Chapter One
At the tic-tic-tic of the clock situated on the wall next to him, the one who had become Joffrey Baratheon admitted, to himself if no one else, that canon had gone just fine for the one-who-was-him.
Well up to the Purple Wedding, at any rate. That had a simple enough solution to it. After the Red Wedding, all he would have to do was kill Sansa. Without her to tattle to the Tyrells, everything would be fine.
Failing that, he could just not drink wine at his wedding. No wine until he was wedded and bedded.
And yet… and yet the Joffrey-of-before was a cunt and the war wouldn't end with the death of Stannis and Robb. There was Daenerys Targaryen to consider and the White Walkers besides.
How would one go about preparing the realm for ice zombies and dragons? Guns perhaps? The printing press?
Despite himself, Joffrey began laughing. A fool's solution. A permanent problem to replace a temporary one.
He started to sing, despite himself, "Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira, Les aristocrates à la lanterne! Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira, Les aristocrates on les pendra!"
As he sang his mind translated those lyrics to English. "Ah! It'll be fine, It'll be fine, It'll be fine, aristocrats to the lamp posts! Ah! It'll be fine, It'll be fine, It'll be fine! The aristocrats, we'll hang them!"
Gunpowder and the printing press wouldn't solve much. What it would do was signal the beginning of the end. The first step in a long road to a democratic revolution.
In the medieval era a good warrior, a knight, was a near-hereditary caste of warriors. They were expensive to train and arm, limiting opportunities to become one to the nobility, and more importantly, they were slow to train. A noble training to become a knight started at four and trained until they were twenty-one.
Once trained, even the worst was still better than peasants and thanks to the skill and superior armaments, they were capable of mowing down dozens of them, especially when fighting in formation.
If he made the switch to gunpowder, then soldiers would take about four months to train, giving a lot more power to the peasants. Given that starvation was imminent, that seemed like an awful idea.
And of the printing press? Joffrey thought back and recalled the protestant reformation. How did that spread? How did the American Revolution? How did the French Revolution spread?
The last thing Joffrey wanted was a pamphlet similar to that of Thomas Paynes 'Common Sense' spreading throughout his kingdom, calling for the downfall of the monarchy.
Even if he managed to side-step all that nastiness while he lived, what of when he passed? Even if he were a just and wise king, there was no guarantee his son wouldn't be an imbecile.
Monarchy was a bit like a coin flip. For every Catherine the Great, there would be an Ivan the Terrible. As Aerys the Mad demonstrates, it takes only one to topple a dynasty.
Joffrey paused as he considered this. Casting his mind wide he contemplated the map of Westeros and went through the houses that were currently rebelling against him. For the first time, he saw not a war of survival, but a war of opportunity.
In a single second, he saw it, his vision of what Westeros could be.
"Hound," he shouted suddenly, drawing a clatter from the outside of his room. Creaking, the door opened to reveal Ser Sandor Clegane standing outside his door. In silence, he waited for Joffrey's command.
"Order Pycelle to summon the High Septon." There was a gleam in Joffrey's eyes as he concluded his thoughts with, "I wish for a meeting."