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Dawn broke over the Kingsroad, the pale light burning away the dampness of night. Arthur rode south, his cloak hooded, Reaper resting at his side, the memory of last night's ambush still echoing in the silence around him. The assassins' blood had dried dark upon the dirt, left for the crows. He had not spared them nor wasted words; their corpses were warnings carved into the road. So predictable, he thought. Every strike, every hidden blade—it's too predictable in my eyes.
Now the world stirred again, alive with the press of travelers as the road bent toward the Blackwater.
The outskirts of King's Landing sprawled wide before the city walls — hovels leaning on one another like broken teeth, crooked inns leaning on decay, and brothels glowing faint with guttering lanterns though morning had come. Open-air markets crowded the ditches, fishmongers shouting over one another, hawking their catch already sour with the smell of rot. Hedge knights sat sharpening rust-bitten blades, while sellswords jostled and spat, selling their service to whoever still had coin. Thieves slinked through the press of bodies, their hands already reaching, as if hunger itself had turned to fingers.
The air was thick, layered in scents that clashed: wet straw and dung underfoot, woodsmoke drifting low, the tang of frying onions, and the stench of unwashed flesh that clung to every passerby. The capital's beating heart bled outward here, its pulse raw and frantic, life pressing against the gates with desperation.
Arthur passed through it in silence, and he remembered. Every alley, every crowded street, every shadowed corner he had faced in his past lives, in countless cities, kingdoms, and battlefields, flashed in his mind. Assassins with poisoned daggers. Spies whispering secrets into dark ears. Ambushes meant to trap the unwary. And yet, always, he had always emerged unscathed. Sometimes with effort, often without. This world is similar, but the only thing that changed is the players.
The morning mist rolled off the Blackwater Rush, curling silver around carts and hooves, and in the distance the Red Keep loomed — its spires red as fresh blood in the dawn, watching like sentinels that never slept.
The city gates were already choked with life. Gold Cloaks stood in flanking ranks, cudgels hanging heavy at their sides, watching merchants, peasants, and lords' men-at-arms all jostle for entry. Petitioners shouted, some holding parchments aloft, others clutching baskets of offerings. The crowd shifted and swelled like a restless sea, each man and woman straining for a chance to pass beneath those looming doors.
Arthur guided his horse forward, blending into the crowd of people.
Whispers stirred.
"Who's that rider?" someone murmured, glancing quickly away.
"Not one of ours," another muttered.
A fishwife bowed her head instinctively, though her hands trembled around her basket. Two boys spat toward the dirt near his boots, trying to mask fear with bravado. A sellsword narrowed his eyes, muttering low of "northern barbarian," and a petty knight's squire tugged at his master's sleeve, urging him to move aside.
The stares multiplied, weighty, pricking like arrows loosed from hidden bows. Gold Cloaks stiffened, their hands tightening on cudgels. Thieves and cutpurses sized him with hunger, eyes darting toward his cloak, his sword. "Petty nobles' men whispered that a stranger had come."
Count them, he told himself. Five here. Two on the wall. Three behind. Enough to be wary, not enough to matter. All blind to the currents beneath their feet.
Among the crowd, his eyes found more.
A cloaked scribe with ink-stained fingers lingered too long at the edge of the line, feigning to scratch notes while his gaze tracked Arthur's every step.
A merchant at a spice cart spoke little of his wares but looked too closely, his eyes sharper than his words.
A boy ran, fast and too purposeful, darting between legs, carrying slips of parchment he passed hand-to-hand with the fluidity of training.
Spies, messengers, nothing new. He allowed a ghost of a smile. I have walked through such shadows countless times, always emerging unscathed, always one step ahead.
Arthur marked choke points at the gate, the narrow bends where a rush of men could trap him, and silently drew escape lines in his mind. And yet, a surge of anticipation sparked in his chest, this city is different. Here, I can dance among vipers, test the waters of power again. It has been too long since I tasted the thrill of the hunt unchallenged.
Yet no ambush came. Not here, not in sight of the gates.
So he rode forward, calm, controlled, as if he had not noticed at all.
The gates groaned open for the morning tide.
Arthur passed beneath them, his horse's hooves striking stone as he entered King's Landing proper.
The streets narrowed at once, crowding with hawkers and beggars, carts clogging lanes while Gold Cloaks barked and shoved for order. The noise rose high — hammer on anvil from some unseen smithy, the clamor of bells from a sept, the endless hum of thousands of voices all compressed into walls of stone and timber.
The stench grew heavier. Spilled ale, fish guts, dung, and smoke blended into one choking breath.
Above it all, rising on its hill, the Red Keep loomed larger still, crimson walls glinting cruel in the dawn sun.
Arthur's eyes lifted once, measured the spires, and lowered again. The summons of the king awaits, he thought. But first… the game begins. And I have longed for this moment, for the chance to move unseen among the fools who think themselves safe.
And he rode toward it without slowing, a shadow entering into the heart of the dragon.