Chapter 39: Dragonfire Over King's Landing: The Red Keep Stormed
The salt spray of Blackwater Bay felt like a homecoming caress and a battle-psalm against Viserys's face as the Phoenix Armada, a hundred dark sails swallowing the pre-dawn stars, glided towards the sleeping behemoth of King's Landing. He stood on the foredeck of the Balerion, his flagship, a figure of obsidian and Targaryen silver in the encroaching gloom, the Valyrian steel dagger a cold promise at his hip, his ancestral sword, 'Dark Sister' – recovered from Illyrio's vault alongside the dragon eggs, a relic he now claimed by right of blood and conquest – strapped across his back. Daenerys was beside him, a silent, ethereal presence in her dark riding leathers, her hand resting on the warm, scaled shoulder of Rhaegal, who, along with Viserion, was already stirring restlessly, their immense forms casting shifting shadows across the dragon-deck. High above, Balerion circled, a blacker silhouette against the fading night, his occasional guttural rumble a low, ominous thunder. The air thrummed with coiled energy, with the silent, disciplined anticipation of ten thousand Shadow Legionnaires and Phoenix Guardsmen, with the barely suppressed bloodlust of Kiera Redfin's Corsairs, and with the incandescent, world-altering power of six living dragons.
Alistair Finch, the historian trapped within the young king, felt a profound, chilling sense of déjŕ vu. He had read of countless sieges, of cities stormed and empires broken. He knew the stench of burning wood and roasting flesh, the screams of the dying, the terror of the conquered – all from the dry, academic remove of ancient texts. Now, he was about to unleash it, to become the architect of such a cataclysm upon the city that had once been the seat of his family's glory and their ultimate downfall. Viserys Targaryen, however, felt none of Alistair's scholarly disquiet. His violet eyes, burning with an almost inhuman intensity, were fixed on the distant, sprawling mass of Aegon's High Hill, crowned by the menacing silhouette of the Red Keep. This was not just a battle; it was a reclamation, a righteous fury made manifest.
"Operation First Light," Viserys had named it in the final war council at Aegis West, a grimly ironic moniker for the inferno they were about to unleash. The plan was audacious, multi-layered, relying on precision, terror, and the promised treachery of Lord Varys.
As the Phoenix Armada silently maneuvered into their designated positions in the outer bay, the first phase began. Kiera Redfin, her Sea Viper leading her squadron of fifteen Corsair sloops and captured merchantmen, their blood-red pennants snapping in the chill dawn wind, launched a ferocious, diversionary assault on the chain boom guarding the mouth of the Blackwater Rush and the city's main harbor. Her ships, bristling with grappling hooks and screaming reavers, crashed against the boom's support towers, their crude firepots arcing towards the sleepy dockside warehouses and the few royal galleys still berthed there after Stannis's earlier defeat. The din was calculated – enough to draw the attention of the Gold Cloaks and any Lannister forces garrisoning the Mud Gate and the River Gate, pulling them away from the true vector of attack. High Admiral Valerion Qo, commanding the Meraxes and Vhagar with a screen of Phoenix Company frigates, moved to support Kiera, their disciplined ballista volleys targeting the harbor fortifications, adding to the illusion of a full-scale naval assault.
Simultaneously, under the cover of the pre-dawn darkness and a conveniently low-lying bank of sea mist that Xaro Xhandar's alchemists might (or might not) have subtly encouraged with their concoctions, the true spearhead of Viserys's gambit was deployed. "Operation Serpent's Tooth," as Shadowfoot had dubbed it, saw her leading a handpicked team of fifty of her deadliest Braavosi infiltrators and five hundred elite Shadow Legionnaires, commanded by the grim pairing of Draq and Morrec. They boarded Xaro's newly designed submersible barges – low-profile, oar-propelled craft with reinforced obsidian-laced hulls, capable of silent, near-invisible approach. Guided by Daenerys's dream-maps (which had proven astonishingly accurate in locating the hidden sea cave entrances) and Shadowfoot's own daring nocturnal reconnaissance, these "Sea Serpents" navigated the treacherous, wave-battered cliffs beneath the Red Keep.
The journey through the ancient, forgotten sea caves was a nightmare of claustrophobic darkness, surging currents, and the constant threat of collapse. Shadowfoot, her senses preternaturally sharp, led the way, her obsidian daggers flashing as she dispatched giant, pale cave spiders and other, less identifiable, lurking creatures. Draq and Morrec, their immense strength often needed to clear rockfalls or force rusted grates, kept the Shadow Legionnaires focused, their discipline holding even in the face of this subterranean ordeal. Xaro's specialized tools – silent drills, hydraulic wedges, climbing gear tipped with obsidian claws – proved invaluable in bypassing ancient, long-forgotten Valyrian defenses within the tunnels. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of suffocating darkness and chilling dread, they breached a crumbling section of masonry into the deepest, oldest dungeons of the Red Keep, emerging like vengeful spirits into the bowels of their ancestral home.
As the first true light of dawn painted the sky above King's Landing a bruised purple and crimson, Viserys gave the signal. "Daenerys! Now!"
He urged Balerion upwards, the colossal black dragon rocketing into the sky with a roar that seemed to crack the very foundations of the city. Daenerys, her silver hair a banner against the dawn, followed on the green Rhaegal, Viserion a golden fury at her side. From the decks of the Nyx, Morrec, with a guttural cry, unleashed the three chthonic Firewyrms – Terrax, Tempest, and Obsidian – who launched themselves into the air with their strange, grinding roars, their elemental power a terrifying counterpoint to the Valyrian dragons' incandescent fury.
Six dragons now circled over King's Landing, their shadows falling like a death shroud upon the awakening city. The effect was instantaneous, cataclysmic. From the Red Keep to the stinking alleys of Flea Bottom, a collective scream of terror arose. Gold Cloaks on the city walls dropped their spears and pointed, their faces contorted with disbelief and primal fear. Merchants stumbled from their shops, nobles from their manses, smallfolk from their hovels, all gazing upwards at the impossible, terrifying spectacle. The age of dragons had returned to Westeros, not as a distant legend, but as a living, breathing, fire-spewing nightmare.
Viserys, his mind a cold nexus of strategic calculation despite the exhilarating rush of power thrumming through him from Balerion, directed the aerial assault with precision. "Balerion, the Grand Gate of the Red Keep! Shatter it!" The black dragon, responding to his will, unleashed a torrent of black-and-crimson fire that engulfed the massive ironwood gates, melting hinges, blasting stone, and turning the defending Lannister guardsmen into screaming torches. "Daenerys, Rhaegal, Viserion – the main towers and battlements! Silence their scorpions, clear their archers!" His sister, her voice surprisingly clear and commanding as she echoed his orders in High Valyrian, wheeled her dragons into devastating firing runs, their green and gold flames sweeping the ramparts clean of defenders.
The three Firewyrms, meanwhile, descended upon the city proper, but with specific, terrifying targets. Terrax, at Viserys's mental prompting (their bond was different, more instinctual, less reliant on voice), landed heavily before the barracks of the City Watch near the Gate of the Gods, his earth-shaking roars and the sight of his obsidian-hard hide sending the Gold Cloaks scattering in disarray. Tempest summoned a localized, unnaturally violent hailstorm over the Street of Steel, disrupting any attempts by blacksmiths or armorers to supply the defenders. Obsidian, sleek and black as a shadow, used his incredible agility to target Lannister banners and symbols of power throughout the city, his corrosive spittle (a unique, terrifying aspect of his chthonic nature Lyra of Lys was still studying) melting through stone and steel alike, a psychological weapon as much as a physical one.
The primary resistance Viserys had anticipated was wildfire. Tywin Lannister, he knew, was not a man to be caught entirely unprepared. As the dragons circled, he saw the tell-tale green glow of alchemists preparing their catapults on the Red Keep's highest towers and along the city walls. "Dragons, evade!" he roared, his voice amplified by Balerion's own resonant growl. He had drilled them relentlessly for this, Xaro Xhandar having constructed mock catapults on Dragon's Aerie that hurled pots of harmless, brightly colored water. The dragons, responding to their riders' urgent commands and their own survival instincts, scattered, their aerial agility astonishing for their size. Several volleys of the viscous green liquid arced into the sky, some splashing harmlessly against the stone, others exploding in gouts of emerald flame that licked at the dragons' wings and underbellies. Rhaegal let out a screech of pain as a few drops caught his flank, but his scales, already unnaturally tough from Viserys's blood-feedings, seemed to resist the worst of the fire, and Daenerys, her face grim, quickly guided him out of range. Balerion, with a contemptuous roar, unleashed a concentrated blast of his own black fire directly onto a wildfire catapult crew, incinerating them and their deadly payload in a single, satisfying explosion. Viserys knew they could not be reckless; wildfire was a dragon's bane. But their speed, their aerial mastery, and their sheer numbers gave them a decisive advantage.
While the dragons ruled the skies, the battle for the Red Keep raged within its ancient walls. Draq and Morrec, leading the Shadow Legion, had emerged from the dungeons with terrifying speed and silence. They overwhelmed the lower guard posts, their obsidian blades whisper-silent, their discipline absolute. They moved like a tide of darkness, their objectives clear: the Great Hall, Maegor's Holdfast, the royal apartments, and Tywin Lannister himself, if he was within the Keep.
Varys's promised aid at the Dragon Gate materialized, though not without its own layer of treacherous ambiguity. As Kiera Redfin's Corsairs and a contingent of Phoenix Guard under a Braavosi commander named Vorian (a veteran of the Pentos campaign) made their feint towards it, the massive gates did indeed swing open. But instead of an undefended passage, they were met by a desperate, suicidal charge of Gold Cloaks, clearly expecting them, their faces a mixture of terror and fanatical resolve. It was a trap, Viserys realized with a cold fury, but one Varys had likely intended to be double-edged – a way to bleed both Lannister and Targaryen forces, while still providing Viserys with an opening, should he be strong enough to take it. Vorian's Phoenix Guard, disciplined and heavily armed, met the charge head-on, their shield wall holding, while Kiera's Corsairs, screaming like banshees, poured through the flanks, turning the Dragon Gate into a slaughterhouse. It was a breach, bought with blood, but a breach nonetheless.
Within the Red Keep, the Shadow Legion, now numbering in the hundreds as more emerged from the hidden sea caves, fought their way upwards. They encountered pockets of fierce resistance from Lannister household guards and the few Kingsguard knights present – Ser Meryn Trant, his face a mask of brutal stupidity, fell to Morrec's relentless, obsidian-edged assault; Ser Boros Blount, attempting to flee, was cut down from behind by Whisper's thrown knives. The brutality and efficiency of the Shadow Legion were unlike anything the Westerosi defenders had ever faced. They did not shout war cries; they moved in silence, their obsidian weapons inflicting horrific, untreatable wounds, their fanatical devotion to their unseen Lord making them seemingly impervious to fear or pain.
Cersei Lannister was found cowering in Maegor's Holdfast, surrounded by her ladies and a terrified Tommen, her beauty ravaged by terror and wine. Shadowfoot herself, her movements like liquid darkness, disarmed Cersei's last remaining guard and took the Queen Regent captive, her expression unreadable as Cersei shrieked threats and promises. King Joffrey, however, was not with her. Reports from captured servants indicated the boy-king, upon hearing the dragons' roars, had soiled himself and fled, attempting to escape the Red Keep via yet another secret passage, accompanied only by Ser Osmund Kettleblack.
It was Tywin Lannister, however, who was Viserys's primary target. Alistair Finch knew that the Old Lion was the true heart of Lannister power; with him gone, their entire edifice would crumble. Intelligence from Varys (delivered via Maelys, who had "surrendered" to Vorian at the Dragon Gate, claiming to be a "friend" ready to guide them) indicated Tywin was commanding the Red Keep's defense from the Tower of the Hand.
Viserys, leaving Daenerys and the other dragons to continue suppressing resistance from the city walls and supporting the Phoenix Guard advancing from the Dragon Gate, urged Balerion towards the Tower of the Hand. The black dragon landed on its ramparts with a crash that sent stone gargoyles tumbling, his roar shattering every window in the tower. Viserys, sword in hand, leaped from Balerion's back, his Wolverine healing factor already knitting the minor cuts and bruises from deflected arrows, his super-soldier senses alive to every threat.
He found Tywin Lannister in his solar, not cowering, but standing before a vast map of Westeros, calmly issuing orders to a handful of his most trusted captains, even as dragonfire raged outside and the screams of his dying men echoed through the Keep. The Old Lion turned as Viserys entered, his pale green eyes, flecked with gold, meeting Viserys's violet gaze with an expression of cold, appraising fury. There was no fear in him, only a monumental, indomitable pride.
"So," Tywin Lannister said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, "the last Targaryen whelp has come home, riding a storm of fire and delusion."
"I have come to reclaim what is mine, Lannister," Viserys replied, his own voice equally cold, equally resolute. "Your reign of usurpation and tyranny ends today."
"Reigns are not ended by petulant boys with overgrown lizards," Tywin sneered, though his eyes flickered towards the window as Balerion let out another earth-shaking roar. "They are ended by strength, by will, by the cold, hard calculus of power. You have fire, yes. But do you have the stomach for what it takes to rule, Targaryen? To make the hard choices? To spill the blood that must be spilled?"
Alistair Finch felt a chill. Tywin's words were a dark echo of his own internal justifications. But Viserys Targaryen did not flinch. "I have spilled Illyrio Mopatis's blood, Lannister. I have broken pirate queens to my will. I have forged an army from the dregs of your cruel world. Do not presume to lecture me on the necessities of power." He raised Dark Sister. "Your house has enjoyed its brief, stolen summer. Winter has come for House Lannister."
Their confrontation was interrupted by the arrival of Draq and a squad of Obsidian Phantoms, their dark armor stained with blood. Tywin's captains drew their swords, but they were hopelessly outnumbered, outmatched. Tywin Lannister, however, did not reach for a weapon. He simply stared at Viserys, a look of profound, almost philosophical, contempt on his face. "You may win this city, boy," he said, his voice still strong. "You may even sit that uncomfortable iron chair for a time. But you will never truly rule Westeros. It will consume you, as it consumes all who grasp for ultimate power."
"We shall see, Old Lion," Viserys said. "But your reign, at least, is over." He nodded to Draq. The ensuing struggle was brief, brutal. Tywin Lannister, for all his intellect and will, was an old man. He fell, not to dragonfire, but to the obsidian blades of the Shadow Legion, his lifeblood staining the maps of the kingdoms he had sought to control.
With Tywin Lannister dead and the Red Keep's command structure shattered, organized resistance collapsed. Joffrey, found whimpering in a privy by Shadowfoot (a historical irony Alistair could not help but appreciate), was dragged before Viserys, who dispatched the sniveling boy-king with a single, contemptuous stroke of Dark Sister. Cersei Lannister, her pride broken, was imprisoned in Maegor's Holdfast under heavy guard, her fate to be determined later.
By noon, the Targaryen dragon banner flew unchallenged over the Red Keep. King's Landing was a city stunned into terrified submission, parts of it still smoldering from dragonfire and the fires Kiera Redfin's Corsairs had (despite Viserys's orders) enthusiastically started along the docks. Viserys, standing in the cavernous, soot-stained Great Hall, looked upon the Iron Throne, that monstrous, ugly chair of melted swords, the symbol of his ancestors' power and their ultimate undoing. He felt no triumph, no exultation. Only a cold, weary sense of inevitability.
Daenerys landed Rhaegal and Viserion in the courtyard, her face pale but her eyes blazing. She rushed to his side. "Brother," she whispered, "we have done it. King's Landing is ours."
"Ours for now, sister," Viserys corrected, his gaze sweeping over the terrified courtiers and captured Lannister loyalists being herded into the hall by his Shadow Legion. "This is but the first battle in a long, bloody war. Stannis still holds Dragonstone. Robb Stark still commands an army in the North. Balon Greyjoy still raids our coasts. And the lords of Westeros… they will not easily bend the knee to a Targaryen who returns with fire-breathing monsters and an army of foreign shadow-warriors."
He gestured to Draq. "Secure the city. Impose a strict curfew. No looting, no unauthorized reprisals. Distribute food from the royal granaries to the smallfolk – let them see that the Dragon brings not just terror, but order. Valerion, your fleet controls the Blackwater. Kiera, your Corsairs will sweep the harbor clean of any remaining Lannister loyalists, then maintain the blockade. Ledger, Archivist, begin a full accounting of the Royal Treasury and the Red Keep's records. Lyra of Lys, organize the healers; tend to our wounded, and then, if resources permit, to the city's."
He then turned back to the Iron Throne. The Dragon's Gambit had succeeded, beyond even his most optimistic projections. King's Landing, the heart of the Seven Kingdoms, was his. But Alistair Finch, the historian, knew that capturing a throne was one thing; holding it, and forging a lasting peace, was an entirely different, and often more brutal, endeavor. The shadows over the Red Keep had lifted, only to be replaced by the even larger, more complex shadow of his own dawning, dragon-backed reign. The price of victory had been paid today in fire and blood; the price of kingship, he knew, would be a lifetime of such payments.