Chapter 42: The Kingswood Hunt: A Lion Caged and a Realm Remade
The news of Ser Jaime Lannister's desperate southward march, his depleted Westerlands army burning with a grief-fueled rage, reached Viserys on Dragonstone with the speed of Varys's most trusted little birds. The Kingslayer, Viserys knew, was a wounded lion, dangerous and unpredictable, his legendary swordsmanship still a factor to be reckoned with. But he was also, Alistair Finch's strategic mind assessed, an overconfident commander leading a demoralized force into a trap of Viserys's own meticulous design. The Kingswood, that ancient, tangled forest stretching south of King's Landing, would be the hunting ground. Jaime Lannister would be the prey.
Viserys, leaving a strong garrison on Dragonstone under the temporary command of Tycho Neris (whose loyalty and competence had been proven in the assault on Stannis's fleet), returned to King's Landing aboard the Balerion, Daenerys at his side on Rhaegal. The capital, though still bearing the scars of their conquest, was now firmly under Phoenix Company control, Ser Addam Marbrand (his loyalty bought with his life and the promise of restoring his house's honor under a new king) serving as a surprisingly effective, if perpetually terrified, interim governor of the city, his every move monitored by Shadowfoot's unseen agents.
The plan for the "Kingswood Hunt" was a masterpiece of combined arms strategy, utilizing the unique strengths of Viserys's diverse forces. Shadowfoot's scouts, augmented by Kiera Redfin's swiftest outriders (her Corsairs surprisingly adept at woodland reconnaissance when motivated by the promise of Lannister plunder), tracked Jaime's army's every move, subtly guiding them, through a series of feigned Phoenix Company patrols and "abandoned" supply caches, towards a pre-selected kill zone: a narrow, densely wooded valley in the heart of the Kingswood, riddled with ravines and offering little room for Lannister heavy cavalry to maneuver.
Draq, with five thousand elite Shadow Legionnaires, moved into position under the cover of darkness, melting into the forest like vengeful spirits, their obsidian weapons silent in the gloom. Their task was to spring the ambush, to shatter the Lannister column with surprise and overwhelming ferocity. Morrec, with two thousand Phoenix Guard heavy infantry, veterans of Pentos and Dragonstone, would form the unyielding anvil, blocking any attempt by Jaime to break out and retreat north towards King's Landing. Kiera Redfin, with a thousand of her dismounted Corsairs (their ships now patrolling the Blackwater to prevent any Lannister escape by sea), was assigned to the flanks, her objective to sow chaos, hunt down stragglers, and ensure no Lannister messenger escaped to warn the Westerlands.
Viserys and Daenerys, with their six dragons, would be the decisive hammer. Balerion, Rhaegal, and Viserion, their scales now gleaming like polished obsidian, emerald, and pearl, their fiery breath a weapon of unimaginable terror, would control the skies, incinerating organized resistance and breaking Lannister morale. The three Earth-Drakes – Terrax, Tempest, and Obsidian – their primal power perfectly suited to the claustrophobic woodland terrain, would support the ground assault, their unique abilities designed to disorient, demoralize, and destroy.
Jaime Lannister, his golden armor now travel-stained, his handsome face gaunt with grief and a desperate, burning resolve, led his army of some seven thousand Westermen – a mix of veteran knights, weary men-at-arms, and green levies – into the Kingswood. He was pushing them hard, driven by the need to reach King's Landing, to free Cersei, to avenge his father and his son-nephew, to somehow salvage the honor of House Lannister. He knew he was marching into hostile territory, but his arrogance, and his underestimation of this new Targaryen threat (he still likely believed the tales of dragons to be exaggerated, Essosi trickery), blinded him to the true extent of the danger.
The ambush was sprung at dawn, as the Lannister column, tired and strung out along a narrow forest track, was crossing a shallow stream. A single, high-pitched shriek from Shadowfoot's lead scout echoed through the trees. Then, silence. Followed by a hellish cacophony.
From the surrounding woods, a storm of black obsidian erupted. Arrows, javelins, and sling-stones, all tipped with razor-sharp volcanic glass, rained down upon the unsuspecting Westermen, felling horses, piercing armor, and causing instant, horrific wounds that Westerosi maesters had no remedy for. The Shadow Legion, moving with a silent, terrifying coordination, emerged from the undergrowth, their obsidian short swords and spears a blur of deadly motion. They targeted the Lannister officers first, then the knights, their discipline and ferocity shattering the Westermen formations before they could even comprehend the nature of the attack.
Then came the dragons.
Viserys, on Balerion, a black thunderbolt against the dawn sky, was the first to appear, his roar a cataclysmic announcement of doom. Balerion's shadow-fire, hotter and more focused than ever, engulfed the vanguard of the Lannister column, turning knights and horses into screaming pyres. Daenerys, on Rhaegal, her silver hair streaming, her face a mask of terrible beauty and cold resolve, followed with Viserion, their green and gold flames cutting swathes of destruction through the panicked, disorganized ranks. They did not carpet the forest with fire – Viserys wanted the Kingswood intact as a resource and a defensive barrier – but their attacks were precise, devastating, aimed at breaking command, shattering morale, and incinerating any attempt at organized resistance.
The three Earth-Drakes descended into the valley with terrifying effect. Terrax, his roar like an earthquake, landed heavily amongst a squadron of Lannister knights attempting to form a defensive line, his massive, obsidian-hard claws tearing through armor and flesh, his very presence causing the ground to tremble and men to fall. Tempest, her storm-grey scales crackling with static energy, summoned a localized, unnaturally violent hailstorm of jagged ice shards that ripped through the Lannister ranks, blinding them, cutting them, driving them into further disarray. Obsidian, sleek and black, his corrosive spittle dissolving shields and spear-points, moved like a striking serpent through the undergrowth, picking off isolated groups of soldiers with terrifying efficiency.
Jaime Lannister, caught in the heart of the inferno, fought with the desperate courage of a cornered lion. He rallied his personal guard, his golden armor now stained with blood and soot, his Valyrian steel sword, Oathkeeper (or its pre-Widow's Wail/Oathkeeper predecessor from this timeline, depending on when Ice was reforged – Alistair's knowledge was slightly hazy on this specific detail, but the blade was undoubtedly Valyrian), a beacon of defiance in the chaos. He was a whirlwind of deadly steel, cutting down Shadow Legionnaires who dared to close with him, his skill undeniable even in the face of overwhelming odds.
"To me, Westermen! To me!" he roared, his voice hoarse. "For the Rock! For Lannister!"
But his men were broken, terrified. They had faced Starks, Tullys, even Baratheons. They had never faced dragons. They had never faced silent, obsidian-armed demons who seemed to feel no pain and fight with no discernible emotion other than cold, lethal purpose. The Lannister line wavered, then shattered, as Morrec's Phoenix Guard heavy infantry, their shields locked, their short spears bristling, advanced from the north, cutting off their retreat. Kiera Redfin's Corsairs, screaming like banshees, poured in from the flanks, their curved blades and spiked maces adding to the bloody carnage.
Viserys, observing the unfolding slaughter from Balerion's back, felt a cold, grim satisfaction. This was not a battle; it was an extermination. He saw Jaime Lannister, a golden speck amidst a sea of chaos, still fighting, still defying. He considered incinerating him where he stood, a swift, fiery end to the Kingslayer. But Alistair Finch's voice, a rare intrusion these days, whispered a different counsel. Jaime Lannister, alive, was a far more valuable asset than Jaime Lannister dead. He was a symbol, a hostage, a key to unlocking the Westerlands.
"Draq!" Viserys's command, amplified by Balerion's roar, cut through the din. "Secure the Kingslayer! Alive, if possible. But secure him."
Draq, his obsidian greatsword dripping, acknowledged the order with a curt nod. He and a squad of his most elite Obsidian Phantoms carved their way towards Jaime's dwindling, desperate last stand.
The confrontation was inevitable. Jaime, his armor dented, his shield lost, his golden hair matted with sweat and blood, faced Draq, the silent, implacable commander of the Shadow Legion. For a moment, the two warriors regarded each other, a study in contrasts: the golden lion of Westeros, proud, arrogant, but undeniably brave; and the shadowy, obsidian-clad enigma from Essos, his face hidden behind a terrifying mask, his loyalty absolute, his skill honed in a crucible of unimaginable brutality.
Their duel, if it could be called that, was short. Jaime, exhausted and wounded, was no match for Draq's relentless, unconventional assault. The Shadow Legion commander moved with a speed and precision that seemed unnatural, his obsidian greatsword a blur, not clashing against Jaime's Valyrian steel, but flowing around it, seeking openings, deflecting, tiring. Finally, with a move that Jaime could neither anticipate nor counter, Draq disarmed him, Oathkeeper skittering across the blood-soaked forest floor. Before Jaime could recover, two Obsidian Phantoms had him pinned, their obsidian daggers at his throat.
The Kingswood Hunt was over. Jaime Lannister's army was annihilated, scattered, its remnants either dead, captured, or fleeing in terror through the woods, to be hunted down by Kiera's gleeful Corsairs. Jaime himself, the Kingslayer, the Lord Commander of Joffrey's Kingsguard, the last great hope of House Lannister, was Viserys Targaryen's prisoner.
Viserys landed Balerion in a clearing, the dragon's immense presence silencing the last dying screams and the shouts of the victors. Draq dragged the bound, dishevelled, but still defiant Jaime Lannister before him.
"So, Kingslayer," Viserys said, his voice soft, almost conversational, yet carrying an edge of icy menace. He dismounted, his obsidian-steel armor making no sound on the leaf-strewn ground. "We meet at last. You murdered my grandsire, Aerys. You stood by while my father and my nephew were butchered. You served the Usurper and his false brood. Have you any final words before I feed you to my dragons?"
Jaime Lannister met his gaze, his one good hand (assuming this timeline follows his maiming, though it's not specified for this battle) clenching into a fist. "Do it, then, Targaryen," he spat, his voice raw. "Add another kinslaying to your family's long and distinguished list. But know this: you will never hold these kingdoms. Westeros will never bow to a foreign conqueror who rules through fear and monsters."
Viserys smiled, a chilling expression that held no warmth. "Fear, Kingslayer, is a tool. And monsters… well, it takes a monster to hunt lions, does it not? But I am not here to debate philosophy. Your fate is not yet sealed." He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "Your sister, Cersei, is my… guest… in the Red Keep. Your uncle, Kevan, still commands some forces in the Westerlands, I believe. Casterly Rock is a rich prize. Your life, Ser Jaime, may yet have value." He was offering not mercy, but a transaction. Jaime's life, his cooperation, in exchange for the swift, relatively bloodless surrender of the Westerlands.
The aftermath of the Kingswood Hunt sent a fresh wave of terror and disbelief through Westeros. The last significant Lannister field army was gone. The Kingslayer was a captive of the Dragon King. Casterly Rock, the ancestral seat of Lannister power, lay virtually undefended. Kevan Lannister, upon hearing the news, reportedly barricaded himself within the Rock, his spirit broken.
Viserys did not march on the Westerlands immediately. Instead, he dispatched Ser Addam Marbrand (whose loyalty seemed to be solidifying in the face of Viserys's overwhelming power and his own house's precarious position) with a small, swift escort and a stark message for Kevan Lannister and the lords of the West: bend the knee to King Viserys Targaryen, surrender Casterly Rock and all its treasures, and deliver up any remaining individuals responsible for the sack of King's Landing during Robert's Rebellion (specifically naming Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch), and their lives and lands would be spared, albeit under new Targaryen oversight. Refuse, and the dragons would visit the Westerlands with a fury that would make the Field of Fire look like a kitchen hearth. He gave them one moon's turn to comply.
Daenerys, who had witnessed the brutal efficiency of the Kingswood ambush from Rhaegal's back, was visibly shaken by the carnage, yet her resolve did not waver. She understood, with a grim clarity that belied her seventeen years, the brutal necessities of war, the iron price of their ambition. She spent her time in the captured Stokeworth (which Viserys was now fortifying into a major military base and supply depot) tending to the wounded – both their own and the few Lannister prisoners Viserys had deemed worth saving for interrogation or ransom – and trying to win the hearts of the terrified local populace. Her compassion, her quiet dignity, and the undeniable aura of her draconic power were creating a legend around her, the "Dragon Princess who brings both fire and healing."
Varys, from King's Landing, sent his "most profound congratulations" on Viserys's victory, along with detailed intelligence on the remaining Lannister forces in the Westerlands and the political situation in other kingdoms. He also, Viserys noted with a cynical amusement, subtly began to position himself as the indispensable bridge between the Dragon King and the terrified nobility of Westeros, offering his services as a negotiator, an intermediary, a "humble servant of the realm's peace."
Petyr Baelish, Littlefinger, also made his move. An envoy arrived at Stokeworth from the Eyrie, bearing a message from Lady Lysa Arryn (or rather, from Littlefinger, who now effectively controlled her and the Vale). It was an offer of alliance, of the Vale's "unwavering loyalty" to the true Targaryen king, in exchange for… certain considerations, of course. Littlefinger, ever the master of chaos, was clearly trying to ingratiate himself with the new dominant power. Viserys, knowing Littlefinger's treacherous nature from Alistair's memories, received the envoy with outward courtesy but made no commitments. He would deal with Littlefinger in his own time, in his own way.
The most critical response, however, was still awaited from the North. Lord Wyman Manderly was due to return any day with King Robb Stark's answer to Viserys's terms. The fate of the North, and the future course of Viserys's war for the Seven Kingdoms, hung in the balance.
Viserys, the Lion Caged, the Kingswood Hunt successfully concluded, now stood as the undisputed master of southern Westeros. His power was terrifying, his dragons seemingly invincible, his Shadow Legion an instrument of pure, disciplined destruction. The realm was being remade, forged anew in the crucible of his ambition and the fire of his dragons. But Alistair Finch, the weary historian within, knew that conquering was one thing; ruling was another entirely. And the whispers of rebellion, the resentments of defeated foes, the ambitions of new allies, were already beginning to echo in the shadows of his Obsidian Throne. The game was far from over.