Chapter 25 - King's Landing
Eddard Stark
The war council's words still echoed in Ned's ears as he strode through the camp, satisfaction warming him despite the cool morning air. At last, the North would have its due. Father and Brandon would be avenged, and the realm would know that winter had come for the Mad King.
He found his way toward the section where the survivors of the Bloody Dance had made their camp. The sound reached him before the sight did steel on steel, grunts of exertion, the dull thud of bodies hitting earth. When he rounded the pavilions, he stopped short.
Every man had a blade in his hand. Blood gleamed on knuckles and split lips, testament to the fury that drove them. They moved like wolves in a pack, circling, striking, reforming. Some bore fresh cuts that would scar, others nursed bruised ribs, but none showed quarter. The air itself seemed to thrum with violence barely held in check.
As one, they turned toward him. Weapons lowered, but hands remained steady on hilts. "My lord," they murmured, voices rough as winter stone.
Ned found Artos at the center of it all, watching his men with the cold satisfaction of a wolf surveying his pack. Blood streaked his knuckles, and his eyes held that familiar gleam the one that had earned him his name in the field.
"Arty," Ned called, using the name that belonged to their boyhood, before crowns and thrones and dead fathers had changed everything. "I bring good tidings. We march for King's Landing at first light. The city will be ours to take."
Artos's smile was all teeth and winter steel. "Finally. Father and Brandon will have their due."
"Aye." Ned gestured toward the men, who had resumed their savage training. "Tell your demons to ready themselves. We'll have need of their... particular skills in the siege."
Artos laughed, the sound sharp as breaking ice. "Look at them, brother. They're already ready. Too eager by half, if truth be told."
The March South
Dawn came pale and cold, but the Northern host rose with the sun. Thousands of men broke camp in disciplined silence, their breath steaming in the morning air. Banner-bearers unfurled the direwolf of Stark, and the sight of it sent a shiver of anticipation through the ranks.
The march to King's Landing was short by their standards they had grown used to long leagues and hard roads in service to Robert's cause. But this felt different. This was not another lord's battle or another castle to take. This was vengeance, pure and simple.
The men spoke little as they rode, but their eyes held a brightness that spoke volumes. Rickard Stark's murder would be answered. Brandon's death would be paid for in full. The Mad King would learn, before the end, that the North remembered.
And when the dragons lay broken, all would know: Winter had come to King's Landing.
Tywin Lannister
The raven had brought word of the rebels' victory at the Trident, but Tywin had already been moving his pieces across the board. Twelve thousand Lannister men, the finest gold could buy, marched at his back. Their armor gleamed, their weapons were sharp, and their loyalty was absolute to him, not to mad kings or dying dynasties.
*A Lannister pays his debts,* he mused as the towers of King's Landing rose before them. And House Lannister was owed much by this dying realm.
The gates opened before him as he had known they would. Fear was a useful tool, and he had cultivated it well. Soon, the gold-cloaks stood aside, the servants scattered, and the city lay open like a flower before the sun.
"Take what you will," he told his captains, his voice carrying no more emotion than if he were ordering wine with supper. "But remember when Robert Baratheon sits the Iron Throne, he will need a city to rule. Be thorough, but not wasteful."
By the time Rebels would arrived, the city would be his, the throne would be secured, and House Lannister would be positioned to reap the rewards of backing the winning side.
Gold wins wars. Gold buys thrones. And Tywin Lannister had more gold than any man in the Seven Kingdoms.
King's Landing - The Red Keep
Aerys II Targaryen paced before the Iron Throne like a caged beast, his fingernails leaving bloody crescents in his palms. "Betrayal," he hissed, spittle flying from cracked lips. "The lion comes with fangs bared. They all betray me. All of them!"
The wildfire sang to him from beneath the city, promising cleansing flame, promising an end to treachery and pain. "Burn them all," he whispered to his new Hand, the man who had replaced Chelsted after... after the unfortunate business with the chains and the fire. "Light them all. Every cache, every jar. Let them burn with their betrayal!"
Ser Jaime Lannister stood behind the throne, golden hair catching the light that filtered through the high windows. He had heard these words before, had seen the madness bloom like a poison flower in the king's eyes. But this time was different. This time, the king meant it.
The Kingsguard knight moved like quicksilver. His blade took the Hand in the throat before the man could speak the word that would ignite the city. The pyromancer fell gurgling, and Jaime stepped over him as if he were no more than a puddle in the rain.
"Your Grace," Jaime said softly, his voice carrying easily across the empty throne room. "I cannot let you do this."
Aerys spun toward him, eyes wide with rage and madness,he shrieked. "You dare draw steel in my presence? You swore an oath! You swore"
The sword took him between the shoulder blades, sliding between ribs with the practiced ease of a man who had killed before. The Mad King pitched forward, crimson spreading across his black doublet, and lay still at the foot of his iron seat.
Jaime wiped his blade clean and settled himself upon the throne, careless of the dried blood that stained the steps. When his father's men found him there, he was studying his reflection in the steel of his sword.
"Shall we proclaim a new king, ser?" one asked, uncertain.
Jaime smiled, but it held no warmth. "Proclaim whoever you bloody well please."
Artos Stark
The gates of King's Landing stood open when they arrived, and that was the first sign that something had gone wrong. Artos exchanged a glance with Ned, seeing his own suspicion reflected in his brother's grey eyes.
"Should be closed and barred," Ned murmured, raising his hand to signal a halt. "This feels like a trap."
"Or someone else got here first." Artos studied the walls, noting the absence of royal banners. In their place flew the golden lion of Lannister. "Seven hells."
They rode closer, and the sounds reached them screaming, the crash of breaking wood, the ugly laughter of men drunk on violence and loot. The smell followed: smoke and blood and the particular stench of a city under sack.
"My lords!" A Lannister knight rode toward them, his surcoat pristine despite the chaos behind him. "Lord Tywin has taken the city for the rebellion. The Mad King is dead, and order is being restored. If you would care to rest your armies outside the walls "
"Order?" Artos's voice was winter-cold. Behind him, his men stirred like wolves scenting blood. "You call this order?"
Through the gates, they could see it all Lannister soldiers dragging women from their homes, children cowering in doorways, men cut down for the crime of defending their property. Gold-cloaks lay dead in the gutters, their blood mixing with the filth of the streets.
"Lord Tywin believes it best if " the knight began.
Stig moved like a striking snake, his blade at the man's throat before he could finish. "Back down," the Northman growled, pressing just hard enough to draw blood. "Now."
"We are knights of House Lannister!" The man's voice cracked with fear and outrage. "You cannot "
"I decide what we can and cannot do," Ned said quietly, his voice carrying the authority of a lord paramount. "Stand aside."
The knight tried again, desperation making him bold. "There's no need for the whole army to enter. The situation is well in hand. Lord Tywin requires "
Stig's blade bit deeper, and blood ran down the man's neck. The knight's mouth snapped shut. Still alive though.
"Step aside," Ned repeated, "or we'll step over your corpse."
The Northern host poured through the gates like a grey tide, and the true scope of the sack revealed itself. Bodies in the streets, buildings ablaze, the weak preyed upon by the strong. It was conquest without honor, victory without mercy.
Artos felt something cold and killing settle in his chest. This was not war. This was butchery. Killing woman and children That's something he wouldn't understand.
A group of Lannister soldiers had cornered a woman and her daughter in an alley, their intentions clear. They looked up as the Northmen approached, grinning like the wolves they thought themselves to be.
"Stand down," Artos commanded, his voice carrying across the square. "This ends now."
The soldiers laughed. "We serve Lord Tywin Lannister," their leader called back. "We don't take orders from some...."
His head parted from his shoulders before he could finish the insult. Stig's blade sang as it came clean, and the body collapsed in a spray of crimson.
"GreatJon," Artos called, never taking his eyes off the remaining Lannisters. "Organize the men. Anyone caught sacking, looting, or harming innocents dies where he stands. I want order restored, the Northern way."
"Aye, Commander." The GreatJon's grin was all teeth and promise. "What about the lions?"
"If they stand down, they live. If they don't..." Artos shrugged. "Feed them to the crows."
The Lannister soldiers who had escorted them fled toward the Red Keep, no doubt to warn their lord of this development. Let them run. When wolves hunted, it mattered little where the prey chose to make its stand.
Ned said nothing, but Artos caught his brother's slight nod. For all his honor, Ned Stark understood justice when he saw it. And justice had been long in coming to King's Landing.
"Remember," Artos called to his men, his voice carrying the authority of the ice and steel that had forged them. "No harm to the innocent. No rape, no murder of children or women who offer no threat. But any man any man who raises hand against those who cannot defend themselves will answer to me personally."
The promise in his voice was colder than winter itself. His men had seen what happened to those who crossed the DemonWolf. They had stood in fields afterward, counting the pieces.
And so the Demons of the North set about bringing their own brand of order to King's Landing. They killed without joy but with purpose, cutting down the predators who fed on fear and weakness. The lions had come as conquerors. The wolves had come as executioners.
In the streets where Lannister gold had bought license for atrocity, Northern steel now wrote the final word. And that word was justice, sharp and cold as winter itself.
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