“The king is dead!”
The cry spread through the narrow streets and crowded squares of King’s Landing like rolling thunder.
“The king is dead!!”
The words echoed from alley to alley, heavy with dread and confusion, and they marked the beginning of the end.
After the forces of Lord Tywin Lannister entered King’s Landing, the city seemed to fall silent for a heartbeat.
It held its breath, as though awaiting a storm.
While ranks of marching soldiers poured through the main gates like a swollen river, the city’s inhabitants withdrew into their homes.
Merchants, gold cloaks, royal guardsmen, laborers, beggars, none of them knew what awaited them next.
But when the wildfire blaze of rumor came tumbling down from the heights of the Red Keep, even the most wretched drunkard sprawled senseless in some Flea Bottom gutter seemed to know that disaster had come.
“The king is dead…”
Again and again the words were repeated, like a grim song that could not be silenced.
Yet Jaime, the man without honor, knew the truth better than any of them.
It had been his hand that ended the life of the Mad King.
When the first of his father’s soldiers reached the highest towers of the Red Keep, Jaime Lannister stood amid the ruins of the past and silently tightened his grip upon his sword.
The cold gleam of the steel seemed a reflection of the icy emptiness spreading through his chest.
Lannister soldiers, now present throughout the Red Keep in great numbers, descended upon everything around them like hungry beasts.
They needed no orders.
To them, the king’s death meant only one thing: the end of order and the beginning of chaos, where gold and blood flowed with equal ease.
Jaime watched greed ignite in their eyes at the sight of plunder.
And at the chance to win favor with Tywin Lannister himself.
He crossed the throne room, his boots striking marble floors drenched in the blood of servants loyal to Aerys, of pyromancers and guardsmen.
At last he halted before the great windows overlooking the city that had not been burned to ash.
Yet the fate awaiting it now was scarcely more dignified.
Fires flickered beyond the glass.
Streets below glowed with the flames of looting and violence.
An army clad in shining armor swept through the city like an avalanche, unstoppable and merciless.
King’s Landing had been left without its ruler, and the shadow of chaos swiftly enveloped its streets.
But that chaos was only a herald of what was yet to come.
The Lannister lion had waited patiently, like a predator stalking wounded prey, until the Iron Throne stood defenseless.
And when the king’s final breath vanished into the cold air, the golden lion brought terror and death to those who had dared grievously offend a patient and vengeful beast.
The Red Keep fell first.
Its towers, once symbols of royal authority, now seemed silent witnesses to destruction.
Crimson-cloaked soldiers tore priceless tapestries from the walls without mercy.
Gold flowed from chests, cabinets, and hidden recesses like a river, swept away by grasping hands.
The halls where the fate of the Seven Kingdoms had once been decided became scenes of barbaric pillage.
Wine spilled across the floors, mingling with the blood of those foolish enough to resist.
Servants, knights, courtiers, many had already met their deaths.
Yet many more had supported Aerys.
And all of them, in the eyes of the victors, were due their punishment.
The streets of the capital, once crowded with merchants and townsfolk, now resembled a battlefield.
Soldiers in gilded armor smashed their way into homes, stripping them bare down to the last copper pot.
Wealthy men and noblewomen who had once considered themselves untouchable fell to their knees before their plunderers, begging for mercy.
The Lannisters offered none.
Neither pity nor compassion existed here.
Every house, every shop, every possession was considered lawful spoil.
Along Blackwater Bay, the masts of ships groaned in the wind as they were loaded with stolen wealth.
Statues, gold, jewels, anything that could be carried away was bound for the distant halls of Casterly Rock.
It seemed the very earth trembled beneath the burden of riches flowing from the ruined city.
As the sun sank beyond the horizon, bathing King’s Landing in a blood-red glow, little remained of its former grandeur but ashes.
King’s Landing was no longer truly the king’s.
It had become a trophy.
A prize claimed by House Lannister.
Yet lions knew better than most that a hunt could not last forever.
And so Tywin readily allowed the stag into the plundered castle.
He already possessed an offer that could not be refused.
And the realm, torn apart by war for far too long, desperately yearned for peace.
Dragonstone, once the proud fortress of House Targaryen, was now filled with fear and despair.
Robert Baratheon’s forces had already seized King’s Landing, and rumors of King Aerys’s death spread through the castle like a sickness.
The dragon banners that had flown proudly in the sea winds for decades had become symbols of doom.
Viserys stood by the window of his chambers, staring in disbelief at the servants and retainers hurrying in every direction.
He was young and frightened, a boy who had scarcely begun to feel the burden of responsibility upon his shoulders.
He was only nine years old.
Yet he already knew that his house had fallen.
And that their salvation now depended upon him alone.
His sister, the newborn Daenerys, had entered the world only days earlier.
Their mother had died giving birth to her.
Now the infant was all the family he had left.
The servants who remained loyal to House Targaryen hurriedly gathered what few valuables remained.
Gold, gemstones, anything that could be carried away.
Ser Willem Darry, an aging knight and veteran of the royal household guard, had organized their escape.
Though doubt, fear, and uncertainty tormented him, his face remained resolute and his voice steady when he informed Viserys that the time had come.
Outside the castle, foul weather raged.
Not yet a true storm, but something close to it.
Rain lashed the island.
Lightning split the night sky, illuminating Dragonstone in brilliant flashes, as though the dragons that had once ruled the heavens had returned for a fleeting moment.
Under cover of darkness and storm, a ship waited in a hidden harbor beyond the sight of their enemies.
It was their sole hope.
Secrecy.
An old creaking merchant vessel upon which they would board not as heirs of dragons, but as fugitives.
As they departed the castle, Viserys glanced back at the ancient towers that had sheltered generations of his ancestors.
There, upon the towering walls, he could almost feel the presence of dragons that had once dwelled there.
He could almost hear the distant echo of their roars.
But all of that belonged to the past.
Their home was now little more than a legend.
And they were the final fragments of a once-great inheritance.
His fists clenched tightly as he followed Ser Willem and his servants through the dark corridors.
By the time they reached the harbor, they barely managed to board before the storm grew fiercer still.
The ship tossed upon the waves like a reed caught in a raging torrent.
Daenerys slept quietly, unaware of the chaos surrounding her.
Unaware that she had been born amid war and ruin.
Shivering in the cold, Viserys stood upon the deck and watched Dragonstone recede into the darkness.
The last refuge of his family vanished into the night.
His lips whispered words filled with bitterness and hatred.
“One day we shall return. And all of you will pay for this. Every one of you. You should never have woken the dragon…”
Yet on that night, beneath the crash of thunder and the howl of the wind, they were only two children fleeing into the unknown.
On the far side of the bay, in a chamber of the Red Keep, a newborn’s desperate cry rang out from the arms of a midwife.
The child quieted only when placed in his mother’s embrace.
“It is a boy, my lady,” the woman said with evident regret, bowing her head as a precaution.
“I can see that…” replied the exhausted mother, tears glistening in her eyes.
She gazed into the infant’s deep blue eyes as he latched hungrily to her breast, as though sensing that it would soon be taken from him forever.
Gently she stroked his dark hair.
A single pale streak ran through it, almost silver-gray.
“My lady, you yourself instructed me…” the midwife reminded her softly.
“Yes. I know…” the woman whispered.
“Just a few more minutes…”
***
The orphanage maintained under the protection of the Faith of the Seven in King’s Landing was a place where divine mercy met harsh reality.
It stood beside a sept, a tall structure of pale stone where quiet prayers and the ringing of bells could be heard throughout the day.
Unlike the sept itself, the orphanage’s walls were humble, though carefully maintained.
Carved symbols of the Seven adorned them: the Crone, the Mother, the Maiden, and the rest, whose care, it was believed, extended even to these forgotten children.
There were many children there.
Far too many for such a small and neglected place.
Orphans left parentless by war, hunger, and sickness huddled in corners, sat upon rough wooden benches, or played quietly upon the floor.
Their faces were thin.
Their eyes hollow.
Eyes accustomed to hunger and indifference.
Some whispered fragments of songs beneath their breath.
Others wept quietly, though few paid attention to their tears.
Septa Unella, still relatively young and responsible for the orphanage, moved through its halls with stooped shoulders and a grim expression.
Her face looked nearly as worn as those of the children in her care.
She was stern but fair.
Though long ago she had ceased believing that the world itself possessed any fairness.
The endless procession of wartime days had been especially cruel to a place such as this.
The children possessed few toys.
A handful of pebbles.
Rag dolls sewn by their own hands.
Sometimes they played at knights and princesses.
During hours of prayer, one might see a child kneeling before the statue of the Mother, silently pleading for a better life, for parents they would never see again.
Quiet tears accompanied many prayers.
Yet they were always followed by clenched fists and the resilience forged by the harsh realities of orphanage life.
In the great hall where the children slept and ate, the long wooden benches were too narrow for comfort, while the stone floors remained cold despite the efforts of the servants.
Each morning began with prayer.
To the Mother, who was meant to watch over orphans.
To the Father, that He might judge their fates with mercy.
The septa and a handful of septons cared for the children, but exhaustion lingered in every face.
There were too many in need.
Too few able to give.
Within the orphanage reigned a dim, reverent silence woven through with whispered prayers.
Sunlight filtered through tall, narrow windows, bathing the walls in soft golden hues and creating an illusion of peace.
Yet that peace was deceptive.
The children who lived here were drawn toward the grandeur of the Faith, but the burdens of hardship remained visible in their eyes.
The septons claimed they lived beneath the protection of the Mother and the Father.
Yet they often went hungry.
Their clothing was old and worn.
Their futures uncertain.
But on this particular morning, life improved, if only slightly.
After a generous donation in exchange for obligations that were not especially burdensome, the orphanage received a substantial sum of silver.
Along with it came only one additional mouth to feed.
A mouth that would not be chewing solid food for many years.
Unella had not spent long considering the arrangement, though nursing the infant herself caused her a measure of discomfort.
The benefits were undeniable.
Instead of stale bread and thin vegetable stew, steaming bowls of rich meat soup appeared upon the tables, accompanied by fresh loaves of bread.
When the children received their meal, genuine laughter filled the hall for the first time in many months.
Their joy seemed to herald a new age.
An age that was meant to begin with the ascension of King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name.
An age of full bellies and prosperity.
An age of long peace.