The last of the cities in Slaver's Bay had fallen. Meereen, the jewel of the bay, now lay beneath the rule of Daenerys Targaryen. Standing on the battlements, she gazed down at the conquered city, where the cries of the defeated mingled with the cold night air, heavy with the scent of blood and smoke. The Unsullied, her loyal army, marched through the streets below, stamping out the final embers of resistance. Above, Frostfyre soared, his icy scales gleaming under the pale moonlight, a living testament to the power Daenerys now commanded.
Yet, as she surveyed the city she had won, Daenerys felt the weight of what was to come. Conquest was only the beginning. The true challenge lay ahead: to rule justly and to earn the loyalty of the people she had freed. Slavery's chains had been shattered, but the scars they left behind would take time to heal. Daenerys knew that ruling Meereen and the other cities of Slaver's Bay would require more than strength—it would require wisdom, compassion, and unwavering resolve.
As dawn broke, casting a pale light over the city, Daenerys gathered her council. It was time to establish order. The Unsullied would be stationed across the cities to maintain peace, while her advisors would begin dismantling the old power structures that had allowed slavery to thrive for centuries. But Daenerys made it clear that her rule would not be one of tyranny; she would be a queen who brought justice and freedom to her people. The Iron Throne in Westeros still eluded her, but with each city she conquered, she grew closer to her ultimate goal: uniting the Seven Kingdoms under her banner.
King's Landing
The play had reached its dramatic conclusion, the actors bowing deeply before the royal dais. The performance had been a masterful piece of propaganda, glorifying the rise of House Lannister and, by extension, King Joffrey. As the applause echoed through the hall, Joffrey's face split into a self-satisfied grin. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a heavy pouch filled with gold coins, tossing it to the lead actor with a casual flick of his wrist.
"Well done!" Joffrey's voice rang out, filled with arrogant pride. The actors, relieved and elated, bowed even lower, their expressions a mix of gratitude and fear. To please Joffrey was to secure their safety—for now.
But not everyone was so easily impressed. Tyrion Lannister, watching from his place near the dais, wore a look of thinly veiled disdain. He stepped forward, his voice cutting through the lingering applause like a blade.
"A fine show, Your Grace," Tyrion began, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "A tale for the ages, indeed. Though I wonder, how much of it was fact and how much was...creative embellishment?"
Joffrey's grin faltered, turning into a scowl. "Careful, Uncle. You're treading dangerous ground."
"And you, Nephew, are treading on the graves of those who bled for your crown," Tyrion shot back. "Or have you forgotten?"
The hall grew tense, the assembled lords and ladies exchanging nervous glances. The air was thick with unease, the musicians falling silent as they sensed the brewing storm.
Joffrey's face twisted in anger. "You dare question me? Here, in front of all my court?"
Tyrion, undeterred, reached for a goblet and poured wine into it. His movements were deliberate, his expression unreadable. "It seems I'm not the only one with questions," he said, holding the goblet out to Joffrey. "Perhaps a drink will calm your nerves, Your Grace."
Joffrey, too proud to back down, snatched the goblet from Tyrion's hand and downed the wine in one defiant gulp. A heavy silence followed, the tension in the room palpable.
Then it happened. Joffrey's eyes widened in shock, his hand flying to his throat as he gasped for breath. The goblet slipped from his grasp, clattering to the floor as he staggered, his face turning a sickly shade of purple.
"Poison!" someone shouted, and the word rippled through the crowd like wildfire. Chaos erupted as the king collapsed, writhing on the floor, his body convulsing in agony. Sansa screamed, rushing to her husband's side, her cries of anguish piercing the air.
Tyrion stood frozen, the goblet still in his hand, as the world around him dissolved into panic and accusation. The Mad King's son was dead, and the Game of Thrones had just taken a deadly turn.
Sansa's POV: The Queen's Gambit
The plan was meticulous, born from necessity, and honed through years of survival in the deadly court of King's Landing. With Sandor Clegane gone, Sansa Stark had turned her focus to a new target—Petyr Baelish, the man known as Littlefinger. Sansa quickly realized that his influence and power could be used to her advantage, and she began to play her part in the Game of Thrones with a newfound determination.
Her relationship with Petyr was calculated, a necessary evil in her quest for power. She had no illusions about the man who had betrayed her father, Ned Stark. She knew that Littlefinger's affection for her was a tool she could wield to secure her own future. Petyr believed he was the puppet master, but in truth, Sansa was always one step ahead.
She allowed Petyr to think he was seducing her, playing the role of the naive girl who needed his protection. But Sansa's innocence was a mask, her true intentions hidden beneath a veneer of compliance. She used their intimacy to secure a place on the Small Council, to gain influence over the decisions made in King's Landing, and to position herself as a key player in the political game.
But Sansa's ambitions did not end there. She wanted more than just influence; she wanted to be queen. The birth of her son had solidified her position, and with the child serving as the symbol of the union between the North and the South, she no longer needed Joffrey. His death would clear her path to power, and she knew exactly how to achieve it.
Sansa had discovered that it was Petyr who had betrayed her father, leading to his execution. This revelation fueled her desire for revenge, but she did not let it cloud her judgment. Petyr was a means to an end, and his usefulness was almost at its limit. She began making plans, discreetly enlisting the help of her loyal guards and the workers of the Red Keep. Evidence would be planted, whispers would be spread, and when the time came, all fingers would point to Littlefinger as the orchestrator of Joffrey's demise.
The night of the banquet was the perfect opportunity. Sansa watched from her seat as Joffrey, in his typical fashion, rewarded the drama group with a pouch full of gold coins, basking in the attention of his court. The play had been a success, and Joffrey was in high spirits, his cruelty masked by a rare moment of generosity.
But then the argument began, a clash of egos and tempers between Joffrey and Tyrion. Sansa felt the tension in the room rise, her heart steady as she watched the scene unfold. This was the moment she had been waiting for.
When Tyrion offered Joffrey the goblet, Sansa knew it was done. Joffrey drank deeply, his arrogance blinding him to the danger. And then, as the hall erupted into chaos, Sansa remained calm, her mind already moving to the next step. The plan had worked, and soon the accusations would fly. Petyr would be blamed, and his downfall would be swift.
With Joffrey gone and Littlefinger out of the way, Sansa's path to power was clear. She would rise as queen, and the Game of Thrones would continue—but this time, Sansa Stark was ready to play it her way.