The gates of King's Landing creaked open with a reluctant groan, as if the city itself was surrendering with great hesitation. Jaehaerys Targaryen sat astride his midnight-black destrier, the beast nearly as large as a small wagon and just as imposing as its rider. Above him, Rhaenix soared in wide circles, her crimson scales catching the morning sunlight like freshly spilled blood. He had instructed her to keep her distance—high enough to be seen as a reminder of his power, but not so close that the smallfolk would fear imminent flame.
"Fitting that a dragon returns to the dragon's city," Ser Arthur Dayne remarked from beside him, the legendary knight resplendent in his Kingsguard armor, Dawn strapped across his back. "Your grandfather once rode through these same gates."
"Let us hope the similarities end there," Jaehaerys replied, his voice low enough that only Arthur could hear him.
He straightened in his saddle. The wind carried the scent of the city to him—a pungent mixture of saltwater, sewage, spices, and humanity packed too tightly together. Overhead, Rhaenix let out a screech that echoed between the city's buildings, causing a visible ripple of unease through the gathered crowds.
Easy, sister, he thought toward her. We want them to kneel, not flee.
Her answering thought flickered through his mind like flame: They should fear us. Fear breeds respect.
As does mercy, he countered silently. Today we show both.
The Gold Cloaks who had opened the gates now stood in two ragged lines, their spears lowered, their expressions a study in barely concealed terror. Their commander—a heavyset man whose yellow cloak seemed too small for his frame—approached with visible reluctance, dropping to one knee before Jaehaerys's horse.
"Your Grace," the man managed, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. "The City Watch of King's Landing surrenders to House Targaryen. The city is yours."
"Rise, Commander," Jaehaerys said, his voice carrying easily in the tense silence. "What is your name?"
"Janos Slynt, Your Grace," the man replied, standing but still avoiding direct eye contact.
"Commander Slynt, your men will accompany us to the Red Keep. Keep the peace and ensure no harm comes to the smallfolk, and House Targaryen will remember your service."
Slynt bowed deeply. "As you command, Your Grace."
As they rode through the opened gates, Jaehaerys felt a curious lightness in his chest. After years of preparation, of building alliances and strength, of revealing his identity to the realm, he was finally entering the city his ancestors had built. To his right rode Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, his weathered face solemn beneath his helm. To his left, Ser Oswell Whent, his black bat crest distinctive atop his white armor. Behind him came Lord Eddard Stark, the Blackfish, and Prince Oberyn Martell—representatives of the three kingdoms that had first declared for his cause.
The streets were lined with people—cautious at first, then growing bolder as they realized no immediate danger threatened them. A young girl darted forward, tossing a red flower that landed at the hooves of Jaehaerys's mount. He nodded to her, and she beamed before scampering back to her mother.
"They warm to you already," Oberyn remarked, trotting up beside him. "Though I can't tell if it's love for the returning dragons or simply relief that Cersei's reign of madness is over."
"Does it matter?" Jaehaerys asked.
"It might, eventually," the Dornish prince replied with a shrug. "But today? No, today is for victory."
As they proceeded deeper into the city, the reception grew warmer. People began to cheer, hesitantly at first, then with growing enthusiasm. Some called out "Targaryen!" while others shouted "Dragon King!" A few even cried "King Jaehaerys!" though he wondered how they knew his name at all.
The Street of Steel rang with the sound of hammers on metal as they passed—smiths already at work crafting dragon insignias to replace stag and lion. The Street of Flour smelled of fresh bread, and bakers tossed small loaves to the soldiers in their procession. By the time they reached the foot of Aegon's High Hill, a true celebration seemed to be forming in their wake.
They cheer because we aren't burning them, Jaehaerys thought cynically. How low the bar has been set by those who came before us.
The Blackfish drew up alongside him. "Suspicious lot, aren't they? One moment cursing Cersei's name, the next hailing yours. City folk have no loyalty beyond their next meal."
"Then we must ensure those meals are plentiful," Jaehaerys replied. "A well-fed city rarely rebels."
"Wisdom beyond your years," the Blackfish acknowledged with a rare smile. "Your father would be proud."
The mention of Rhaegar sent an unexpected pang through Jaehaerys's chest. The father he had never known, the prince whose actions had plunged the realm into war. He glanced up at Rhaenix, feeling her presence in his mind.
As they began the ascent toward the Red Keep, Lord Stark moved his horse closer to Jaehaerys's.
"Strange to enter this city without blood on our swords," the Warden of the North said quietly. "Last time I was here was during the Rebellion."
"You helped remove one tyrant," Jaehaerys replied. "Now you help install another, some might say."
Ned's expression remained serious. "Not the same. Your grandfather was mad. You are not."
"Yet," Oberyn quipped from behind them. "Give him time, Lord Stark. Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin, they say."
"Then we must all ensure his coin lands on greatness," Ned replied, not rising to the Dornishman's bait.
As the Red Keep came fully into view, Jaehaerys felt his breath catch momentarily. Perched atop the highest hill in the city, its red stone walls seeming to glow in the morning sun, the fortress that Aegon the Conqueror had commissioned was truly impressive. Massive curtain walls, towers that seemed to pierce the sky, and the unmistakable silhouette of the Great Hall where the Iron Throne waited—it was all exactly as he had imagined, and yet somehow more overwhelming in person.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Ser Gerold said, noticing his reaction. "Though not as grand as Dragonstone in its architecture, nor as beautiful as Highgarden. But there is a power here that cannot be denied."
Jaehaerys nodded, feeling strangely like a child again. "My ancestors built this," he said softly. "With fire and blood."
"And now their blood returns to claim it," Arthur added. "The wheel turns, Your Grace."
A commotion ahead of them drew their attention. A group of smallfolk had broken through the Gold Cloak line, rushing toward their procession with arms outstretched. For a moment, Jaehaerys tensed, his hand moving instinctively to his sword—but then he realized they were holding out offerings. Flowers, bits of bread, small trinkets.
"The Dragon King!" they chanted. "The true king returns!"
Jaehaerys raised a hand in acknowledgment, causing the crowd to cheer wildly. Overhead, Rhaenix responded with a roar that shook the very foundations of the buildings around them.
"Careful," Oberyn cautioned with a smirk. "The smallfolk's love is fickle. They cheered for Robert too, once upon a time."
"Then I shall have to earn their continued favor," Jaehaerys replied, straightening his shoulders.
As they approached the final stretch to the Red Keep's gates, Jaehaerys felt a strange confluence of emotions—triumph, yes, but also trepidation. For all his preparation, all his righteous certainty that this throne was his by birth and by conquest, he couldn't help but wonder what awaited him within those red stone walls. How many ghosts of Targaryens past would he encounter? How many mistakes would he be tempted to repeat?
We are here, sister, he thought to Rhaenix as she swooped lower, casting her massive shadow across the procession. After all this time, we have come home.
Her answering thought came with a surge of satisfaction that warmed his blood: Home. Ours by right. Ours by fire. Ours by blood.
The gates of the Red Keep stood open before him, the path to his throne clear at last.
Jaehaerys dismounted at the foot of Aegon's High Hill. He handed his reins to a stable boy who approached with eyes wide with both fear and awe. The lad couldn't be more than ten.
"Careful with him," Jaehaerys advised, running a gloved hand along his stallion's neck. "He bites when he's thirsty."
The boy nodded vigorously, as if being entrusted with the king's mount was the highest honor he could imagine. Perhaps it was.
From this vantage point, the Red Keep loomed above them in its full, imposing glory.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Oberyn said, coming to stand beside him. "Though I still prefer the Water Gardens. Less blood in the mortar there."
Jaehaerys smiled faintly. "You'd find blood in the mortar of a sept if it suited your mood, father."
The word slipped out naturally, as it often did between them. Oberyn's eyes softened momentarily. For all their complicated history—the lies about his parentage, the years of deception—the bond between them remained unbreakable. The Prince of Dorne had raised him as his own, and neither blood nor crown could change that.
"Kings shouldn't speak the truth so plainly," Oberyn quipped, though his voice held warmth. "It unnerves the smallfolk."
"I'll remember that when I'm king," Jaehaerys replied. "For now, I'm just a conqueror."
"A conqueror who better start climbing if he wants to sit his throne before nightfall," the Blackfish called from behind them, already starting up the cobblestone path that wound toward the castle gates.
Their entourage began the ascent, the path steeper than it had appeared from below. Gold Cloaks lined the way, dropping to one knee as Jaehaerys passed. Their faces revealed a mixture of emotions—relief predominant among them, mingled with fear and uncertainty. These men had served multiple masters in recent years: Aerys, Robert, Cersei. Now they bent the knee to another, no doubt wondering how long this one would last.
"Your father climbed this hill once," Ser Arthur said quietly, falling into step beside him. "After the tourney at Harrenhal, when Aerys summoned him. He walked up with his head high, though he knew what awaited him."
Jaehaerys glanced at the knight. "And what awaited him?"
"Accusations. Suspicion. Your grandfather had begun to see enemies everywhere, particularly in his son." Arthur's violet eyes, so similar to Jaehaerys's own, grew distant with memory. "But Rhaegar never wavered in his duty, even when that duty led him away from the father he served to the woman he loved."
"My mother," Jaehaerys said softly.
Arthur nodded. "Lyanna Stark was worth defying a kingdom for, it seems. You have her look about the eyes, beneath the Targaryen color."
Ned Stark drew closer. "My sister would be proud to see you now," he said, his Northern accent thicker than usual with emotion. "Though perhaps troubled by all the bloodshed in your wake."
"War makes for bloody footprints, Lord Stark," Jaehaerys replied. "Even necessary ones."
"Aye," Ned acknowledged. "But what comes after determines whether the blood was spent wisely."
They reached a wider section of the path where the walls rose sharply on either side, creating a natural chokepoint that defenders could have held against hundreds with just a few men. Here the remaining Gold Cloaks had gathered in greater numbers, forming two lines through which the procession could pass. They knelt in unison as Jaehaerys approached.
"The castle guard yields to King Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Third of His Name," announced their captain, a grizzled veteran with a scar bisecting his left cheek.
"Rise," Jaehaerys commanded. "You serve the realm now, not a person. Remember that."
The final approach to the Red Keep's main gate passed swiftly. Two massive bronze doors stood open, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen still visible beneath layers of tarnish where Robert had ordered the sigil obscured but not completely removed.
Passing through those gates, Jaehaerys entered the outer courtyard of the Red Keep. The space was vast, large enough to muster several hundred men-at-arms. At present, it held a nervous assembly of castle staff and minor nobility who had remained when Cersei fell—those too insignificant to flee, too practical to die for a lost cause, or simply caught unawares by the swiftness of events.
A steward in Lannister livery approached, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the ground. "Your Grace," he stammered. "The castle is prepared for your arrival. Quarters have been made ready in Maegor's Holdfast."
"The king's chambers?" Jaehaerys asked.
"Yes, Your Grace. Queen Cersei's... personal effects have been removed."
Jaehaerys nodded. "And her body?"
The steward swallowed visibly. "Recovered and prepared for whatever funeral rites you deem appropriate, Your Grace."
"Have her remains sent to Casterly Rock," Jaehaerys decided. "Whatever else she was, she was a Lannister. Let her rest with her ancestors."
A murmur of surprise rippled through those close enough to hear. This first act of mercy was not what many had expected from the returning dragon.
As the crowd parted, Jaehaerys spotted a familiar figure approaching—Tyrion Lannister, still dusty from the previous night's infiltration, dark circles under his mismatched eyes suggesting he hadn't slept. Behind him walked Jaime Lannister, his golden hair dulled by grime but his white cloak somehow still immaculate.
"Your Grace," Tyrion called, offering a bow that managed to be both proper and slightly irreverent. "May I be the first to welcome you to your excessively large, needlessly drafty, and grotesquely expensive new home?"
"Lord Tyrion. I understand we have you to thank for the relatively bloodless transfer of power."
"Me? Oh, I merely provided directions through the sewers. Hardly the stuff of songs." Tyrion's expression sobered. "Though I am sorry about how things ended with my sister. Contrary to popular belief, I didn't actually wish her dead."
"Just imprisoned, exiled, and thoroughly humiliated?" Oberyn suggested with a raised eyebrow.
"Well, yes. Obviously." Tyrion shrugged. "Family is complicated."
Jaime stepped forward then, his expression grave. "Your Grace, there are matters requiring immediate attention. Petyr Baelish has been secured in the dungeons as you ordered. He was attempting to flee when we intercepted him—with a rather substantial amount of the crown's gold, I might add."
"Littlefinger," Jaehaerys mused, the name tasting foul on his tongue. "The man who poisoned Jon Arryn. His scheming ends today."
"Indeed," Jaime agreed. "He's been quite... vocal about various deals he claims he can make. Promises of information, wealth, connections."
"The desperate negotiations of a doomed man," Jaehaerys said dismissively. "We'll deal with him after I've seen the throne."
Tyrion cleared his throat. "Speaking of the throne, the Great Hall has been prepared for your inspection. Though I should warn you—descriptions rarely do justice to its... unique aesthetic appeal."
They proceeded deeper into the castle complex, passing through smaller courtyards and covered walkways. Servants scurried out of their path, keeping their eyes downcast. The Kingsguard formed a protective ring around Jaehaerys, though there seemed little threat within these surrendered walls.
As they walked, Jaehaerys found himself struggling to reconcile the reality around him with the vision he had carried for so long. Years of preparation, of hidden identity, of careful alliance-building—all leading to this moment. Yet now that he stood within the very heart of the realm he had claimed, he felt strangely displaced, as if he were watching himself move through a dream.
"You seem troubled," Ned Stark observed quietly, falling into step beside him.
"Not troubled," Jaehaerys corrected. "Contemplative. I have spent my life preparing to take this castle. I gave less thought to what comes after the taking."
"That's where the real kingship begins," Ned said. "Any fool with a large enough army can conquer. Ruling requires wisdom."
"And you believe I possess such wisdom, uncle?" Jaehaerys asked, genuinely curious. Their relationship was still forming—the hidden nephew and the honorable lord who had kept his secret for sixteen years.
"I believe you have the potential for it," Ned replied carefully. "You have Rhaegar's intellect and Lyanna's compassion. Whether that translates to wisdom... time will tell."
Tyrion, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during this exchange, gestured toward a pair of massive doors ahead. "The Great Hall awaits, Your Grace. And with it, the Iron Throne itself."
The massive doors to the Great Hall opened with a sonorous groan. Jaehaerys paused at the threshold, taking in the vast chamber that had been the seat of power for three centuries. His entourage fell silent behind him, allowing him this moment of first encounter.
Sunlight streamed through towering stained glass windows, casting kaleidoscopic patterns across the stone floor—red and black predominantly, the colors of House Targaryen still present despite Robert's attempts to erase their legacy. The hall stretched longer than Jaehaerys had imagined, with vaulted ceilings high enough that a man's shout would echo for seconds before fading.
And there, at the far end of the hall, atop a dais of stone steps, sat the Iron Throne.
Even from this distance, it was the Iron Throne.
"Well?" Oberyn prompted from behind him. "Shall we proceed, or are you planning to rule from the doorway?"
The quip broke the spell. Jaehaerys stepped forward, his boots echoing against the stone floor. The hall seemed designed to magnify each step, to transform an ordinary walk into a processional.
"Not exactly the Water Gardens, is it?" he said quietly to Oberyn as they advanced. "Less fragrant, too."
"And significantly fewer naked women lounging about," Oberyn agreed with a grin. "A tragedy we shall have to remedy once you're properly installed."
Arthur Dayne moved alongside them, his white cloak whispering against the stones. "The dragon skulls were kept along these walls," he said, gesturing to the empty space where once the massive trophies of House Targaryen had loomed. "Robert had them removed to the cellars beneath the keep."
"Should we have them brought up, Your Grace?" Ser Gerold asked. "Now that the castle is yours again?"
Jaehaerys considered the question as they approached the halfway point of the hall. "No," he decided. "The dragons have returned in flesh and blood. There's no longer a need to look at skulls to remember how divine the dragons were." He glanced up, imagining Rhaenix's massive form soaring above. "Those skulls belong on Dragonstone, where the dream of dragons never died."
They continued forward, and with each step, the Iron Throne revealed more of its strange, threatening beauty. Forged from the thousand swords of Aegon's defeated enemies, heated in dragonfire and hammered into a seat of power, it was said to kill the unworthy who sat upon it. Looking at the jagged edges and cruel points, Jaehaerys could well believe it.
"It's rather... hideous, isn't it?" Tyrion remarked, waddling alongside him. "Though I suppose that's the point. No one should be too comfortable while ruling a realm."
"It looks more like a monstrous chair than a throne," Jaehaerys said, voicing his disappointment. "More danger than dignity."
He remembered the stories Oberyn had told him as a child—tales of the great seat of the dragonlords, described in terms that made it sound like a mountain of swords, a throne so tall that even Maegor the Cruel had been forced to climb to reach its seat. The reality before him was impressive, yes, but human-scaled. Conquerable.
At the foot of the dais, Jaehaerys stopped. Seven steps led up to the throne—symbolic, perhaps, of the seven kingdoms, or the seven faces of god, or simply the architect's sense of symmetry.
"Go on," Ned Stark urged quietly from behind him. "It's why we fought. It's why men died."
"It's why men died," Jaehaerys echoed. "And it's why more will live, if I rule as I intend to."
He ascended the first step, then the second. With each one, memories flashed through his mind: Oberyn revealing his true parentage when he was nine; the hatching of Rhaenix in fire and blood; his first martial lessons with Arthur Dayne; his nights with Arianne, her smile in the darkness; the day he sent ravens to every great house, declaring his intent to claim his birthright.
On the sixth step, he paused, turning to face the hall once more. From this vantage, he could see the entirety of the chamber—and imagine it filled with courtiers and supplicants, all looking to him for justice and guidance.
Take it, Rhaenix's voice flickered through his mind, warm and insistent. It is ours by right. By fire and blood. By conquest and birth.
"Not yet, sister," he murmured aloud. "Soon."
As if summoned by his words—or perhaps by their shared blood—the doors at the far end of the hall opened once more. Daenerys Targaryen entered, a vision in black and crimson.
The men parted for her, bowing as she passed. Even Oberyn, seldom reverent toward anyone, inclined his head in respect.
Daenerys stopped at the foot of the dais, looking up at Jaehaerys with those violet eyes so like his own. A smile played at the corners of her mouth—not the political smile she showed to allies and vassals, but something more genuine, almost conspiratorial.
"Nephew," she called, her voice carrying effortlessly in the acoustic space. "I see you've found our family's uncomfortable chair."
"Aunt," he acknowledged, returning her smile. "I was just admiring its... practical design."
"Practical indeed," she agreed, ascending the steps to join him. "Aegon made sure no king could ever forget that ruling is not meant to be comfortable."
"What do you think, Aunt?" Jaehaerys asked quietly. "Is it everything you imagined?"
Daenerys studied the throne, her head tilted slightly. "It's smaller than in my dreams," she admitted. "Less grand. And yet..." She trailed off, her eyes distant.
"And yet it still holds power," he finished for her.
She nodded, her gaze shifting to meet his. "Not in the metal itself. In what it represents."
"The unity of the Seven Kingdoms," Jaehaerys said.
"Under Targaryen rule," Daenerys added, a fierce pride in her voice.
"It should be you," Daenerys said suddenly, gesturing to the throne. "You are Rhaegar's son. The direct male line."
"We will rule together," Jaehaerys replied, the decision made long ago. "You, me, Arianne. A new kind of reign for a new age."
Daenerys smiled, a true smile that transformed her face from regal to radiant. "But today, the first sit belongs to you. The realm needs to see a king upon that throne again."
Jaehaerys turned back to the Iron Throne, taking a deep breath. The final step waited.
"Tomorrow," he decided. "When all the lords have gathered. When the prisoners have been brought before us for judgment. Today, we prepare. Tomorrow, we rule."
With one last look at the throne that his ancestors had built, Jaehaerys descended the steps, Daenerys at his side. The conquest was complete.
Tomorrow
The small council chamber felt stifling despite its size. Jaehaerys sat at the head, listening as the High Septon—a corpulent man with multiple chins and watery blue eyes—droned on about the sacred traditions of coronation. The man's heavy crystal pendant swung hypnotically with each emphatic gesture.
"...and thus, Your Grace, the anointing with the seven oils must proceed in the precise order established by Baelor the Blessed," the High Septon explained, his voice as thick and sweet as honey left too long in the sun. "First the forehead for wisdom, then the lips for just speech, the heart for courage—"
"Yes, I understand the symbolism," Jaehaerys interrupted, fighting to keep the edge from his voice. "But we are discussing a coronation that must happen quickly, not an idealized ceremony that would take weeks to prepare."
The High Septon blinked rapidly, his multiple chins quivering with indignation. "Your Grace, the Faith has performed these sacred rites since Aegon the Conqueror—"
"And Aegon was crowned hastily in the aftermath of conquest," Daenerys interjected from her seat to Jaehaerys's right. "As my nephew is now."
"The point, High Septon," Jaehaerys continued, leaning forward, "is that I need to be officially recognized before the realm as quickly as possible. Three days, no more."
"Three days!" The man looked as if he might faint. "But the preparations alone—"
"Will be simplified," Jaehaerys said firmly. "I respect the Faith's traditions, but Westeros needs stability more than it needs pageantry at present."
Oberyn, lounging in a chair near the window, chuckled. "The Faith has always been remarkably adaptable when power shifts, Your Grace. I'm certain our good Septon can manage a... streamlined approach. Can't you?"
The High Septon's gaze darted between them before settling back on Jaehaerys. Whatever he saw in those purple eyes seemed to convince him. "Of course, Your Grace. Three days. It shall be done, though some elements must remain inviolable for the ceremony to be recognized by the Faith."
"Agreed," Jaehaerys nodded. "Work with my stewards on the details. And now, if you'll excuse us, we have other matters to discuss."
Once the High Septon had departed in a rustle of rich robes and wounded dignity, the mood in the chamber shifted perceptibly. Jaehaerys looked around at his closest advisors: Daenerys, Oberyn, Ned Stark, the Blackfish, Ser Arthur, and Ser Gerold, standing guard by the door, and Tyrion Lannister, whose presence had been Jaehaerys's decision despite some objections.
"Tomorrow," Jaehaerys said without preamble, "we begin the trials."
"Trials implies a certain legal proceeding," Tyrion observed, swirling wine in his goblet. "I assume what you actually mean is 'judgments'?"
"Call it what you will," Jaehaerys replied. "Those who fought against us will face the consequences of their choices."
"Starting with my father, I presume?" Tyrion asked, his mismatched eyes revealing nothing of his feelings on the matter.
Jaehaerys nodded. "Tywin Lannister orchestrated the murders of my siblings and Princess Elia. His death has been promised to House Martell for sixteen years."
"And Robert?" Ned asked quietly. "What fate awaits the man who was king?"
"That depends on Robert himself," Jaehaerys finally answered. "Unlike Tywin, he did not order the deaths of children. His crime was claiming a throne that wasn't his to take."
"And Stannis?" the Blackfish inquired. "The middle Baratheon has a certain rigid honor about him."
"Misplaced loyalty is still punishable, but not in the same measure as malice," Jaehaerys said. "I'll hear what he has to say before deciding."
Daenerys leaned forward. "And Littlefinger? The man who poisoned Jon Arryn, and tried to have his bastard become Warden of the East?"
A cold smile touched Jaehaerys's lips. "For him, I believe we all agree on the sentence."
"Fire," Oberyn said with satisfaction. "A fitting end for a man who played with so many flames."
Tyrion cleared his throat. "Before we arrange everyone's executions, perhaps we should discuss the state of the city? The smallfolk may be less receptive to a new king if they're starving while watching nobles burn."
The Blackfish nodded. "The Imp has a point. The Lannister blockade of food shipments has left King's Landing's storehouses nearly empty."
"I've already ordered the Tyrell supply trains released," Jaehaerys said. "Lord Willas assures me the first wagons will arrive by nightfall. In the meantime, I've authorized the crown's gold to purchase whatever supplies remain in the city at fair prices for distribution."
"A wise first act," Ned Stark said with approval. "Justice matters, but empty bellies breed rebellion faster than grievances."
A knock at the door interrupted them. Ser Oswell Whent entered.
"Your Grace, Lord Varys's little birds have been rounded up as ordered," he reported. "Most were children, as suspected. They've been given food and new lodgings under guard."
"Good," Jaehaerys nodded. "Ensure they understand they're not prisoners. Once we're certain they haven't been poisoned against us, they can choose to return to their families or enter royal service."
"And the prisoners from Dragonstone?" Daenerys asked, referring to Stannis's household.
"They arrived an hour ago," Ser Oswell confirmed. "Stannis Baratheon, his wife, daughter, and the foreign priestess are being held separately as ordered."
"The Red Woman," Oberyn mused. "I've heard curious tales of her powers. Perhaps before she's sent back to Essos, I should question her about certain... techniques."
Jaehaerys shot him a warning look. "She'll be questioned about her influence over Stannis, nothing more. We're establishing justice, not indulging curiosity."
"A pity," Oberyn sighed dramatically. "The things I could learn from a priestess of R'hllor..."
"Speaking of learning," Tyrion interjected, "I've been examining the crown's financial records." He patted a stack of ledgers beside him. "It appears our friend Littlefinger was quite creative with the realm's gold. The crown is deeply in debt to my family, the Iron Bank, and various other creditors."
"Debts that will be honored," Jaehaerys said firmly. "Though perhaps renegotiated where appropriate."
"The Lannister debt could be considered partially forgiven," Tyrion suggested cautiously. "As a gesture of our family's new... allegiance."
Jaehaerys studied him. "A generous offer, Lord Tyrion. I'll consider it."
The meeting continued for another hour, with discussions of appointments to the small council, the disposition of lands and titles from disloyal houses, and the logistics of the trials to come. Throughout, Jaehaerys listened more than he spoke, weighing each suggestion and recommendation carefully. When he finally stood, signaling the end of the council, the sun had begun to set, casting long shadows across the chamber.
"Tomorrow at midday," he announced, "the throne room will be prepared. All the lords and ladies currently in King's Landing will attend. The judgments will begin with Tywin Lannister."
As the council members filed out, Daenerys lingered. "You should rest, nephew," she said quietly. "Tomorrow will be a long day."
"I will," he assured her. "After I've seen to one last thing."
She studied his face, seeming to understand without being told. With a soft touch to his arm—she departed.
Jaehaerys made his way through the quiet corridors of the Red Keep, his footsteps echoing against stone that had witnessed centuries of Targaryen rule. Guards posted at intervals bowed as he passed, but he barely registered them, his mind focused on what lay ahead.
The Great Hall was empty now, illuminated only by a few scattered torches and the dying light filtering through the stained glass
Jaehaerys approached the Iron Throne slowly, his eyes tracing its twisted contours. Earlier, with others present, he had resisted its pull.
He climbed the seven steps. At the top, he turned and lowered himself onto the seat of swords, feeling the cold metal through his clothing. The throne seemed to embrace him—not comfortably, but possessively. Small wonder that Aegon had designed it thus; no king should ever sit easy with power.
From this vantage, the hall stretched before him, vast and empty. Tomorrow it would be filled with people—some fearful, some hopeful, all watching to see what kind of king he would prove to be.
"What would you say, Father?" he whispered to the emptiness. "Mother? Is this what you envisioned when you set the realm ablaze with your love?"
Silence answered him, but in that silence, for just a moment, he thought he heard a whisper—thin and reedy, like wind through dry grass: Burn them all.
Jaehaerys gripped the arms of the throne, feeling the sharp edges press against his palms. He recognized the voice from descriptions Arthur and Gerold had shared of his grandfather's final days. Aerys, the Mad King.
"No," he said aloud, his voice firm in the empty hall. "Never that. Never like him."
The phantom voice faded, whether conquered by his resolve or simply a product of his imagination, he couldn't say. But the determination remained. He would deliver justice tomorrow, yes—but justice tempered with mercy where deserved. The Targaryen restoration would not begin with indiscriminate fire.
"Aerys Targaryen is gone," he said to the empty hall, his voice stronger now. "And his madness died with him."
As if in response, a distant roar echoed from beyond the castle walls—Rhaenix, acknowledging his declaration. In his mind, her voice came clear and strong: We are not him. We are more. We are better.
Jaehaerys Targaryen
Three days had transformed the Great Hall. What had been a cavernous, empty space when Jaehaerys first entered now teemed with life and tension. Banners bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen hung from the rafters, their red and black coloring restored to prominence after nearly two decades of stag and lion dominance. The stained glass windows had been cleaned, allowing colored light to stream across the assembled nobles and knights who packed the hall to witness the first judgments of the new regime.
Jaehaerys sat upon the Iron Throne, dressed in black and indigo, a slender circlet of Valyrian steel resting on his brow—not the full crown of his ancestors, which would come after his official coronation, but a symbol of authority nonetheless. The jagged edges of the throne pressed against him through his clothing, a constant reminder of Aegon's wisdom: no ruler should sit comfortably.
To his right, on the foot of the Throne, stood Daenerys, resplendent in a gown of black silk accented with crimson embroidery. To his left, in the same position, stood Arianne Martell, who had arrived from Dorne only yesterday, her olive skin complemented by golden jewelry that caught the light with each subtle movement. The three of them—the future rulers of the Seven Kingdoms, though only he would wear the crown—presented a united front before the realm.
Below the dais, the court had arranged itself according to the new power structure. The Stark contingent, led by Lord Eddard, occupied a place of honor near the front. The Martells, including Prince Oberyn. Representatives from the Reach, the Riverlands, and even the tentatively loyal Stormlands filled the remaining space.
And at the back, under heavy guard, waited the prisoners.
"Bring forth Tywin Lannister," Jaehaerys commanded, his voice carrying easily in the acoustically designed hall.
The crowd parted as the former Warden of the West was led forward. Despite his chains and the indignity of captivity, Tywin Lannister walked with the same imperious confidence he had always displayed. His once-golden hair had faded to white, but his green eyes remained sharp beneath bushy eyebrows. He wore the same armor he had been captured in at Harrenhal, though it had been stripped of its gilding and lion emblems.
When he reached the open space before the throne, his guards forced him to his knees. He complied, but his back remained straight, his gaze level, meeting Jaehaerys's eyes without flinching.
"Tywin of House Lannister," Jaehaerys began, his voice clear and measured. "You stand accused of treason against the crown, of orchestrating the murders of Princess Elia Martell, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, and Prince Aegon Targaryen during the Sack of King's Landing. How do you answer these charges?"
A tense silence fell over the hall. Tywin's response would set the tone for all the trials to follow.
"I do not recognize this court's authority," Tywin replied, his voice strong despite his age and circumstances. "Nor do I recognize you as king."
A murmur rippled through the assembled nobles. Defiance, even now.
"Whether you recognize my authority or not doesn't change the reality of your position," Jaehaerys responded, unfazed. "Your armies are defeated. Your family's grip on power has been broken. And you kneel in chains before the Iron Throne."
"Chains can be broken," Tywin countered. "Thrones can be toppled. I have seen dynasty after dynasty rise and fall. The Targaryens ruled for three centuries before Robert Baratheon crushed the last dragon on the Trident."
"The last dragon?" Jaehaerys allowed himself a small smile. "Look around you, Lord Tywin. The dragons have returned. Your gambit failed."
"Perhaps," Tywin conceded, though his expression remained resolute. "But I made my choices knowing the consequences should I fail. I will not beg for mercy, nor will I apologize for protecting my family's interests."
"Your family's interests?" Oberyn called out, stepping forward with barely contained fury. "Was it in your family's interest to have my sister raped and murdered? To have her children butchered like animals?"
Tywin's gaze shifted to the Dornish prince. "War is ugly, Prince Oberyn, you gain any advantage you can, you should know that better than me. I chose the winning side, as I believed it to be. Without their deaths, we would have seen exactly what we see now—another Targaryen claimant."
Jaehaerys leaned forward on the throne, careful to avoid the sharpest edges. "You speak of the murder of children as if discussing a military strategy."
"Because that's precisely what it was," Tywin replied bluntly. "Sentiment has no place in warfare or politics. You'll learn that lesson yourself, if you rule long enough."
A cold anger settled in Jaehaerys's chest. This was the man who had ordered Rhaenys's death—the sister whose soul now inhabited Rhaenix. This was the architect of his family's near destruction.
"Do you have anything else to say in your defense?" Jaehaerys asked, though he already knew the answer.
Tywin straightened even further, somehow looking regal despite his chains. "Not in my defense, no. But I will offer you advice, though I doubt you'll heed it. Control your own bloodline, boy. The greatest threat to the Targaryens has always been themselves. Sooner or later, another Aerys will emerge from your line. And this time, this new Aerys won't need wildfire to burn all his enemies—he'll have actual dragons."
The hall grew deathly quiet at this pronouncement.
"Tywin Lannister," Jaehaerys pronounced, his voice carrying the weight of formal judgment. "For your crimes against House Targaryen, House Martell, and the realm, I sentence you to death. The sentence will be carried out tomorrow at dawn."
Tywin's expression didn't change. He had expected nothing less. "How will you do it? Beheading? Hanging?" A dangerous gleam entered his eye. "Or fire, like your grandfather would have chosen?"
"You'll face a dragon's justice," Jaehaerys confirmed. "As is fitting for crimes against dragonlords."
"Then we end as we began," Tywin said, a hint of something like satisfaction in his voice. "The lion consumed by fire. History does love to repeat itself."
As the guards led Tywin away, Jaehaerys noticed Tyrion Lannister's expression—a complex mixture of emotions that even the clever dwarf couldn't fully disguise. Whatever complicated feelings existed between him and his father, watching Tywin face death with such dignity clearly affected him.
"Bring forth Stannis Baratheon," Jaehaerys commanded after a moment's pause.
Where Tywin had been defiant, Stannis was rigid—a man made of iron rather than flesh and blood. His face was gaunt, his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles visibly bulged beneath his skin. Unlike Tywin, he wore simple clothing, having been stripped of his armor upon capture.
"Stannis of House Baratheon," Jaehaerys began. "You stand accused of treason against the crown, having called your banners to support your brother's unlawful claim when you received my declaration. How do you answer these charges?"
Stannis's voice, when it came, was like gravel. "I did my duty as I saw it. Robert was king by right of conquest. I am sworn to him as his brother and subject."
"Yet you never managed to join the fight," Jaehaerys observed. "Your own bannermen turned against you."
Stannis ground his teeth audibly before answering. "House Velaryon remembered old loyalties it seems. Lord Monford and the others imprisoned me in my own castle before I could sail to join Robert." His jaw clenched tighter. "A man's bannermen should be loyal to their liege lord, not abandon him at the first sign of dragons."
"And now?" Jaehaerys asked. "Where do your loyalties lie?"
"The matter is settled," Stannis replied stiffly. "The dragons have won. My brother is defeated. House Baratheon has fallen. There is no more to be said."
A pragmatic answer, Jaehaerys thought, and surprisingly diplomatic for a man known for his rigid sense of justice. Perhaps captivity had taught Stannis Baratheon the value of flexibility.
"What mercy would you ask for yourself or your family?" Jaehaerys questioned.
For the first time, emotion flickered across Stannis's severe features. "My wife and daughter bear no guilt in this matter. Shireen is innocent of any crime. She should not suffer for her father's choices."
The concern for his daughter—genuine, from what Jaehaerys could tell—revealed the man beneath the iron exterior. Jaehaerys had already made his decision regarding Shireen Baratheon, but he was curious about the Red Priestess.
"And what of the Lady Melisandre?"
Stannis's jaw tightened further. "She believed I was some prophesied prince. She was wrong. Her fate is not my concern."
"I see," Jaehaerys said, studying the man before him. "Stannis Baratheon, for your crimes against the crown, I sentence you to take the black. You will serve at the Wall for the remainder of your days. Your daughter, Shireen, will remain the heir to Storm's End and House Baratheon, under the guardianship of Lord Velayron until she comes of age."
Surprise registered briefly on Stannis's face—he had clearly expected death rather than exile. "And my wife?"
"Lady Selyse may choose to return to her family at Brightwater Keep or remain at Storm's End with your daughter," Jaehaerys announced. "The Red Priestess will be escorted to Volantis on the next ship and forbidden from returning to Westeros or she will be sentected to death."
Stannis bowed his head, a gesture that appeared to cost him considerable effort. "I... thank you for your mercy toward my family, Your Grace."
As Stannis was led away, Jaehaerys could sense the court's reaction to his judgment—some approval, some surprise. Mercy was not what many had expected from the returned Targaryen prince, especially not toward a Baratheon.
"Bring forth Tommen and Myrcella," Jaehaerys commanded next.
The two golden-haired children were led forward, their faces pale and frightened. Tommen, no more than nine, trembled visibly. Myrcella, a few years older, kept her composure better, though her eyes betrayed her fear. Neither wore chains, a small mercy Jaehaerys had insisted upon.
"Tommen and Myrcella," he began, deliberately omitting their family name, "you have been raised as Baratheons, as the children of King Robert. However, evidence and testimony has revealed that you are in fact the children of Cersei Lannister and Tygett Lannister."
Whispers erupted throughout the hall. This was new information to many present. Jaehaerys raised a hand for silence.
"You bear no guilt for the circumstances of your birth," he continued, his tone gentler than before. "Nor for the actions of your mother or the man who claimed to be your father. As such, you will not be punished."
Relief washed over their young faces, though confusion remained.
"Tommen, you will be fostered in Dorne, where you will serve as squire to Lord Anders Yronwood. When you come of age, you will marry Lady Sylva Santagar. Myrcella, you will also journey to Dorne, to serve as lady-in-waiting to Princess Arianne Martell. Upon reaching maturity, you will wed Ser Deziel Dalt's son, Corren."
Arianne stepped forward, addressing the children directly. "Do not fear, little ones. Dorne treats its wards well. You will find a new home among us."
Myrcella managed a small curtsy. "Thank you, Your Grace, Princess Arianne."
As the children were led away, Jaehaerys noted the approval on Oberyn's face. The arrangements had been his suggestion—keeping the Lannister offspring close, but married into minor houses where they could pose no threat.
"Bring forth Lady Lysa Arryn," Jaehaerys commanded.
When Lysa Tully was brought forward, the contrast with the previous prisoners could not have been starker. Where Tywin and Stannis had maintained dignity, Lysa was a wreck of a woman. Her auburn hair hung in unwashed strands around a face blotchy from crying. She twisted her hands constantly, her gaze darting around the hall like a cornered animal.
"Lysa of House Tully, widow of Jon Arryn," Jaehaerys began. "You stand accused of the murder of your husband, the former Hand of the King, by poisoning him with tears of Lys at the behest of Petyr Baelish. You also stand accused of falsely presenting Petyr Baelish's bastard son as the trueborn heir to the Vale. How do you answer these charges?"
"Lies!" she shrieked suddenly, making several nearby guards flinch. "All lies! My sweet Robin is Jon's son! His true heir!"
"That is not what you said at the Eyrie," Jaehaerys reminded her. "You confessed to poisoning your husband on Lord Baelish's orders when my soon to be wife claimed that the former will no longer be the Master of Coins, and that Robin was Littlefinger's son, conceived while your husband was serving as Hand in King's Landing."
"I was confused! Frightened!" Lysa's voice rose hysterically. "That... that monster," she pointed a shaking finger at Daenerys, "threatened me with her dragon! What choice did I have but to say what she wanted to hear?"
Daenerys's expression remained impassive. "You didn't like it when I told you that Petyr Baelish would no longer be Master of Coins, and then in your fear, you told Lady Catelyn Stark that your son is Petyr's son."
"Where is my son?" Lysa demanded, her mood shifting abruptly. "What have you done with my sweet Robin?"
"The boy is safe," Jaehaerys assured her. "He has been removed from the Eyrie and placed in the care of Lord Yohn Royce, who will oversee the Vale until Bronze Yohn's son Andar, who will become the Lord Paramount of the Vale, marries."
"No!" Lysa screamed, lunging forward only to be restrained by her guards. "You can't take my son! He is the Lord of the Vale! The falcon must fly!"
"Robin Arryn—or more accurately, Robin Stone—is not the Lord of the Vale," Jaehaerys stated firmly. "He is a bastard born of your affair with Petyr Baelish. He will be raised as a ward of House Royce, given an education befitting his station, but he will not inherit the Vale."
Lysa collapsed to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably. "Please," she begged, "punish me if you must, but don't take my son away. He's sickly, he needs his mother."
"Lysa Tully," Jaehaerys pronounced, "for your crimes against your husband and the realm, I sentence you to join the Silent Sisters. You will spend the remainder of your days in prayer and service, reflecting on your sins."
"No!" she wailed as the guards lifted her to her feet. "No, you can't! Petyr will save me! Petyr loves me! He promised we would be together!"
"Petyr Baelish can promise you nothing," Jaehaerys replied coldly. "As you're about to see."
As Lysa was dragged from the hall, still screaming for her son and her lover, Jaehaerys signaled for the next prisoner. "Bring forth Petyr Baelish."
Littlefinger approached with none of the hysteria of his former lover, nor the defiance of Tywin Lannister. Instead, he walked with an almost casual confidence, as if attending a small council meeting rather than his own trial. Unlike the others, he wore clean clothes—simple but well-made. His familiar mockingbird pin had been removed, but otherwise, he appeared much as he always had.
"Petyr Baelish," Jaehaerys began, "former Master of Coin under Robert Baratheon. You stand accused of orchestrating the murder of Jon Arryn by manipulating Lysa Tully into poisoning her husband. You stand accused of massive theft from the royal treasury. You stand accused of deliberately working to destabilize the realm for your own advancement. How do you answer these charges?"
Littlefinger's smile was slight but unmistakable. "What an impressive list, Your Grace. I wonder who provided such... colorful testimony about my activities?"
"Lady Lysa confessed your role in Jon Arryn's death," Jaehaerys replied. "The treasury ledgers reveal your embezzlement. And as for destabilizing the realm... your own papers, recovered from your quarters, detail your manipulations quite thoroughly."
"Ah," Littlefinger nodded, as if appreciating a worthy opponent's move in cyvasse. "Well, in that case, I suppose denial would be rather pointless."
"Do you have anything to say in your defense?" Jaehaerys asked, though he expected little of value.
"Defense? No." Littlefinger's gaze swept the hall, assessing, calculating even now. "But I could offer something more valuable. Information. Secrets that would be of immense use to a new king seeking to cement his rule."
"Such as?" Jaehaerys prompted.
"The location of considerable crown funds I've... safeguarded. Details of Robert's supporters who even now plot against you from across the Narrow Sea. Knowledge of certain lords in this very room who have already begun to hedge their bets against your reign." Littlefinger's smile widened fractionally. "My mind remains my most valuable possession, Your Grace. It would be a waste to destroy it without benefiting from its contents first."
Jaehaerys leaned back on the throne, regarding Baelish with cool contempt. "You mistake me for someone who negotiates with traitors, Lord Baelish. Whatever secrets you possess will die with you."
For the first time, genuine alarm flickered across Littlefinger's features. "That would be shortsighted, Your Grace. I can—"
"Petyr Baelish," Jaehaerys interrupted, "for your crimes against the realm, I sentence you to death by fire. You manipulated Lysa Tully with promises of love and power. You poisoned Jon Arryn through her hand. You stole from the crown and worked to set the great houses against each other. The realm has bled because of your ambition."
"Your Grace," Littlefinger tried again, his composure cracking slightly, "consider what I offer. Knowledge is power—"
"In my experience, Lord Baelish," Daenerys interjected, her voice like frost on Valyrian steel, "men who trade in secrets burn just as easily as those who don't. The only difference is the color of the ash."
As the guards dragged Baelish away, his mask of confidence finally slipped, revealing the desperation beneath. "You need me!" he called out. "You need what I know!"
"I need justice for the realm," Jaehaerys replied firmly. "Nothing more."
After Littlefinger's removal, Kevan Lannister was brought forth. Unlike his brother Tywin, Kevan presented a more subdued figure—still proud, but without Tywin's implacable defiance.
"Kevan of House Lannister," Jaehaerys began. "You stand accused of supporting your brother's unlawful rebellion against the crown. How do you answer these charges?"
"I do not deny my loyalty to my brother and my house," Kevan replied, his voice steady. "But I would ask Your Grace to remember that loyalty to one's family is not itself a crime, even if that loyalty led to actions against the crown."
Jaehaerys nodded. "There is truth in what you say, Ser Kevan. You followed your brother's lead, as you have done all your life. You were not the architect of the crimes against my family."
Relief showed briefly in Kevan's eyes. "I ask only that my son Lancel be spared. He's a young man, with no true role in this conflict."
"Kevan Lannister," Jaehaerys pronounced, "for your role in the rebellion against House Targaryen, I sentence you to take the black. You will serve at the Wall for the remainder of your days. Your son Lancel will inherit whatever lands you have and titles, and he will swear fealty directly to the crown."
Kevan bowed his head. "Thank you for your mercy, Your Grace. I will serve honorably at the Wall, and my son will serve you faithfully."
Grand Maester Pycell was supposed to face justice as well for telling the Mad King to open the Gates when House Lannister arrived, but this morning, he was found in his chamber, he had choked on a piece of a large fruit, and he was found dead in his chambers. Such a tragedy.
"And now," Jaehaerys announced, his voice growing serious once more, "bring forth Robert Baratheon."
The great hall fell silent as the final prisoner was led in. Robert Baratheon—once the Demon of the Trident, once King of the Seven Kingdoms—walked between his guards with his head held high.
Robert's appearance had improved somewhat since Jaehaerys had visited his cage two weeks prior. His beard had been trimmed, his hair washed and combed, his clothing clean if simple. But the fire in his blue eyes remained unchanged—defiant, intense, alive with a spirit that captivity had somehow failed to dim.
Jaehaerys watched him approach, remembering their conversation in the twilight outside that cage. The strange moment of connection they had shared, despite everything that lay between them. The unexpected laughter. The acknowledgment that perhaps they had both been chasing ghosts.
Robert stopped before the Iron Throne, offering neither bow nor knee. The guards tensed, but Jaehaerys waved them back. This final judgment deserved to be conducted standing, man to man.
"Robert of House Baratheon," Jaehaerys began, "former Lord of Storm's End, former King of the Seven Kingdoms. You stand accused of rebellion against House Targaryen and usurping the Iron Throne. How do you answer these charges?"
Robert's laugh echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
"Aye, I rebelled," Robert declared, his voice as powerful as ever, cutting through the hall like a warhammer through armor. "I rebelled against a king who burned men alive while their sons strangled themselves trying to save them. I rebelled against a madman who demanded my head and Ned Stark's for no crime other than existing." His blue eyes swept across the hall, challenging anyone to contradict him. "And I won. Crushed your father's chest at the Trident myself. Took the throne because someone had to sit the damned thing after Aerys was gone."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some had expected contrition from a defeated enemy. Instead, they heard the unrepentant roar of the stag, even in defeat.
"Your rebellion was built on a lie," Jaehaerys replied evenly. "You believed my father kidnapped and raped Lyanna Stark. He did not. They loved each other. They married in secret. I am their trueborn son."
Robert's gaze shifted to Ned Stark.
"So it seems," Robert acknowledged, turning back to Jaehaerys. "Though whether I knew that lie for what it was then doesn't much matter now, does it?" His voice dropped slightly, enough that only those nearest could hear the genuine emotion beneath the bluster. "I believed she was taken against her will. I loved her, or thought I did. The realm bled for that belief."
"A belief that led to the deaths of thousands," Jaehaerys noted. "Including my father, my grandfather, and countless innocents."
"War is war," Robert replied, though some of the fire had left his voice. "Innocents always die. Doesn't matter who starts it or why."
"And after?" Jaehaerys pressed. "When the Mountain and Amory Lorch presented the bodies of my siblings and their mother to you, wrapped in Lannister crimson? What was your belief then?"
A flicker of shame crossed Robert's weathered features. "I was king," he said, his voice quieter but no less firm. "Kings make hard choices. They must stand by them, even if they are wrong."
"Kings make choices that reveal what kind of men they truly are," Jaehaerys corrected. "As I must now."
After the sentences already handed down—dragon fire for Tywin Lannister and Petyr Baelish, the Wall for Stannis and Kevan, the Silent Sisters for Lysa Tully—none could guess what fate awaited the usurper king who had ended Targaryen rule.
Robert straightened his shoulders, as if preparing for a blow. "Well? Get on with it, boy. I know what's coming. Make it quick, at least. A clean death by the sword is all a man can ask for in the end."
Their eyes met across the space between them—violet and blue, dragon and stag, the new king and the old.
"Robert Baratheon," Jaehaerys pronounced, his voice clear and strong. "For your crimes against House Targaryen, I sentence you to take the black. You will serve at the Wall for the remainder of your days."
A shock ran through the assembled nobles. Whispers erupted immediately, spreading like wildfire through the hall. This was perhaps the greatest surprise of all the judgments. Robert himself looked stunned, his mouth falling open slightly before he recovered.
"The Wall?" he repeated, disbelief evident in his voice. "Not fire?"
"Not fire," Jaehaerys confirmed. "My mother loved her brother Ned. For his sake, and in recognition that your rebellion began with a genuine belief that you were avenging her, I spare your life."
But they both knew there was more to it than that. I won't become a kinslayer if I can avoid it.
Robert's laugh this time was softer, tinged with something like wonder. "You really are more wolf than dragon, aren't you? Despite those purple eyes."
"I am both," Jaehaerys replied. "As I must be to rule justly."
Robert nodded slowly, a strange respect dawning in his eyes. "The Night's Watch," he mused. "Fighting wildlings instead of rebels. Trading a golden crown for a black one." He barked another laugh, this one more genuine. "Ned always said there was honor in the Watch. Suppose I'll find out if he was right."
"You'll have good company," Jaehaerys remarked. "Stannis joins you there, as does Kevan Lannister."
"Gods help the wildlings," Robert grinned, some of his old spirit returning. "Between my hammer, Stannis's stubbornness, and Kevan's tactics, they won't know what hit them."
A ripple of surprised laughter spread through those close enough to hear the exchange.
"The Watch could use strong men," Jaehaerys acknowledged. "Even aging ones."
"Watch who you're calling aging, boy," Robert shot back, though there was no real heat in it. "I can still swing a hammer better than most men half my age."
As the guards moved to escort Robert away, he paused, looking back at Jaehaerys with sudden seriousness. "Tommen and Myrcella," he said quietly. "What becomes of them?"
"Tommen and Myrcella will go to Dorne," Jaehaerys replied. "They will be fostered with respectable houses and make suitable matches when they come of age. They will be treated with dignity, despite the circumstances of their birth."
Relief visibly washed over Robert's face. "Thank you," he said simply, the words clearly costing him considerable effort.
As Robert was finally led away, the hall erupted in conversation, nobles and knights alike discussing the unexpected mercy shown to the former king. Jaehaerys rose from the Iron Throne, the day's judgments complete.
Daenerys approached him as he descended the dais. "The stag goes to the Wall while the lion burns," she observed quietly. "Some will call it weakness."
"Let them," Jaehaerys replied. "There is strength in mercy, when mercy is deserved. Robert fought against madness and cruelty, even if he fought for the wrong reasons. Tywin orchestrated the murder of children for political gain. The sentences fit the crimes."
Arianne joined them. "You've surprised them all today," she said, nodding toward the still-buzzing nobles. "They expected fire and blood. You gave them justice tempered with mercy."
"Fire and blood has its place," Jaehaerys acknowledged. "As we'll see tomorrow when Tywin Lannister and Petyr Baelish meet their ends. But a king who rules by fear alone rules a kingdom of enemies waiting for his fall."
"And a king who rules with too much mercy?" Daenerys asked.
"Is eventually seen as weak," Jaehaerys finished for her. "The balance is what matters. Justice where needed, mercy where deserved, strength always."
He looked out over the Great Hall, at the lords and ladies who would soon kneel to him officially at his coronation. At the Iron Throne behind him. At the Targaryen banners hanging once more from the rafters, red and black reclaiming their place.
The dragon had returned to King's Landing. The wheel of power had turned full circle. But this time, Jaehaerys Targaryen, Third of His Name, was determined that the mistakes of the past would remain in the past. His reign would begin not with indiscriminate fire, but with measured justice—a new era for a dynasty reborn.
"Come," he said to Daenerys and Arianne. "We have a coronation to prepare for, and a kingdom to rebuild."
Tomorrow
Dawn painted the ruins of the Dragonpit in shades of red, as if the walls themselves were bleeding. Jaehaerys stood upon a hastily constructed wooden platform that overlooked the vast circular expanse. Once, this had been the greatest structure in King's Landing after the Red Keep itself—a massive dome built to house the Targaryen dragons. Now it lay in ruins, its collapsed ceiling opening to the sky, its walls crumbling testimonies to forgotten glory. Yet today, it would serve its original purpose once more: a place for dragons.
Cannibal and Rhaenix had made their temporary home among the ruins, finding comfort in the ancient stones that still carried traces of their kind. The black beast—Daenerys's mount—lay coiled like a massive serpent atop the highest intact section of the wall. Rhaenix perched closer; she seemed like blood made flesh.
They fear us, brother, her voice whispered in Jaehaerys's mind. As they should.
Fear alone isn't enough, he thought back. They must understand justice.
Justice. Vengeance. What's the difference when blood is spilled?
Jaehaerys had no answer to that, at least none that would satisfy a dragon. Instead, he turned his attention to the gathering crowd. Hundreds had assembled to witness the executions—nobles required to attend, commoners drawn by dark curiosity. The Kingsguard formed a protective ring around the royal platform where Jaehaerys stood with Daenerys and Arianne flanking him. Oberyn Martell stood slightly apart, his face a mask of anticipation. For him, this was sixteen years in the making, including Northern and many Southern Lords, but Lord Stark was absent, and Jaehaerys could understand that as were Tyrion Lannister and Jaime Lannister.
A murmur rippled through the crowd as the prisoners were led in. Petyr Baelish came first, his wrists bound before him, escorted by four gold cloaks. The swagger that had carried him through life had abandoned him now; he shuffled more than walked, his eyes darting desperately for some escape that did not exist. Behind him, Tywin Lannister approached with measured steps, back straight despite his chains, his face impassive as stone.
"Bring forward Petyr Baelish," Jaehaerys commanded, his voice carrying across the Dragonpit.
The guards pushed Littlefinger to the center of the ruined arena, then retreated to a safe distance. He stood alone now, a small figure in the vast space, dwarfed by the enormity of the ruins and the beasts that dwelled within them.
"Petyr Baelish," Jaehaerys called down. "You have been found guilty of murder, treason, and crimes against the realm. Yesterday you were sentenced to death by fire. Have you any last words?"
For a moment, Littlefinger's mask of composure returned. He drew himself up, the calculating mind behind those gray-green eyes clearly working even now.
"Your Grace," he began, his voice surprisingly steady, "I've served this realm faithfully for years. The skills that you condemn as scheming are the very talents you need in your council. The realm requires men who understand the game, who know how power truly flows." His eyes locked with Jaehaerys's. "I can be more valuable alive than dead. One last chance—that's all I ask."
He still plays, Rhaenix observed with disdain in Jaehaerys's mind. Even at the edge of oblivion.
"Your games end today, Lord Baelish," Jaehaerys replied. "The realm will find its way without your particular talents."
He nodded to Daenerys, who stepped forward. With a subtle gesture from her hand, Cannibal uncoiled from his perch. The massive black dragon stretched his wings, blotting out the rising sun for a moment before launching into the air with speed for a creature his size.
Realization dawned on Littlefinger's face as the shadow fell over him. His composure shattered completely.
"Please!" he cried, dropping to his knees, chains clanking against the stone. "Your Grace—mercy! I have information! Secrets that could secure your reign for decades! Names of conspirators, locations of hidden gold—"
"The time for bargaining has passed," Jaehaerys said quietly, though he knew Baelish couldn't hear him over his own desperate pleas.
Cannibal circled once, twice, a predator savoring the moment. Daenerys's face remained impassive, but Jaehaerys could see the tension in her jaw, the slight narrowing of her eyes as she communicated silently with her mount.
Littlefinger's voice rose to a shriek. "I was loyal to the Realm! Please—"
"Dracarys," Daenerys whispered.
The word was soft, but the effect was cataclysmic. Cannibal's jaws opened, and hell poured forth. A torrent of green flame tinged with red streaked downward, engulfing Littlefinger in an instant. His scream pierced the morning air—a sound of such primal terror that several onlookers turned away. It lasted only seconds before the roar of the flame consumed it.
Jaehaerys watched unflinching as the man who had caused so much chaos burned. The flesh melted from Littlefinger's bones like wax from a candle, his fine clothes vanishing in an instant. For a brief, terrible moment, his silhouette remained standing, a blackened figure amid the inferno—then he collapsed into a charred heap, smoke rising from what little remained.
The crowd gasped collectively, some in horror, others in grim satisfaction. This was dragon justice—swift, absolute, terrible to behold.
One debt paid, Rhaenix whispered in his mind. One more remains.
Jaehaerys nodded slightly, then raised his voice. "Bring forth Tywin Lannister."
Where fear had broken Littlefinger, it seemed to have no purchase on Tywin. The former Hand of the King walked to the same spot where Baelish's remains still smoldered, his face betraying nothing. He stood tall, chains hanging from his wrists, and looked directly up at Jaehaerys.
"Lord Tywin Lannister," Jaehaerys declared. "You have been found guilty of orchestrating the murders of Princess Elia Martell and her children, Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon Targaryen. You have been sentenced to death by fire. Have you any last words?"
Tywin's green eyes, flecked with gold, held Jaehaerys's gaze without wavering. He remained silent, his contempt more eloquent than any final declaration could be. This, too, was a kind of defiance—refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing him beg or justify himself.
Jaehaerys felt Rhaenix's anticipation building like a storm in his mind. This was personal for her in a way that Littlefinger's execution was not.
Sister, he thought to her. He is yours.
Rhaenix's roar shook the very foundations of the Dragonpit. She launched herself skyward with a powerful thrust of her wings, crimson scales blazing in the morning light. Unlike Cannibal's methodical circling, she dove immediately, her trajectory direct and purposeful.
Even now, Tywin did not flinch. He stared up at the descending dragon, his expression unchanged, facing death as he had faced life—unbending, unbowed.
Jaehaerys didn't need to give a command. This was Rhaenix's vengeance to take. Her flames erupted—brighter than Cannibal's had been, bright crimson. They engulfed Tywin entirely, the heat so intense that the stone beneath him began to glow, but there was no screaming.
But Rhaenix wasn't finished. As the flames still raged, she descended further, jaws opening impossibly wide. She snapped forward, teeth sinking into Tywin's burning form. The sound of crunching bone was audible even over the roar of fire. She lifted her head, taking with it the entire upper half of Tywin's body, leaving only charred legs and hips to collapse to the ground.
Blood, steam, and molten fat dripped from Rhaenix's jaws as she swallowed her mouthful with savage satisfaction. She circled once more over the gathered crowd, a display of power that needed no interpretation, before landing heavily on her perch among the ruins.
Justice, her voice purred in Jaehaerys's mind. Sweet justice.
The crowd stood in stunned silence. Even those who had witnessed Littlefinger's death were shaken by the visceral brutality of Tywin's end. Oberyn Martell's face showed grim satisfaction, tears tracking silently down his cheeks—tears for his sister, finally avenged.
"So perish all who murder innocents for power," Jaehaerys declared, his voice carrying across the silent Dragonpit. "Let justice be remembered, and mercy cherished all the more for its absence here today."
The crowd parted before them as they descended from the platform. Whatever doubts some lords might have harbored about the return of the dragons, none dared voice them now. Fear had its place in governance—Jaehaerys understood that. But as the smoking remains of Tywin Lannister faded from view, he silently renewed his vow that fear would never be his primary tool.
Even in vengeance, there must be justice, he thought to himself. Even in fire, there must be purpose.
Rhaenix's satisfied purr was his only answer.