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There was little delay in the progress of two great dragons across the skies of Westeros, the terrible and illustrious beasts of the conquest ranging across the land they had made. Yet still, Balerion and Vhaegar were reported to pause briefly on their way through the Reach. They did not halt for the benefit of any armies, for the fighting was done, but simply that the first of ravens should reach Old Town before them.

The Sept of Remembrance had been destroyed, one centre of unrest turned to ash in the name of Fire and Blood. Now they were coming to finish the task.

It was a terrible awakening for many of the realm. The Dornish had known dragonfire upon their cities and holdfasts, but the Westerosi of more Northern Kingdoms had feared only the destruction of armies. Of course, Aegon and his sisters had spoken of the dangers of their wrath, but only Maegor had now made them real. Many among the faith had been immobilised before, the King had won the most sacred trial and surely entrenched himself in the favour of the Seven, yet he still was not anointed, and had been stricken low. Perhaps that had been a sign of true disfavour, despite his apparent victory. The High Septon had promised that he would not rise.

Now he had risen, and reaped a terrible vengeance, and for all that many could guess, had only begun such. Few places could offer any challenge to dragons as vast as the Black Dread, but if anywhere on Westeros could, the hidden archives of the Maesters might provide such. That was the debate that raged between Tower and Citadel. If not now, when? Such a debate was made all the less believable when the first ravens arrived with news that two dragons now sped towards Old Town. Even if one could be felled at cost, what damage could the over inflict in the interim? Some lords and influential septons fled the city, suddenly less convinced of the zeal of their cause, some remained and debated. The High Septon continued his campaign of fervour.

By the time Balerion and Vhaegar alighted beyond the city, and the warbling scream of the Black Dread's roar ripped through the air, panic had already set in throughout the city. Streets which had only just recovered from the first violence of the Upsrising erupted once again. The tone of desperation had changed, however. Poor Fellows preachers who had roused their flock to riot now found themselves the target of the same desperate mob, attempting to offer up the leaders who had pulled them astray in the hope they may be spared the dragonfire.

For a moment, every inhabitant in the city, from greatest lord to lowest urchin, knew one truth.

Kings, not Gods, ruled them now.

The dragons continued to rest within sight of the city, sometimes one would fly in circuit of Old Town, sometimes they would both remain grounded. A tavern on the road played host to the royal party of two for a pair of nights. Normally such would be the cause of great celebration for any local establishment, but now there was only sullen silence, beyond the roaring scream of dragons.

It took those days for a small loyal host to draw up alongside the dragons, from the fastest of royal riders and a number of local lords who made claim to loyalty. If the King cared for the fact some had no doubt sworn their colours to the faith scant weeks before he seemed not to care, at least for the moment. The small host was unnecessary, it wouldn't outnumber the city guard let alone the banners House Hightower could call, but it was these mortal men that marched on the city, a city that had lived in the shadow of Balerion's wings for two nights and a day. When the first riders demanded the King's entry to the city the gates were thrown open, when they demanded the surrender of the High Septon they were told he was already dead, a fortuitous event which spared the city without a need to surrender the worst of their pride to the Targaryen King.

No sooner had both truths been declared, than Maegor rode into Old Town, as Visenya's will alone held the two largest dragons in Westeros at bay.