[76] The Targaryen Dynasty Continues

Chapter 76: The Targaryen Dynasty Continues

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Sansa walked behind her brother through the Red Keep’s corridors. Even though days had passed since the Lannisters’ defeat, the throne room still smelled like ash and burned stone. The scent reminded her of the Blackwater, and it made her stomach twist.

Morning light streamed through cracked windows, falling on the floor where wildfire scorch marks curled like frozen snakes. Servants were on their knees, scrubbing stubborn bloodstains. Their rags left pink smears across the mosaics of three-headed dragons.

Robb’s boots sounded too loud on the marble as he stepped into the throne room first. Right behind him, the Greatjon let out a laugh that died quickly, replaced by the uneasy shuffle of northern boots. Sansa pressed herself close to her mother. Her grey silk gown felt too thin in the lingering smoke. Catelyn leaned over and gave her a gentle kiss on the head. When Robb glanced her way, Sansa forced a small smile that never really reached her eyes. He sighed in return.

“Still smells like roasted stags,” Roose Bolton muttered, his pale gaze flicking to the Tyrell knights lining the walls. Their green breastplates seemed to shine mockingly next to the northerners’ dented mail and muddy furs.

Sansa noticed someone who stood out. Margaery Tyrell stood a little apart from her brother Garlan, like a fresh summer rose in the middle of winter. She caught Sansa’s eye and dipped her head in a polite greeting. Sansa dug her nails into her palms. That was the girl, wasn’t it? She felt a swirl of emotions she didn’t fully understand.

Suddenly, trumpets shattered the quiet.

“Behold, Viserys Targaryen!” called a herald. Sansa’s heart pounded as she turned to look at the tall figure stepping out of the shadows.

The King of the Seven Kingdoms moved like a drawn sword—smooth and sure. He wore a black cloak with gold dragons along his shoulders, looking more regal than the last time she’d seen him.

Close behind him came Kinvara, the Red Priestess Sansa had only heard whispers about. Her ruby necklace gleamed in the sunlight. And in the background stood… Ros?

Sansa’s brows knit.

What’s she doing with Viserys? Ros was a whore who’d grown up in Winterfell. But while she’d been a whore from a young age, Sansa saw her as an older sister. That girl was really nice and took care of her at times. Now Ros stood with the king, and a whip scar showed across her knuckles. It made Sansa wonder what had happened in all these months.

Above them, the castle shook as Viserion roared. Northerners stiffened at the sound. Even the Tyrell knights flinched. A hint of a smile curled on Sansa’s lips—she couldn’t help remembering how she used to dream of dragons, and maybe she did want to pat Viserion’s head if given the chance.

“King Robb, my friend,” Viserys said, his voice carrying as he settled on the Iron Throne. “The North fought bravely. Harrenhal’s ruins will remember your steel for an age. You have my thanks.”

Robb gave a sharp nod. He showed respect without lowering himself too much. Sansa thought her brother had grown a lot—he seemed like a real leader now. “Tywin Lannister never made it to help his grandson,” Robb said. “Exactly as we agreed. The North remembers its allies, my friend.”

Behind him, the Greatjon grunted in approval while Roose Bolton gave a thin smile. Robb went on, “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you Tywin’s head, though.”

Viserys just gave an easy nod. “It’s Tywin Lannister. I’d have been more shocked if you had succeeded.” Then Sansa felt his gaze flick to her, almost like a touch. She instantly looked away, letting her eyes drift to some old artwork on the ceiling showing Aegon’s Conquest. She felt foolish for not meeting his gaze, but it was too late.

“It’s a shame,” Catelyn Stark said quietly. “I would’ve liked to see that man’s head on a spike.”

“Still,” Viserys said, now focusing on Catelyn, “your son did what he promised. Allies need trust, and you northerners have proven yourselves.”

Ugh, why did I look away? Sansa scolded herself in her head for avoiding his eyes. She’d had the chance to greet him, and she blew it.

Robb’s hand hovered near his belt, which held no sword at the moment. “I’m glad this alliance stands strong. Unlike Dorne, we in the North plan on keeping our word.”

Some Tyrell lord snickered, and Garlan Tyrell shot him a glare to hush him.

Viserys chuckled, the sound warming the cold air. “Wise indeed.” He tapped a finger on one of the throne’s jagged edges. “As for Dorne… well, we can discuss them in private.”

Sansa exhaled softly. That was one thing off the table for now. Wait, no, what am I thinking…

She knew about Arianne Martell, the princess of Dorne, and how so many lords might try pushing their daughters on Viserys. But if Dorne wasn’t sending soldiers, if Dorne had betrayed him, maybe she could breathe easier. But she didn’t want to think like that.

Right then, Margaery Tyrell seemed to drift closer, like she wanted to speak. Sansa didn’t feel ready for that talk and pretended to fix her sleeve. Her mother started chatting with Margaery instead. Meanwhile, Kinvara bent down and whispered something to Viserys, and he nodded, rising from the throne in a swirl of crimson.

“Before we do that,” he said, “we have a more immediate matter of justice to handle.”

The throne room emptied fast. Northern and Reach lords moved like soldiers off to another battle. Robb offered Sansa his arm, and she took it. She couldn’t stop her hands from trembling as they walked out together.

****

Morning light spilled across the wide courtyard of the Red Keep, cutting long shadows from the wooden platform at its center. Two tall stakes, each bearing the Targaryen three-headed dragon, stood on either side of the stage, their crimson banners snapping in the breeze.

A massive crowd filled the courtyard. Smallfolk came for the grim spectacle, while Reach soldiers in shining armor and gold cloaks tried – and failed – to keep everything under control.

Above, Viserion’s massive golden form glided, each powerful flap instilling fear among the spectators. With every roar, even the bravest knights trembled.

“Behold,” someone announced, “Viserys Targaryen, your king!”

When Viserys arrived, people moved aside in a rush. His black cloak, which was edged in red, trailed over the stones as he headed for the platform, which Kinvara and a group of Tyrell knights flanked.

“Everyone,” Viserys said, looking over the crowd. “Today, we’re here for a great cause. A deserved justice. The last time you saw something like this was with Eddard Stark, an innocent man framed for false crimes. Today is something truer than that. Before that, let’s welcome the Lannister Whore.”

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as Cersei appeared next, dragged by two guards. “Argh, let me go!”

A heavy chain leash fastened to an iron collar around her neck clinked with every step. She wore an outfit more fit for a brothel than a once-queen—fabric so skimpy it barely covered her. Her once-bright green eyes were red and wild, and her tangled golden hair clung to her sweaty face.

“Please,” she begged, lurching forward, voice cracking, “someone help us! I’ll shower you with gold!”

The crowd answered with jeers and spit.

“Whore queen!” somebody yelled.

“Lion bitch!” another shouted.

“Now, let’s welcome the Mistress of Whisper, who’s bringing our main culprit,” Viserys said. Then Ros stepped up onto the platform, dressed like a court official now instead of a prostitute. She hauled Joffrey behind her with help from two guards.

His fancy clothes were in tatters, his wrists locked in heavy manacles. Terror filled his face as he darted his gaze around, seeking a way out.

When he spotted Cersei, his composure fell away. “Mother… mother, do something!” he cried, his voice shaky.

Cersei tried to rush the platform, but the guards yanked the leash. She hit the cobblestones hard, chain rattling. “My baby!” she wailed. “Please, not my son!”

Viserys climbed the steps calmly and deliberately. He drew a fancy sword from his belt—Joffrey’s own blade, its golden lion pommel gleaming in the morning light.

The courtyard went silent as he said, “Today, I am going to show respect to my Northern friends and do this through their culture. Since I’m the one who called this execution, I’ll swing the sword myself.”

At the edge of the crowd, Sansa stood with her mother, her brother Robb, and some grim Northern lords. Not far off, Margaery and Garlan Tyrell looked on. Garlan seemed uneasy at the scene but stayed firm by Viserys.

Cersei collapsed to her knees, the chain rattling. “Y-Your Grace, please! He’s just a boy, my firstborn—show mercy! Just lock him up in the dungeon, please!”

Viserys stared at her, letting the tension build, then spoke in a strong voice: “This is not a boy. This... is a false king who tormented and murdered the realm’s people—he starved them, abused them. His crimes go on and on. Is he truly Robert Baratheon’s son, even?”

He didn’t wait for her answer and listed Joffrey’s brutal deeds: killing off Robert’s bastards, tormenting Sansa, and bringing chaos to King’s Landing.

With each crime, the crowd’s anger grew.

“Lies!” Joffrey screamed, voice cracking. “They’re all lies!” But the crowd’s rage drowned him out. “I have the Baratheon blood! You filthy peasants! I am your king! Kneel before me!”

“By the power of House Targaryen,” Viserys cut through his voice, his tone deadly calm, “and with the North, the Reach, and this city watching, I sentence Joffrey Lannister, the incest-born son of Cersei and Jamie Lannister, to die.”

Joffrey’s face lost all its color. His head snapped toward his mother’s. “M-Mother, you have to stop this! Tell them! Tell them I’m the king!”

Cersei’s wail cut through the air. She clawed at her collar. “No! Please, I’m begging you!”

"Where's that mighty lion now?" Ros muttered and stepped back, looking satisfied, while Viserys approached Joffrey. The boy tried to spit at him but only dribbled on his chin. His knees quivered as Viserys raised the lion-pommeled sword.

Time seemed to slow. The crowd held its breath.

“Mommy…!” His legs trembled, and he pissed himself.

The blade sliced down with a solid thud. Joffrey’s head rolled across the platform, blood spurting in a harsh arc before his body collapsed. A gasp tore through the spectators, followed by scattered cheers. Flicking blood off the sword, Viserys locked eyes with Cersei.

“I know this angers you, bitch. But be careful. You’ll watch the same thing happen to your other two children,” he warned, voice cold, “if you ever move against me.”

Cersei’s eyes burned, but then they darkened in fear as she sank onto the stones, chain clanking as she sobbed. Above, Viserion let out a roar that rattled the keep’s walls.

Viserys tossed the bloody sword aside, not caring about the red stains on his cloak. He scanned the crowd—Northmen, Reachmen, and townsfolk—radiating a power no one dared question. “The dragons have reclaimed their throne. Let all who defy us meet the same fate. From now on,” he announced, “the Targaryen Dynasty continues.”

Behind him, Joffrey’s body lay cooling while Cersei wept at his feet.

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