Regarding this, thinking of the Targaryens' hardcore style, Jon could express understanding.
When possessing absolute military superiority, anyone would naturally disregard the practical defensive aspects of a castle.
Instead of racking one's brains to build a stone coffin—only to be burned to death inside it like the Harrens—it was better to spend more thought on practicality and aesthetics.
Of course, this style was limited to the Targaryens who possessed "nuclear deterrence." The other seven kingdoms still clung to the most basic functions of castles.
When the main procession arrived at the Dragon Gate, Jon saw countless people waiting there from a distance.
Especially around the few people at the front, a large area had been cleared.
When the transmigrator saw Varys's bald head, he quickly confirmed that the others were also from the Small Council.
As for whether they were here to welcome the King's return or to curry favor with the new Hand, only they knew.
In short, due to the distance, apart from seeing the fake smiles they exchanged, Jon couldn't figure out what they were saying at all.
After that, the grand welcome ceremony and the entry ceremony began simultaneously.
The midday sun hung in the smoggy gray sky of King's Landing like a ball of molten gold.
The air was thick and scorching, mixed with sweat, dust, the stench from the deep alleys of Flea Bottom, and an almost fanatical restlessness.
From the Dragon Gate to Visenya's Hill beneath the Red Keep, the sides of the wide "Muddy Way" had long been roughly separated by Gold Cloaks using spears and shields, forming two crumbling walls of people.
The crowd surged uneasily like boiling porridge. Ragged beggars, slick peddlers, vulgar craftsmen, slightly decent-looking merchants, and those commoners with numb faces and empty eyes were all gathered and squeezed by this invisible dam.
The air was filled with the smell of cheap ale, the crying of babies, and the meaningless buzzing from countless throats—a huge noise woven from expectation, fear, hatred, and blind curiosity.
Suddenly, a sharp horn tore through the stifling air, followed by a heavy, uniform roar that made hearts palpitate.
The first thing that caught the eye was gold. Blinding, flowing gold.
The vanguard of the Royal procession was a full one hundred guards led by the Kingsguard. At this moment, they were wearing brand new, gilded armor that shone almost blindingly.
The sunlight danced and flowed on the mirror-like breastplates, turning coldness and majesty into physical light and heat, burning the eyes of every commoner who tried to look directly at them.
Their white cloaks were spotless, flapping in the hot wind like a moving snowfield. Under their helmets, their faces were like stone carvings, their eyes sweeping over the crowd blankly, and the tips of the spears in their hands flashed with the cold light of death.
Iron horseshoes stepped on the freshly laid sand, making dull and rhythmic "thud-thud" sounds, but they could hardly cover the deep mire of Flea Bottom; every step felt like it was trampling on people's hearts.
Robert Baratheon the First sat atop a tall gray warhorse.
On the chest of his deep crimson velvet tunic, a crowned stag was embroidered with gold thread. The heavy, massive gold necklace with gemstones hanging around his neck represented the heaviest royal power.
Slightly behind him, Cersei Lannister unusually rode in an open-top gilded carriage drawn by four pure white mares. The wheels were wrapped in thick velvet to eliminate noise.
She was like a goddess statue carved from gold and ivory. Dressed in the signature deep crimson gown of House Lannister, the fabric flowed like liquid blood, lustrous and shifting.
Her golden hair was coiled in a complex style, dotted with tiny rubies like solidified drops of blood.
Her beauty was still breathtaking, but in those emerald green eyes inherited from Tywin, there was only icy scrutiny and a trace of imperceptible fatigue.
The corners of her mouth were slightly upturned, maintaining a perfect smile arc worthy of a painter's brush, but this smile never reached her eyes.
She waved elegantly to both sides, her fingernails painted deep red, her movements precise like calculated court dance steps.
Her gaze swept over those cheering faces as if sweeping over lifeless decorations. Only when touching upon certain specific noble stands would a flash of cold calculation appear.
Behind them was the suffocating gold and crimson torrent of House Lannister.
The Lannister household guards, wearing crimson cloaks and polished plate armor with lion helmets, were like a moving wall of fire.
Their discipline seemed stricter than the Kingsguard, and their eyes were harder. Surrounding Cersei's carriage, besides prominent nobles, were members of the Lannister family and their retinues.
The gorgeous attire and prominent pomp of these lions almost overshadowed the King's procession in front.
Servants held high huge gold and crimson family banners. The roaring lions on them seemed to come alive in the hot wind, declaring the absolute hegemony of "Hear Me Roar" to the entire city.
"Long live the King! Long live the Queen! The Seven bless His Grace!"
Pre-arranged voices erupted from specific positions in the crowd, carrying an overly rehearsed excitement.
The Gold Cloaks poked fiercely with spear shafts at anyone who tried to push, maintaining order in the narrow passage.
Several children were held on their fathers' shoulders, screaming excitedly; some women wept with excitement; but more faces were silent, numb, or hidden in the shadows of the crowd with deep hostility.
When the King's magnificent horse passed by, a child from the slums tried to crawl through the railing to pick up the scattered rose petals, only to be beaten back by a Gold Cloak with a stick immediately. The scream was drowned out by louder cheers.
The procession moved slowly, passing the edge of the sewage-filled, stinking Flea Bottom. The magnificent gold and crimson procession formed a hellish ironic contrast with the dilapidated filth around it.
When the procession finally reached Visenya's Hill, the scene finally reached its climax.
As the procession wound its way up, it finally disappeared behind the huge, deep gate of the Red Keep, which was like the mouth of a beast.
The heavy iron portcullis fell slowly, making a huge, heart-palpitating "CLANG," separating the inner world of power from the noisy mortal world outside.
On the street, trampled petals mixed with mud.
The cheers cooled rapidly. The crowd, with drained exhaustion and still-empty bellies, dispersed slowly like a receding tide.
Only the heavy smell of horse manure, sweat, and the lingering cold breath of gold and iron blood remained in the air.
Looking at all this, Jon sighed for the first time that King's Landing was truly a capital of overflowing materialism.
And right from the beginning of entering the city, through the crowds lining the streets to welcome them, he had keenly discovered the filth and decay within this city.
---