Chapter 121 - The Final Conquest III

The more Tyrion listened to his nephew, the more he felt overworked. He simply didn't consider Joffrey failing to do all that. Maybe not all of Essos but surely, half of it was possible. He'll have to oversee so many new territories, their taxes, their administration.

"Well, at least we have Lady Chataya whispering in our ears. She's proving better than Varys—and considerably easier on the eyes."

Joffrey chuckled. He'd foreseen this. "How can she not, Uncle? Men of all ranks slink to brothels and drown themselves in wine, eager to spill their secrets like fools."

"Guilty as charged, nephew." Tyrion raised his hand. But both of them knew this wasn't the same old Tyrion. After that Shae incident, he'd considerably reduced his wine intake, and he only fucked whores that were already Joffrey's subordinates.

Knock! Knock!

Knocks came on the doors. Very soon, Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord Redwyne, Lord Tywin, and Chataya walked into the Lord Hand's chamber.

"Your Grace."

After saluting the King, each of them took their seats.

Joffrey eyed the members of the meeting. This wasn't a Small Council. This was something far different.

Once I start expanding, I should call it the High Council.

"I expect most of you know why you're here. My first plan was to march North and then turn my attention to the Iron Islands. But troubling news has come from the Wall. The Night's Watch has split itself into factions, for reasons yet to be known. What matters is this: once my banners are raised, I'll have no time for the Ironborn."

Most knew what was coming next. The map laid on the table was a clear hint.

"I once thought of conquering the Iron Islands myself. But I no longer care for such things. Lord Redwyne, between your fleet, the Royal Fleet, and the Lannister ships, we have nearly a thousand war galleys. I'll give you seven hundred. But hear me well—I do not want you wasting them in foolish sea battles.

"All of the Royal Fleet now carries the newest exploding scorpions. You will use them to burn the Iron Fleet to splinters. After that, bombard the Iron Islands—grind their stone walls to dust, turn their fortresses to glass. A supply line to King's Landing is already arranged. You'll have all the Wildfire you need. Don't waste it.

"Remember, I'm not sending you to win a battle. I'm sending you to leave Westeros with only six kingdoms. Burn the islands until there's nothing left but smoke and bones. When that's done, I want you marching—on foot—dragging barrels of ale if you must. Find every cave they could crawl into and collapse it. Don't waste time fighting. Use Wildfire. The Mad King left us plenty, and I've decided it's time we put it to good use."

Once Joffrey finished speaking, the room fell into deafening silence. None of them opposed Joffrey. But they did think about what they were about to do. Iron islands hosted slightly over half a million people.

Considering how uncontrollable Wildfire was, they knew it wasn't impossible to burn all of the Iron Islands. Every inch of them.

"Any questions? Any doubts?" Joffrey demanded, his gaze sharp. "You will understand—this is for the realm. The squids cling to their drowned god and their raider ways. They will never be true men of Westeros. They boast of being pirates, rapists, and pillagers. I will have no uncertainties at my borders. They have rebelled twice already. There will not be a third."

"Agreed, Your Grace," Tywin said at once. "The Ironborn raid with impunity, and our western shores pay the price. From Oldtown to Bear Island, they bleed us like leeches."

"This will be the last time we strike them. It must be. Lord Redwyne, Ser Jaime—you'll lead the fleets together. Brynden Tully and Bronn will handle the ground. If you find thralls… spare the women, but only if they're young and newly caught. The old ones, those with children—give them a swift death. They'll do nothing but weep for their squid husbands and scheme at our backs for revenge. Am I understood?"

Ser Jaime resolutely nodded. Lord Redwyne did the same.

With that, Joffrey rose to his feet. "Good luck, men. Win me this battle, and I swear, the future of Westeros shall know no limits. Remember this day—soon, the Royal Fleet will command every sea in the known world."

And beyond.

Others also stood up.

"Good luck—and watch yourself with Euron. He's mad, utterly. Don't waste time with his japes. If you have him cornered, don't offer him a duel. Burn him. Shoot him. Just kill him and be done with it. Your knightly honor's worth nothing to me if you come back dead."

Winning was all that mattered.

Ser Jaime and Lord Redwyne bid farewell and quickly left to prepare for battle. They weren't going to be the only nobles. Many more would soon join them and form a massive host.

But back in the Lord Hand's chamber, Joffrey sat back and glanced at Chataya. "Anything to know?"

The dusky, fine woman nodded. "There's unrest in Dorne, Your Grace. Prince Doran and his daughter have vanished from sight these past few days. They say Prince Oberyn has, at last, wed his paramour. And in Sunspear, they whisper it was Lady Ellaria who killed Prince Doran."

"Good," Joffrey said with a sharp grin. "The fool was so spineless, he'd close his eyes even with a White Walker at his throat."

After that, he glanced at Tywin.

"Anything new from your side, Grandfather?"

"I had hoped to offer congratulations on the birth of your son." Tywin offered, a hint of a genuine smile on his lips. "At last, the realm has its heir. Yet there is talk… of the name he will bear."

This sly Old Lion.

"In honor of his parents, he shall bear both names. Targaryen-Baratheon—there is no other way."

Saying that, he pushed the chair back and stood up again.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go and pacify my not-quite-official wife."

And prepare her for tonight.

With Daenerys successfully giving birth and Slaver's Bay already under her control, there wasn't much time left before she'd permanently move to Westeros.

Before that happened, Joffrey wanted to do one last thing.

My final conquest of House Stark.

####

"My Lady."

Joffrey walked through the door of Catelyn Stark's bed chamber. He had unrestricted access to it but he'd rarely visited her. Never this late in the night, at least. Though this time he had come with a very sinful goal.

And from the looks of Catelyn's garb, she was well aware of it. Dressed in a beautiful, silky nightgown, half-sleeved, big square neck that gave away the slopes of her voluptuous breasts. Although the gown went all the way to her ankles, Joffrey didn't care since he'd take them off eventually.

"Your Grace?" Catelyn greeted him, acting surprised.

Come on, Catelyn. You giddily sent our son to rest with Arya at my request. You know what I'm about to do.

Joffrey didn't ask and started taking off his surcoat. He admired the tall, finely aged northern woman. That locket with House Stark's wolf sigil made his balls tingle. It reminded him of his sweet-sweet conquest.

"We march North in five days," he said, stripping off his tunic without care, standing there with his upper body bare. He strode to the bed, undoing his boots with deliberate hands. "Once we reach Winterfell, there'll be little time for anything but war. Before that… I intend to enjoy some time… with what's mine."

Catelyn's breath caught at the softness of his words, a sound near to a moan slipping from her lips. It had been too long since they had lain together. "Worry not, Your Grace. I shall tend to your every need in Winterfell as well."

Catelyn sauntered toward him and sank to her knees, fluid and effortless. She reached for his boots, her dainty fingers unfastening them with deliberate care before slipping them off one by one.

As she lifted her gaze, Joffrey's eyes trailed downward, straight to her breasts.

Full, heavy, depraved, barely restrained by the thin silk of her nightgown. They swayed with the smallest movement, soft, natural pillows of flesh that begged to be squeezed and worshiped.

Joffrey smirked. "I see. Doing your best to serve your King, are you?"

Catelyn's throatily chuckled. One that always worked the magic on Joffrey. Fucking an older woman, one as fine as Catelyn, was like feasting on the most delightful delicacy. And the way she reacted to his flirting made it clear. He had her right where he needed her—in his claws.

The North was truly his.

"Only the best for the King."

Catelyn tugged at the laces of his breeches with skillful hands, her breath heaving just a touch heavier than before. She didn't rush. She was savoring the moment, watching his cock strain against the fabric, aching to be freed.

When she finally peeled the breeches down his legs, she stilled.

Eyes widened at the sight of him. Hardened, thick, virile; a cock of a man in his prime, eager, demanding. He was no longer the struggling, young king. No, this was a conqueror's cock, a king's cock, one that had laid claim to kingdoms… and to her.

______________________

THIS STORY HAS ENDED.

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