The Riverlands lay prostrate, a landscape of ash and tears. The shattered remnants of King Robert's grand host, little more than desperate, starving bands, stumbled back towards the perceived safety of King's Landing, their tales of Loki Bloodaxe echoing like a death knell. But safety was an illusion, a cruel mirage. Loki, the Serpent in the Rivers, had coiled his forces, not just around the realm's heartland, but directly around its very beating core: the Red Keep.
His drakkars, no longer just ships of war but vessels of terror, dominated the Blackwater Rush. They formed a silent, unyielding blockade, their dragon prows glinting ominously under the sun, cutting off King's Landing from the sea and any hope of supply or escape. The great city, accustomed to its bustling port and endless bounty, now choked. Food prices skyrocketed, hoarding became rampant, and the cries of starving refugees mingling with the city's own desperate poor created a cacophony of misery.
From atop a captured merchant ship, now Loki's floating command center, he observed the city. He could feel the fear within its walls, a palpable, growing dread that fed his own arcane power. Stormbreaker rested against his shoulder, its Valyrian steel head seemingly thirsting for the blood that would soon soak the streets of the capital.
"They squirm like worms in a dying bird," Loki murmured to Jarl Astrid, who stood beside him, her keen eyes fixed on the city's formidable walls. "They believe their stone will protect them. They forget that fear is a greater siege weapon than any catapult."
Astrid nodded, her expression grim. "Our agents report growing unrest, Jarl. Riots in Flea Bottom. The Gold Cloaks are stretched thin. They fear their own people as much as they fear us."
"Good," Loki replied, a chilling smile touching his lips. "Let them tear each other apart. When they are exhausted by their own desperation, then we strike."
The Whispers of Despair: A City Unravels
Loki had no intention of a long, costly siege. His strategy was far more insidious, a psychological war that would rot the city from within. His spies, a network refined by years in Skardheim and expanded by the Riverlands campaign, were already inside King's Landing. They moved among the refugees, mingled with the common folk, and even infiltrated the lower ranks of the Gold Cloaks, spreading carefully crafted rumors.
"The King is dead," they whispered, even as Robert still lived. "The Queen has fled. The Gold Cloaks will abandon you. Loki Bloodaxe has an army of demons, and he will spare no one."
The effect was immediate and devastating. Panic gripped the city. Stores were looted, desperate battles broke out over meager rations, and the authority of the Gold Cloaks crumbled. Commander Janos Slynt, a man of limited courage and ample cruelty, found his men deserting in droves, or worse, turning to banditry themselves. He tried to impose order with brutal executions, but it only fueled the resentment and despair. The once-proud city walls, designed to keep enemies out, now felt like a cage, trapping its inhabitants in a living nightmare.
Then, Loki began his arcane assault. At night, mists unlike any King's Landing had ever seen would roll in from the Blackwater, thick and unnatural. Within these mists, Loki would weave illusions: spectral longships sailing through the streets, phantom warriors clashing on the battlements, chilling screams echoing from empty alleys. The Gold Cloaks on watch, already terrified and sleep-deprived, began to see ghosts, firing arrows at shadows, their nerves fraying to breaking point. Some went mad, others deserted, leaving gaping holes in the city's perimeter.
Robert's Last Stand: A King's Tragic End
King Robert Baratheon, huddled in his chambers within the Red Keep, was a king in name only. His triumphant return to King's Landing had been anything but. His once-boisterous spirit was broken, replaced by a sullen, drunken stupor. He raged at his servants, screamed at the empty halls, and plunged deeper into the oblivion of wine. The whispers of Loki's approach, the screams of the starving populace, and the escalating chaos outside his window were tortures more potent than any physical wound.
Cersei Lannister, though terrified for her children and her own fate, maintained a façade of regal defiance, her eyes constantly darting for escape routes or opportunities. She pleaded with Robert, alternately threatening and begging him to act, to fight, to be the King he once was. "Robert! You must fight! You must lead! The barbarians are at our gates!"
But Robert was beyond rallying. One evening, after a particularly vicious argument with Cersei and a full cask of wine, a desperate rage seized him. "Fight them? Fine! I'll fight them myself!" he roared, grabbing his warhammer. "I'll smash this Loki! I'll crush him like a bug!"
He stumbled towards the battlements, a single-minded fury driving him. His Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Meryn Trant, desperate to protect their King, tried to restrain him. But Robert, fueled by liquor and a desperate, dying pride, shoved them aside. He bellowed challenges into the night, waving his hammer towards the unseen enemy.
It was not a warrior's death, but a pathetic, lonely end. As he reached the outer wall, driven by a final, drunken impulse to reclaim his lost glory, a loose stone, perhaps dislodged by the vibrations of his own thundering footsteps, gave way beneath him. Or perhaps, it was the subtle, guiding touch of Loki's magic, a whisper in the stone itself. Robert stumbled, his heavy armor pulling him down. He crashed against the crenellations, his head striking the cold stone with a sickening crack. He barely made a sound, a final gurgle of blood, before his body slumped, lifeless, against the parapet.
Ser Barristan and Ser Meryn found him moments later, his broken form silhouetted against the distant, eerie glow of Loki's magical mist over the Blackwater. King Robert Baratheon was dead, however inglorious, his death throwing King's Landing into total disarray, removing the last semblance of royal authority and sealing the city's doom.
The Final Breach: Fire and Blood in the Capital
With Robert dead and the city consumed by chaos, Loki gave the order. The grand assault began at dawn. It was not a conventional siege, but a brutal, surgical strike.
The Northern Assault: Loki's drakkars, emerging from the pre-dawn mist, launched waves of warriors directly onto the unsuspecting northern docks, breaching the city's vulnerable underbelly where the walls met the water. This was an area designed for trade, not war. The few remaining Gold Cloaks here, demoralized and terrified, offered little resistance.
Stormbreaker hummed in Loki's hand as he was among the first to leap ashore, his axe a crimson blur, cutting down any who stood in his path.
The Western Infiltration: Simultaneously, Jarl Astrid led a smaller, highly agile force to the western gate, using illusions and precise strikes to disorient the few guards. They slipped through quickly, cutting down the defenders and securing the gate.
The Southern Diversion: Meanwhile, Jarl Kael, with his berserkers, launched a loud, aggressive feint against the city's main southern gate, drawing the attention and remaining strength of the Gold Cloaks. It was a brutal, bloody affair, but it served its purpose, pinning down the city's meager defenders while the true invasion poured in from other points.
The Skardheimers poured into King's Landing like a dark tide. The streets became rivers of blood. The few remaining Gold Cloaks, leaderless and demoralized, were quickly overwhelmed. They fought with the desperation of cornered animals, but Loki's warriors, disciplined in their savagery, were unstoppable. The screams of the dying, the terrified cries of the innocent, and the roar of the invaders filled the morning air. Houses were put to the torch, not systematically like in the Riverlands, but in the chaotic frenzy of conquest.
The Battle for the Red Keep: The Last Lions' Roar
The Red Keep, its formidable walls crumbling under the combined weight of fear and assault, was the final prize. Within its thick stone, a small, desperate group of nobles and surviving Gold Cloaks made a last stand.
Cersei Lannister, clutching Tommen and Myrcella, watched in horror from the safety of Maegor's Holdfast as the sounds of battle drew closer. Joffrey, however, defiant to the last, had armed himself and demanded to be taken to the battlements, screaming obscenities and challenging the "barbarians."
Loki, with Stormbreaker held aloft, led his chosen warriors directly to the Red Keep. He did not bother with elaborate sieges. He channeled his raw magic, aiming a blast of arcane energy at the massive, main gate, shattering it with a deafening roar. The Skardheimers poured into the castle courtyards, a torrent of steel and fur.
The last defenders of the Red Keep, few in number, were quickly overwhelmed. But not without a final, desperate, and awe-inspiring stand.
Ser Barristan and Ser Meryn: A Kingsguard's Final Vow
As the main gate of the Red Keep splintered and fell, Loki's elite forces surged inward. At the vanguard of the Skardheim assault were Jarl Hakon the Ruthless and Jarl Kael the Silent, two titans of battle, their axes thirsty for blood, their berserkers roaring behind them. Waiting to meet them, in the grand courtyard of the Red Keep, stood Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and Ser Meryn Trant. Around them, a handful of surviving Gold Cloaks and royal guards, pale with fear but clinging to their last shred of duty, formed a desperate line.
Ser Barristan, though past his prime, moved with the grace of a lifetime of sword-fighting. His white cloak, now sullied by dust and the smoke of the burning city, billowed around him. His eyes, though weary, held the sharp focus of a predator. Ser Meryn, less skilled but fiercely loyal in his own brute way, gripped his sword, his face set in a grimace of defiance.
Hakon, a giant of a man, his axe already dripping, eyed Barristan. "An old lion," he grunted, a cruel smile on his face. "Time for him to be put down." Kael, ever silent, merely hefted his own monstrous axe, eager for the kill.
The two Jarls, accompanied by a dozen of their most formidable berserkers, charged. Ser Meryn, seeing the overwhelming force, swallowed hard. He was no match for a Jarl, let alone two, and their crazed warriors.
Barristan moved first, a blur of polished steel. He parried Hakon's thunderous axe-swing with a precise block, the clang echoing like a bell. His own sword, quick as a viper, flicked out, aiming for Hakon's exposed arm. Hakon roared, deflecting the blow with a shield, but Barristan's agility surprised him. He then spun, his blade a silver arc, forcing Kael to step back from a calculated riposte.
Ser Meryn, meanwhile, found himself beset by three berserkers. He fought with surprising ferocity, his sword a desperate dance against the flailing axes. He parried one blow, shoved another berserker back, and managed to gut a third. But his movements were clumsy compared to the fluid, almost supernatural grace of the Skardheim warriors. One berserker, screaming, ducked under his guard and drove a jagged knife deep into Meryn's thigh. Meryn roared in pain, stumbling. Another axe-wielder capitalized, his heavy blow shattering Meryn's shoulder guard. Meryn screamed, collapsing to one knee, still fighting, still trying to protect his King's last bastion. But the numbers were too great. A final, crushing blow from a berserker's axe came down on his head, splitting his helm and silencing him instantly. Ser Meryn Trant fell, his body lying broken amidst the chaos, his last stand a desperate act of duty.
Barristan saw Meryn fall. A flicker of grief, then a renewed surge of cold fury, ignited in his eyes. He was alone. The Kingsguard, once the greatest knights of the realm, reduced to this. He met Hakon's next charge, his blade twisting, finding a chink in the Jarl's crude but effective armor. Hakon grunted, a thin line of blood appearing on his bicep. The Jarl, momentarily surprised, roared, redoubling his attack.
Kael, seeing Hakon wounded, moved in, attempting to flank Barristan. The Lord Commander, fighting two Jarls of immense strength and skill simultaneously, was a testament to his legendary prowess. He parried Kael's sweeping axe, the force of the blow jarring his arm, then pivoted, driving Hakon back with a series of furious, precise thrusts. He danced between them, a lone, white-clad figure against a tide of fury. Each parry, each riposte, was a masterclass in swordplay, an impossible ballet of steel against overwhelming power.
But even Barristan the Bold had his limits. He was surrounded now, not just by Hakon and Kael, but by the relentless berserkers. He cut down two more, his blade leaving bloody trails, but a blow from behind, a heavy shield bash, staggered him. Hakon seized the momentary advantage, his axe whistling down. Barristan brought his sword up, deflecting the blow, but the force drove him to one knee, his muscles screaming. He was bleeding from several minor cuts, his breathing ragged.
He looked around. The courtyard was a slaughterhouse. His men were dead. The Red Keep was lost. There was no victory here, only death. But he had a duty to survive, to tell the tale, to perhaps, one day, find a true king worth serving. His eyes darted to the edge of the courtyard, where a broken section of the outer wall overlooked a sheer drop to the cliffs leading down to the Blackwater.
With a desperate, roaring cry that defied his years, Barristan unleashed a final, powerful flurry of blows, driving back Hakon and Kael for a precious few seconds. Before they could recover, he sprinted towards the broken wall, leaping onto the crumbling stone. He glanced back, seeing the two furious Jarls surging towards him. With a final, agonizing push, he threw himself over the edge, plunging into the dark abyss below.
"He fled!" Hakon roared in frustration, running to the edge and looking down. He saw only the churning waves of the Blackwater far below, and the dark, shadowy figures of Skardheim drakkars moving through the early morning light. Loki's Jarls had conquered the Red Keep, but a legend had escaped.
The Fate of Robert's Children:
Joffrey Baratheon, found on the battlements, still screaming defiance, was quickly surrounded. He shrieked threats and insults, but Loki merely watched with cold amusement. Jarl Kael, seizing the boy by his neck, lifted him high. With a single, brutal swing of his axe, Kael cleaved Joffrey's head from his shoulders. The boy-king's head bounced once on the stone, then rolled into the courtyard, his crown clattering beside it. It was a swift, humiliating end.
Myrcella and Tommen, found hiding with Cersei in the Holdfast, were dragged out, terrified and weeping. Cersei shrieked, struggling against her captors. Loki, his gaze cold, regarded the children. "No loose ends," he murmured. He gave a nod to Jarl Kael. Kael, without a word, drew his axe. Myrcella was first, then Tommen. Their small, innocent screams were quickly silenced, their blood mingling on the castle floor. Cersei, witnessing the utter annihilation of her children, collapsed into hysterical, guttural sobs, her world utterly shattered.
The Capture of Cersei: Loki approached the broken Queen. Her beauty was still evident, but now marred by terror and grief. He looked at her, not with lust, but with a cold, calculating gaze. Her suffering, her humiliation, would be a message to her powerful father, Tywin Lannister. "Take her," Loki commanded his warriors. "She is mine. She will serve." Cersei Lannister was dragged away, her screams echoing through the Red Keep, a symbol of the utter subjugation of her proud house.
The Escape of Varys and Littlefinger:
Amidst the bloody chaos, Varys and Littlefinger, true to their nature, had vanished. Varys, having foreseen the inevitable doom, had activated his secret escape routes and sailed away on a small, disguised merchant ship, his mind already spinning new webs of influence and seeking out any surviving Targaryen heirs or other players on the global stage. Littlefinger, meanwhile, slipped through the chaos, shedding identities and forging new connections, leaving behind a trail of manipulated information and misdirection. He had secured enough gold and influence to vanish into the shadows, ready to re-emerge when the realm's next power vacuum presented itself, his ambition undiminished.
The Iron Throne: A Conqueror's Seat
Loki Bloodaxe strode into the Throne Room. The Iron Throne, forged from the swords of Aegon's fallen enemies, stood before him, cold and imposing. It was a monument to ambition and power, much like Loki himself. Blood stained the floor, and the air was thick with the stench of death and the lingering smoke of the burning city.
He approached the throne, not with reverence, but with a conqueror's disdain. He saw its crude, uncomfortable form, a symbol of a lesser kingdom. He gripped Stormbreaker in his hand, its presence a stark contrast to the twisted, uncomfortable blades of the throne. This was his true power, a weapon of his own making, forged with his own magic.
With a powerful swing of Stormbreaker, Loki cleaved a section of the Iron Throne, sending pieces of rusted steel clattering to the floor. "This trinket," he scoffed, his voice echoing through the silent hall, "is a monument to weakness. It binds kings, rather than serves them." He then sat upon the mangled throne, not gracefully, but with a raw, brutal authority.
He was not there to be a king of Westeros in their fashion. He was there to rule it, to reshape it in his own image. His gaze swept across the ruined Throne Room, then turned towards the south window, towards the vast, vulnerable expanse of the continent that now lay beneath his heel.
King's Landing had fallen. The heart of Westeros was now firmly in the Serpent's Coil. The first phase of his conquest was complete. The realm was broken. And now, the true work would begin: the forging of a new order, and the preparation for the ultimate battle against the chilling darkness that Loki alone truly understood.