[73] Welcome to King’s Landing
Chapter 73: Welcome to King’s Landing
—
I stared down at Stannis from atop Viserion, watching his face twist with anger. He clenched his jaw so tight I almost expected his teeth to shatter.
“Surrender now,” I shouted, letting my voice carry across the battlefield. “Your men are burned or scattered. There’s no shame in living to fight another day.”
Stannis spat on the ground, his eyes burning with defiance. “I am the rightful king. I will not bend to a dragon’s bastard. And you say you’ll let me live?” he scoffed.
A smile tugged at my lips. At least the man had more guts than his brother Renly and was much wiser. “Then let’s settle this the old way.” I slid off Viserion, my boots crunching on charred bones when I landed. “You and me. Steel against steel.”
Honestly, there was no need for a duel—I could’ve just had my men shoot him down. But the new King killing the usurper with his own hands would make a stronger statement.
Behind me, the Tyrell soldiers stiffened, and I heard a few quick, panicked breaths. They didn’t know of my physical prowess, so they thought it foolish to take such a risk when victory was already guaranteed. I waved them back. This was between me and the last Baratheon who mattered.
“A duel?” Stannis gave a rough laugh. “You think this is a tourney?”
“No, you know the war customs. Stop trying to talk smart,” I said, spinning my spear in my grip. “This is justice. Robert took my father’s throne with a hammer. Let’s see if you can keep it with a sword.”
He didn’t hesitate. He lunged, sword whistling through the air, but I was ready. I let my spear flick up, knocking his blade aside. The Lightning Dance guided my moves, letting me flow around his next strike.
He was good—I had to admit that. Each blow had enough power to split a man in two. But I was faster, boosted by the System, and trained by the best. His sword kept finding empty space as I spun clear of his swings.
“Stand and fight!” he snapped, frustration dripping from every word.
“As you wish.” I stopped dodging and actually met his next slash head-on. Our weapons locked, and I saw his eyes go wide when I shoved him back, one step at a time. The difference in our strength was painfully clear.
With a sharp twist, I wrenched his sword aside and drove my spear through his breastplate. The steel ripped through like it was thin cloth, the tip stabbing out his back.
Stannis didn’t even scream. He just stared at the bloody spear shaft sticking out of his chest, looking strangely confused. Then his knees buckled, and he folded onto the ground.
The last thing he likely saw was the muddy earth rushing up to meet him.
A hush fell over the battlefield. Then the Tyrell forces let out a thunderous cheer, echoed by whatever was left of the city’s defenders. Their voices overwhelmed even Viserion’s victorious roar.
The Battle of Blackwater had ended. And unlike Stannis, I’d come out on top.
I walked into King’s Landing through its ruined gates, my boots crushing debris and ashes. Stretching out behind me were countless green-and-gold banners of House Tyrell, waving in the smoky breeze. It felt like an endless tide of soldiers—tens of thousands strong—marching in perfect ranks. Despite the grime of war, their polished armor still caught the dying light.
Overhead, Viserion circled, her roars echoing against the battered city walls. Each time she screeched, any defenders left out in the open flinched and ducked behind rubble.
When we neared the massive doors of the Red Keep, the leftover Lannister men started losing their nerve. I heard swords hitting the cobblestones as they either knelt or slunk away into dark corners. All that “Hear Me Roar” stuff didn’t mean much now.
We shoved open the heavy doors leading into the throne room. Inside, a ragged crowd of people huddled: a few trembling guards gripping spears, courtiers still dressed in torn finery, and random smallfolk who’d hidden there for safety.
Joffrey Baratheon was nowhere to be seen.
They stared at us like cornered deer—some were wide-eyed, others had given up and just dropped to their knees.
Garlan Tyrell came in after me, followed by a handful of other Reach lords, escorting Margaery. She surveyed the scorched hall with a cool, collected look. Most of the Tyrells were here except Olenna, who’d arrive in a few days. The people parted in front of us, nobody daring to meet my eye, especially with Viserion roaring somewhere outside and shaking the castle windows.
I stopped at the base of the Iron Throne, eyeing the twisted metal that had taken so many lives. A thousand melted swords turned into an uncomfortable seat. I stared at it, feeling a strange sense of nostalgia. My ancestors’ enemies’ blades were melted into a symbol of absolute power.
Everyone from the seven kingdoms knew the tale of how Aegon ‘The Conqueror’ Targaryen burned entire armies down.
The kings of the seven kingdoms stood no chance against his dragon, Balerion the Black Dread, and either bent the knee or had his sword melted into the throne. Every sword symbolized a person's life taken when Aegon conquered the continent. The whole room seemed to hold its breath. As I came back to reclaim the realm my ancestors left for me.
One gold cloak, sweat pouring down his face, staggered forward and dropped to his knees. “Mercy, my lord! We only followed orders—”
“Quiet,” I ordered. “Learn to stay quiet when you’re not talk to,” I said, and he hurried back into the group.
My footsteps echoed in that huge chamber as I climbed the steps to the throne. I reached out and ran a hand through the old steel, allowing it to prickle a drop of blood from my skin to let the sensation truly seep in.
Once I turned around, every pair of eyes in the hall was either looking straight at me or quickly bowing. A sense of finality hung in the air as I sat down. “Such a fine morning,” I said, enjoying dawn’s sunlight that rushed through the windows.
Then Kinvara swept in, her red robes sliding across the floor. The ruby at her throat flickered with a deep glow. She smiled at me once our eyes locked and slowly climbed the stairs. Nobody stopped her, and she stopped beside the throne, turning to the crowd. Kinvara’s smile dropped, and she announced in a voice that cut through all the noise.
“Behold Viserys of House Targaryen, Third of His Name,” she continued, “King of the Andals and the Rhoynor and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm! The dragon has defeated the usurpers and reclaimed his rightful place!”
The Tyrells cheered in response, and the rest of the people quickly followed to show their support.
I stood up from the throne, the Tyrell lords standing before me like an emerald fortress. “We’ll talk about rewards and celebrations later,” I said. “But before any of that, I want my Tyrell friends to help the city’s poor. They’re hungry and terrified. Make sure every mouth is fed this month. That is my first decree.”
A wave of relief and hope surged through the crowd, accompanied by murmured voices. I noticed genuine gratitude flickering in a few faces. Although they had lost so much in the battle, at least now they had a glimmer of possible food.
Mace Tyrell stepped forward, bowing so low his belly nearly touched his knees. “Your Grace, the Reach’s harvest is yours to command. We’ve got entire wagons of grain and produce waiting outside.”
“Indeed,” Garlan chimed in, pride shining in his eyes. “Let the people see that their new king won’t let them starve. We’ll get everything organized at once.”
Margaery gave me a warmer smile than usual as she slowly climbed the stairs, bold of her, and stood by my side. “Feeding them is the surest way to earn their loyalty, Your Grace. Will it be alright if I handle the details personally?”
“...Yes,” I nodded, satisfied with their quick response. If the smallfolk saw me as the one who brought food and safety, they’d be less inclined to rebel. And the Tyrells were the masters of farmland and distribution.
“Good,” I said. “Have the wagons come in through the King’s Gate, set up distribution in every district, and keep the City Watch around to maintain order. This is relief, not a free-for-all.”
“Right away, Your Grace,” Mace said, sending off servants with a flurry of hand signals.
I felt the tension in the throne room ease a bit. Even those who’d looked ready to soil themselves moments earlier stood a little straighter. Amazing what a promise of mere food can do.
“My second decree as king,” I continued in a clearer, firmer tone, “is a bounty of ten thousand gold dragon coins on whoever can bring me Joffrey Baratheon. Alive.”
The crowd erupted in hushed chatter, eyes going wide. Part of them suddenly appeared hungry in a new way—as if the thought of gathering that gold ignited a spark in their eyes. Meanwhile, others exchanged worried glances, clearly pondering Joffrey's whereabouts.
I settled back into the Iron Throne, letting myself enjoy the moment. The Tyrells nodded approvingly, Margaery studied my expression with calm neutrality, and Kinvara bent her head a little. The ruby around her neck cast an eerie red shimmer on the marble floor.
Then, as if a single mind controlled them, everyone in the hall dropped to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the ground in front of their new king. “W-welcome to King’s Landing, Your Grace!” The same gold cloak from before shouted. He caught on quick.
**
**
**
Come find fellow fans on Discord and more chapters on !
: .com/Master4thWall
Discord: https://discord.gg/dQeu27jBvf