The sun dipped below the horizon, painting King's Landing in shades of blood and fire. From my command tent—a sprawling pavilion of black silk embroidered with the three-headed dragon—I watched the city's lights flicker to life like dying embers. Somewhere behind those walls, Tyrion Lannister was fighting a losing battle against fear, pride, and stupidity.
Good.
"The Dragon Priests report that the conversions are accelerating," Thoros said, entering without announcement. The High Inquisitor's red robes seemed to drink in the lamplight, and his eyes gleamed with zealous satisfaction. "Three hundred new believers in the last hour alone. By midnight, we estimate five thousand citizens will openly profess their faith in you."
"And the gold cloaks?" I asked, not turning from my vigil.
"Wavering. Their commander, a man named Jacelyn Bywater, is pragmatic enough to see which way the wind blows. If we can guarantee his men won't be executed for past service to the Lannisters, he'll consider opening the gates himself."
I finally turned to face him, noting the fervor in his expression. Thoros had fully embraced his role as the architect of my divinity—spreading the faith with the same dedication he'd once shown to his cups. The transformation was remarkable.
"Tell Commander Bywater he has my word. Any gold cloak who lays down his arms will be spared. We need men who know the city, who can keep order once we take power."
"And the Lannisters?"
My smile was cold enough to freeze dragonfire. "The Lannisters are mine."
Thoros bowed and departed, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Almost alone—I could sense Daenerys approaching before she entered, our bond singing with awareness of her proximity.
She wore armor tonight—black leather studded with steel, cinched tight around her waist and chest. Practical, deadly, and somehow even more beautiful than silk. Her silver hair was braided for battle, and Viserion's scales gleamed on a necklace around her throat.
"You look like you're about to start a war," I observed.
"I'm about to end one," she corrected, moving to stand beside me at the tent's opening. "Boromir says the men are ready. They've been waiting for this their entire lives—some of them longer than they've been alive."
She was right. Half my army consisted of former slaves who'd known nothing but chains until I freed them. To them, King's Landing represented the final bastion of the old world—the last great city that needed liberation. They'd fight with religious fervor, dying gladly if it meant their god's triumph.
"I keep thinking about our father," Daenerys said quietly. "About how he wanted to burn them all. The wildfire, the madness… Do you think he saw something we don't? Some vision of the future that drove him insane?"
I considered this, weighing my words carefully. Aerys had been mad, yes, but there was often truth in madness. The Game of Thrones had poisoned him, turned his justified paranoia into murderous delusion. But in another world, another time, burning King's Landing might have been the mercy it needed.
"Our father was broken by the people he tried to rule," I said finally. "They betrayed him, humiliated him, reduced him to something less than human. The wildfire was his revenge—his way of denying them victory even in death."
"Is that what we're doing? Taking revenge?"
"No." I pulled her close, feeling the warmth of her body through the leather. "We're building something better. The difference is that we have the power to back it up. Three dragons. Three hundred thousand soldiers. An empire that stretches across two continents. We're not mad kings begging for respect—we're gods demanding worship."
She tilted her face up to kiss me, and I tasted the uncertainty beneath her passion. Daenerys had always been the more compassionate of us, the one who genuinely cared about the people she ruled. It made her beloved by the masses but vulnerable to doubt.
I'd need to watch that carefully. Compassion was useful in a queen, but in a god-empress, it could be fatal.
"Go," I said, breaking the kiss. "Check on Viserion. Make sure he's fed and ready. Tomorrow, we want them rested and hungry in equal measure."
She nodded and departed, leaving me alone with the night and my ambitions.
Below, I could hear the camp coming alive with evening activity—soldiers sharpening weapons, priests conducting services, officers reviewing battle plans. The machine of war, oiled and ready, waiting only for my command to devour the city before us.
My hand drifted to Blackfyre's hilt, feeling the ancient Valyrian steel hum beneath my palm. The sword had been wielded by Aegon the Conqueror, by the greatest kings of my line. Tomorrow, it would taste royal blood again.
A throat cleared behind me. I turned to find Rhaenys entering, her own armor gleaming in the lamplight—crimson and black, the colors of fire and blood. She moved like a panther, all coiled grace and barely restrained violence.
"Highgarden has agreed to my terms," she said without preamble. "Lady Olenna is pragmatic—she sees no profit in defending the Lannisters against dragons. The Tyrell army will withdraw from King's Landing tomorrow at dawn."
I absorbed this information, feeling pieces fall into place with satisfying precision. "And Margaery?"
"Remains in the city. Olenna won't risk her granddaughter by having her flee openly—it would look like betrayal. But she's made it clear that House Tyrell will not fight for Joffrey."
"Good." I gestured for her to join me at the tent's opening. "Tomorrow, when the gates open, the Tyrells will remember who showed them mercy. They'll bend the knee gladly."
"Or we'll burn them if they don't," Rhaenys added pragmatically.
"Or that."
We stood in companionable silence, watching the city that would soon be ours. Somewhere in there, Joffrey Baratheon was probably pissing himself in fear. Cersei would be plotting some desperate scheme. Tywin would be calculating odds and finding them hopeless.
"You know," Rhaenys said quietly, "when I was a child, hiding in Dorne, I used to dream about this moment. About standing outside King's Landing with an army at my back, ready to make the people who killed my mother pay."
"And now that you're here?"
She smiled, sharp and cruel. "Now I'm disappointed it's taking so long."
I laughed despite myself. Rhaenys had her mother's Dornish fire, her father's Targaryen pride, and absolutely none of the mercy that had gotten them both killed. She was perfect.
"Tomorrow," I promised. "Tomorrow, we'll give you all the revenge you can stomach."
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**King's Landing - The Red Keep - The Small Council Chamber**
Tyrion Lannister had consumed enough wine to kill a lesser man, and still the fear wouldn't recede. He sat at the small council table, surrounded by the wreckage of the Seven Kingdoms' leadership, and tried to find a strategy that didn't end with everyone he loved dying screaming.
It wasn't going well.
"Absolutely not," Cersei said for the tenth time, her green eyes blazing with maternal fury. "I will not surrender my son's throne to that silver-haired pretender and his whore sisters."
"It's not his throne to surrender," Tyrion replied wearily. "It never was. We stole it, sister. Robert stole it from the Targaryens, and Joffrey inherited theft. Now the rightful owners have come to collect, with interest compounded in dragonfire."
"Your lack of faith is noted," Grand Maester Pycelle wheezed from his seat. "Though I must concur with Lord Tyrion—resistance seems… inadvisable."
Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the table, his fingers steepled before him, green eyes calculating probabilities and finding them all wanting. The Old Lion had aged ten years in the past day, the weight of impossible choices pressing down on his shoulders.
"We have thirty thousand men in the city," he said finally, his voice flat. "Plus whatever fortifications and defenses we can muster. Against one hundred thousand soldiers and three dragons. The mathematics are… unfavorable."
"So we surrender?" Cersei's voice rose to a near-shriek. "Just hand over the crown and hope this god-emperor is merciful?"
"He won't be," Tyrion said bluntly. "Not to us. We killed his brother's wife and children. We've held the throne he considers his birthright. We're marked for death, sister—all of us. The only question is whether we take the entire city down with us."
The silence that followed was profound. Even Joffrey, slouched on his throne and picking at his fingernails, seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation.
"There is… one option," Tywin said slowly. "We open the gates. We surrender the city. We offer Joffrey's head as penance for the throne he usurped."
"WHAT?" Joffrey's voice cracked with adolescent outrage. "You can't be serious! I'm the king! You can't just—"
"You are a boy playing at kingship," Tywin said with brutal honesty. "And your playing has brought us to ruin. If sacrificing you means saving House Lannister—saving Cersei, Jaime, Tyrion, Myrcella, and Tommen—then that's a trade I'll make."
Cersei lunged across the table, her face twisted with rage. "You will NOT touch my son!"
"Your son is already dead," Tywin said coldly. "The only question is whether he dies alone or takes us all with him."
Before the shouting could escalate further, the chamber doors burst open. A gold cloak captain entered, his face pale with terror.
"My lords," he gasped. "The dragons—all three of them—they're circling the city. And people are gathering in the streets. Hundreds—no, thousands of them. They're chanting something."
"Chanting what?" Tyrion demanded.
The captain swallowed hard. "They're chanting 'Dragon God.' They're calling for the gates to open. They're saying their god has come to liberate them."
The small council exchanged glances of dawning horror. In less than a day, Viserys Targaryen had managed to convert thousands of King's Landing's citizens to his cause. The city was rotting from within, betrayal spreading like plague through the streets.
"How long do we have?" Tywin asked.
"The captain of the gold cloaks—Bywater—he's wavering. If the mob continues to grow, if the dragons continue their display… I'd say hours. Maybe less."
Tywin stood, his chair scraping against stone with grim finality. "Then we prepare for the end. Tyrion, take Tommen and flee the city. Use the secret passages your friend Varys showed you. Get him to safety."
"And you?" Tyrion asked, though he already knew the answer.
"I'll stay. Someone needs to negotiate terms, to ensure House Lannister survives even if its leadership does not." He looked at Cersei, his expression softening slightly. "You should go as well, daughter. Take Joffrey if you can."
"I won't leave," Cersei said flatly. "If we fall, we fall together."
Outside, the roar of dragons shook the very stones of the Red Keep. And in the streets below, thousands of voices rose in worship of a god who had come to claim his throne.
The Night of Whispers was ending. And with the dawn would come fire, blood, and the coronation of the Dragon God.