling display of otherworldly power. The luminous beam encompassed the throne, surrounding it with an ethereal radiance that defied the laws of nature.

The crowd assembled in the chamber erupted into frenzied reactions. Gasps of awe and amazement echoed through the hall as the people bore witness to this miraculous spectacle. Some fell to their knees in reverent prayer, while others wept with joy, convinced that they were witnessing the very hand of the gods at work.

As the celestial light enveloped the Iron Throne, its transformation was nothing short of miraculous. The once imposing seat of power underwent a metamorphosis that defied the imagination. Iron, once cold and unyielding, was shaped into a tribute of monumental proportions.

Before the eyes of the astonished onlookers, the Iron Throne took on a new form. It became an awe-inspiring statue, a monument to King Robert Baratheon in his prime. Towering in height, it depicted the late monarch as a formidable warrior and a man of hearty indulgence.

At the core of the statue stood King Robert himself, captured in the prime of his strength and valor. His chiseled physique was accentuated, and his warrior's spirit radiated from every detail. In one hand, he held his mighty warhammer, a symbol of his prowess in battle, while in the other, he clutched a frothy tankard of ale—a testament to his love of revelry and merriment.

The statue's visage bore the likeness of a king who had ruled with both might and mirth, his face etched with the lines of experience and wisdom. His crown, forged from the same celestial light, rested atop his head with an aura of regal authority.

The throne itself had become a monument to the very essence of King Robert Baratheon—the warrior king who had held the Seven Kingdoms together through his sheer presence and charisma.

As the crowd looked upon this astonishing transformation, a hushed reverence descended upon the chamber. The people gathered within the Red Keep could hardly believe their eyes, for they were witnessing not just a miracle but the embodiment of their late king's spirit and legacy.

Amidst the hushed awe that had befallen the throne room, a surprising sound arose—a sound that broke through the silence and stirred the hearts of all who were present. It was the sound of enthusiastic applause, a resounding show of appreciation and approval.

The clapping echoed through the grand chamber, originating from none other than Eddard Stark, the former Hand of the King. His hands came together with heartfelt enthusiasm, creating a sound that seemed to fill the void left by the absence of the Iron Throne. His face, once marked by solemnity, now bore a radiant smile, and his eyes glistened with tears that flowed not from sorrow but from the sheer beauty and significance of the moment.

Eddard's claps rang out like a cascade of joy, his applause a testament to the deep respect and admiration he held for the fallen King Robert Baratheon. It was an acknowledgment of the love and camaraderie that had existed between them, a gesture of reverence for the man who had been his dear friend and liege.

The people gathered in the Red Keep, initially stunned by the transformation, gradually joined in the applause. The chamber, once cloaked in uncertainty, was now filled with the heartening sound of clapping hands, an expression of unity and respect for a beloved king who had passed away too soon.

The throne may have vanished, but in its place stood an immortal tribute, and the resounding applause was a fitting farewell to a monarch whose memory would live on for generations to come.

And now , Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm....sat on a simple wooden chair that had appeared near the Iron Statue.

Seated upon a humble wooden chair that, in no way, diminished his imposing presence. His hand, raised high, commanded silence from the awestruck crowd that had witnessed the miraculous transformation of the Iron Throne.

In the absence of the regal seat of power, Joffrey's position remained unmistakable. His form, tall and regal, exuded authority, and his demeanor, though more restrained than in recent memory, still held an aura of majesty.

As his hand rose, palm open and fingers elegantly splayed, the hushed murmurs and joyful applause gradually subsided. All eyes turned toward him, and the multitude awaited his words with bated breath. For a moment, he seemed a living testament to the legacy of the Baratheon line, standing proud and unwavering.

With a voice that rang through the hushed hall, Joffrey Baratheon now began his first proclamation as the King of Westeros. The crowd listened intently, their eyes fixed upon him as he announced his decision.

"I, Joffrey of House Baratheon, First of My Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm," he began, his tone steady and clear, "hereby declare that Tyrion of House Lannister shall serve as my Hand of the King."

His words were met with a mixture of reactions from the gathered nobles, from nods of approval to skeptical glances. Joffrey's decision seemed to ripple through the room, and all eyes turned to Tyrion, who had a wry, knowing smile on his face.

The newly appointed Hand of the King, wasted no time in making his way toward Joffrey's unassuming wooden chair, a glass of wine in his hand. His characteristic wry grin played upon his lips, and his gaze didn't miss the shocked expression on Cersei's face. He moved with an air of confidence, as if he were born for this moment, and the weight of responsibility sat easily on his shoulders. Amid the astonishment that had gripped the court, Tyrion's entrance brought a touch of mirth and intrigue to the proceedings.

As the crowd absorbed King Joffrey's unexpected proclamation, many turned their gazes toward Eddard Stark, the former Hand of the King, expecting to witness a storm of anger or frustration on his face. However, they were met with a sight that defied their expectations.

Eddard Stark, once the most powerful man in the realm, stood among the nobles, his eyes fixed on the newly transformed iron statue of King Robert Baratheon. He wore a genuine, heartfelt smile, and his eyes glistened with a mix of admiration and pride. It was as if the transformation of the Iron Throne into a statue of his late friend and king had touched his very soul.

The former Hand of the King, felt a profound sense of relief and even joy as he bent down on one knee, his voice strong and clear as he proclaimed, "Long live the king!" His words, filled with a mixture of reverence and hope, echoed through the hall. In an almost instinctive response, the crowd around him quickly followed suit, rising to their feet and joining in with a chorus of voices that rang out in jubilation, hailing Joffrey Baratheon as the new ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

And the King in cause simply looked towards the gathered nobles , priests and peasants with a simple smile adorning his face.

His emotions were unreadable, but if one was somehow able to listen to his thoughts, what they would hear was....

'All this...for such a small growth in refinement...'