PainExistence narrowed until that was all that there was. No swirling visions in the darkness, no ambition, no identity, just suffering. He floated in a sea of it, cast about by seas of excruciation and drowned in tides of agony. He did not know for how long it was so, memories of anything else bled away. He could have broiled in an ocean of torment for all eternity for all the fleeting concept of his consciousness could register.
Suddenly, it was over. Sensation washed back into the stricken form of the King all at once as he was pulled back into the waking world. Even the sting of the limited light to his eyes, or the sudden burning in his chest from the sudden rush of a deep breath could not hinder the sudden wash of relief that was the absence of the prison that was his own mind. Muscles that had not worked for the long weeks intervening their use burned as he bolted upright in a motion, ignoring the aches and pains that suddenly flooded him. Next to what he had just been, they were nothing.
There was a scrambling of motion about him, but he was barely aware of it. His body was recovering faster than his mind and details continued to elude him. His own name seemed to dangle on the tip of his mental tongue, and the events that had lead him to this place were alien to him. All he knew was the right of his rule, and the duty to ensure it. He forced himself from the plinth like stone he rested upon, even as a clarion of protestations rose from the beings he now suddenly remembered to be servants, his servants, at his continued motion. Only one among the room did not move or cry out such. A figure of feminine darkness at the head of what had been his resting place. He remembered the cruel coldness of her beauty. It had not faded, but she was clearly worn from effort in a way he had not seen her before.
He moved to her, the limited blankets that had covered his form falling away as he did so, ignoring the others that buzzed about him as he took her chin in his hand, tilting her towards him.
“You have my thanks, Witch.” His grip tightened, as he almost seemed to pull her towards him, lifting her slightly from the meerest tug of his strength. He was aware that he should feel weak, he did not know what time had passed but he knew enough of such things to guess. Instead, brutality coursed through him, awakening his strength even if it set his limbs afire. Eventually he released her, finally addressing the complaints of the room. “See to the Lady, your King has business to attend to.”
Maegor barely took the time to dress as he moved from the cells of the ever expanding Red Keep, even as he crossed into the chamber that had grown up around the Aegonfort, still a pair of squires nipped at his heels, attempting to fasten armour to the King.
“Explain.” Maegor paused in place, finally, before the short platform upon which the Iron Throne sat, taking Blackfyre in hand as it was passed to him by a Knight of greater standing than the squires that maintained his armour. He spoke to none of them though, instead to the figure upon the throne itself.
Visenya arose from within the confines of the Iron Throne with a steady grace, crossing the short distance to her son with languid purpose. Even her hard features softened somewhat as she raised a hand to Maegor’s cheek, a soft smile touching her lips as she beheld him. “You are among us once more.”
Maegor’s own steel did not waiver, however. Perhaps with anyone else he may have reacted more to the touch, usually he would not be blunt with her of all people, but the fire behind his eyes burned with purpose and even Visenya could earn her share of such.
“The Faith and the Lords who supported them splintered after the Trial, a large host has still gathered, and they claim the city for themselves from the Sept.” Visenya mused, her hand drfiting away from Maegor’s cheek. “Many deny that you live at all, or claim the trial was not won.”
“Traitors to their Faith as well as their King, then.” Maegor lifted his arms slightly to allow the last binds of his armour to be put in place. “They still gather in my city?” Once this was completed, he slide Blackfyre into the scabbard at his belt. Since the Trial his armour had been restored, he noted with a grunt of recognition, before refocusing on his mother.
“They do.” For once she did not offer advice, her own emberous gaze settling with her son’s. There was a challenge there, a test to gauge the strength of purpose the risen King had.
“Summon Vhagar, their period of clemency is at an end.”
The steady tread of boots through the streets of King’s Landing was enough to rouse the attention of most of the populace. The city was in a state of middling disorder, the immediate chaos following the Trial had steadily calmed, in part due to the efforts of various militias, in part simply due to the passage of time. A sense of pensive dread still hung over most of the city however, but not so much that curiosity didn’t trump it.
Rhoelle watched from the a window on the second floor of the Three Hill Inn. One of the few establishments within the city that catered to the respectable elements of society, she had made it the central hub of her efforts in the city over the following weeks. She did not wish to open up the Baratheon Manse as a last location of potential security, and the central location of the Inn worked well for her. In reality, she couldn’t bare to remain within the Manse while her father’s body, despite the care attributed to it, rotted in repose. The owners of the Inn had been quite happy to host the effort, they had not even attempted to charge for use of most of the rooms for garrisoning the Baratheon Stag Knights and Men-At-Arms as such a contingent had protected the Inn from the riots and looting that had afflicted much of the city. Whatever was going on was beyond the scale of the militias that had defined the fighting within the city, however. Only two groups within King’s Landing could command this number of men, the Crown and the Faith, who had both simply secured their own assets and allowed the city to writhe and burn. At first the Faith had been different, encouraging citizens to take shelter in the Sept, but after the Trial things had been different. Apparently many of the most conflagatory Septons had blamed the people of King’s Landing and their vices for the Knights of the Faith falling at the trial, and such feelings had not recovered in the intervening weeks.
It was definitely the Crown on the march now, Rhoelle watched as the men-at-arms decked in liveries of red and black marched on past the Inn. They were heading towards the Starry Sept, that much was sure. She did not know why the Crown now seemed to act, perhaps the Dowager Queen had finally pulled herself away from her son’s sickbed to tend to the realm, perhaps the King had risen, or perhaps there was now a new king. All thoughts crossed her mind, as she turned away from the window and began to move downstaires.
“Henrick, gather some men, we should see what this is about.” She spoke to her appointed Master-of-Arms as she hopped from the last step, already pinning her own cloak across her shoulders as she did so. There was a look of concern from many in the room, but not surprise, many were already in the process of preparing after the movements had begun.
“My Lady, there is likely to be trouble.” The short, but solidly built, man offered at least the hint of an objection, but he too now was already preparing to follow her orders.
“I suspect so, but we’ve not spent the last few weeks avoiding trouble, have we now?” With the cloak affixed, Rhoelle patted herself down and stood tall, notably so for a lady but still far from the most domineering in the room, even still, she’d earned most of their respect in recent times, and even if not, her gold still worked. “We’ll wait for the column to pass, then we’ll follow.”
Unlike before, the Baratheon party did not move with full fanfare, no mounts were used or banners unfurled as they shadowed the column of Men-At-Arms. Far from the events of before, Rhoelle was keen for them to not attract attention as potential arbiters of law, they were not here to challenge the Crown, her story all along had been that House Baratheon was keeping order in the Crown’s name while the King was prevented from doing so, and the last thing she wished was to be percieved as a threat.
So, Rhoelle and a small but effective force of her swornswords soon reached the plaza before the Sept. Part of a relatively small crowd that gathered in the side streets leading onto the square itself. None dared to approach the rear of the Targaryen Men-At-Arms, who now fanned out to fully cover the steps leading up to the dominating structure of the Sept, the stone building towering above all structures within the city beyond the skeletal build of the new Keep atop Aegon’s Hill.
Rhoelle noted that the men were archers, a moment before they moved in lockstep to ready an arrow, not drawing for the moment, but clearly prepared to. Only one of their number was mounted, and his steed stood at the front and centre of the men. Even before he spoke, various members of the faith, Septons and Knights of the Faith Militant had begun to assemble at the entrance to the Sept itself, looking down on the men below. They were few in number, for the faith in large part was within, gathered for morning prayers. A few calls of concern sounded from these men of the faith, questions or condemnation towards the gathered soldiers, yet they recieved now answers. She flinched as the first stone was throne, the simble projectile bouncing off the helm of one of the archers with a heavy clang that scattered the man backwards. Still, the archers didn’t react, and soon the jeers and accostments began to rise. The noise was growing. The young Baratheon woman felt her breathing slow as she watched the scene, concern and confusion building within her as her eyes danced across the tableu.
“What are they doing.” She mused quietly. Then she heard it.
Most might have mistaken it for a changing in the wind, a gusting of air from the tumultuous Crownlands climate that had such a changeable nature. Rhoelle, however, was a grandaughter of Orys Baratheon, when she was but three years old she had met her Great Uncle Aegon and sat in his lap as they watched the Dragons together. She’d always thought him a surprisngly soft man, when she looked back on those memories.
She wasn’t thinking of that then, however, she turned her head back towards Henrick with a sudden look of terror and grief of her features. “Get back! Back from the Square!” Her order was sudden, but her men were well trained and despite a lack of understanding were already pulling away from the plaza before she could explain. It wouldn’t quite be fast enough.
It hadn’t been the changing of the wind. It had been the beat of a Dragon’s wing, and only one Dragon could be mistaken for the climate itself.
Rheolle threw herself to the floor into the shelter of the side alley, her hands covering her ears, and then a thunder worse than any storm broke over King’s Landing.
Little feet slapped against stone floors, sending the small body weaving between gray-robed men. Bright blonde hair bobbed along with the rhythm of his run, fear in his blue eyes. He wanted his mother, more than he ever had before in the two years he had been studying the Faith with the King’s Landing septons. He had watched his uncle fall to knights of the Faith and now he ran with a message through a sea of bodies that had been filling this great sept since that fateful day.
Faith had prevailed, that’s what he had heard from his masters and friends. He should be happy, that’s what they’d said. If he wasn’t happy perhaps he was a traitor like his uncle, they’d warned him. Alyn wanted the faith to win but he hadn’t wanted his uncle to die. His confusion had left him sniffling himself to sleep since.
“Septon Oswald, sir!” His voice rang out, light and airy with a quiver. He was interrupted by a crushing roar even as the aged man turned and their eyes met. The little Arryn’s fear doubled at seeing it reflected back to him by the septon.
The man was frozen before him for just a moment before being shoved aside by a sudden swelling of Swords and Stars. “Run.”
Alyn saw the word form on the man’s lips but couldn’t hear it over the continuing roar. He heard snippets of orders and of prayers as his legs listened to the command before his mind could make sense of it. He could see sunlight, his breath ragged in his throat, when he felt a large body barrel into his side and sent him flying across the stone floor. His knees and elbows stung from the fall.
He pulled himself up to only take another step before being knocked down again, hard. His breath was gone, a large boulder of a marble crushing his leg. Panic took over, and he wailed for the Mother, for his mother. None stopped to help him, men panicked around him, fleeing from something Alyn couldn’t understand. Until he felt a wave of heat, a flash of fire, brilliant unending pain, then nothing.
The roar of a dragon was part scream, but not Balerion.The cacophany that the Black Dread could create was as much a weapon as tooth, claw or fire. The shockwave of the screech cast men to the floor and burst eardrums on its own. The Men of the Crown were safe from such, with helms designed for it, but they were alone. Leather might turn aside a blade far worse than any steel helm, but all steel did was echo the noise again. Men atop the stairs of the Sept of Remembrance collapsed in pain even then, a moment of agony before absolution claimed them.
Even across the square and half way down an alleyway, Rhoelle felt the heat. She desperatly ripped her cloak from herself, worried the light fabric might burn from the air itself as it washed over her. The stunned shock of the moment before rippled through the square, then the city, then terror descended.
The great dark shape of Balerion had burst from the cloud layer the moment after the sonic roar, the vast dragon racing towards the gateway to the Sept, before his jaws had oppened a second time and bathed the face of the Sept in Fire. Glass had shattered, stone had melted and crumbled. The men who had been outside simply ceased to be, fusing with the stone upon which they stood. A smaller, shape darted from the clouds, but only relatively so, as Vhagar joined her fire to her companion’s, insteading enflaming the spires of the Sept as Balerion targeted the body.
The purpose of the archers was then made evident, as desperate Knights, Septons, and those who had taken shelter within the Sept for prayer attempted to flee, clambering through fire and stone to do so, the arrows began to fly. Like scythes through wheat, the whistle of arrows went entirely unheard over the roar of dragon and flame, but it spat death all the same.
King’s Landing had become the Kingdom of the Dragon once more.
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