Chapter 15: The Red Keep Stormed, A Crown of Ash and Blood
The air in the rebel camp outside King's Landing was thick with a cloying mixture of anticipation and unease. Hours had passed since Tywin Lannister's crimson-and-gold clad forces had been granted entry into the capital, their stated purpose to "liberate" the city from the Mad King. Yet, no definitive word had come back, only the distant, unsettling rumble of activity from within the city walls – a sound that could be fighting, or celebration, or something far more sinister.
Robert Baratheon paced like a caged lion, his initial exultation at Lannister's allegiance giving way to impatient fury. "What in the seven hells is that old lion doing in there? Is Aerys in chains yet? Why have we heard nothing?"
Jon Arryn, his face etched with worry, stared towards the towering walls of King's Landing. "Tywin Lannister is thorough, Robert. He will be securing the city. But I confess… this silence is disquieting."
Hoster Tully, looking frail and agitated, muttered about Lannister ambition and the folly of allowing another army into the capital before their own.
Voldedort, outwardly the stoic Eddard Stark, shared their vigil, but his senses were extended far beyond the mundane. His greensight, an unreliable but potent tool, flickered with chaotic, horrifying images: Lannister soldiers, their lion banners mocking their savagery, rampaging through streets; civilians screaming, cut down indiscriminately; doors splintered, homes looted; the gleam of gold and the crimson of blood intermingling in a sickening tableau. He saw flashes of the Red Keep itself, scenes of panic and desperate, futile resistance from Aerys's last loyal guards.
The Sack of King's Landing, he realized with a cold, detached clarity. Tywin Lannister was not merely securing the city; he was making a brutal statement, ensuring his place at the victor's table through an act of calculated terror, and simultaneously eradicating any lingering Targaryen support within the populace. Voldemort felt a flicker of professional appreciation for the sheer ruthlessness of it, even as Eddard's persona recoiled in horror. This was an atrocity, a violation of every code of war Eddard held dear.
"Something is wrong," Voldedort said, his voice low and grave, allowing Eddard's disquiet to surface. "The sounds from the city… they are not the sounds of a peaceful liberation."
As if summoned by his words, the first terrified refugees began to trickle out from minor, unguarded postern gates, their faces streaked with soot and tears, their clothes torn, babbling incoherent tales of rape, murder, and Lannister brutality. The carefully constructed dam of rebel anticipation broke, replaced by a torrent of confusion, anger, and, for some, a grim satisfaction.
Robert's reaction was initially one of disbelief, then a sort of savage glee. "Lannister's men are giving those Targaryen lickspittles what they deserve! Let them taste the price of loyalty to a madman!"
Jon Arryn, however, was aghast. "This is… unspeakable! This is not what we fought for! Tywin has unleashed his dogs!"
Voldedort watched them both, his mind a whirl of calculation. Robert's brutal pragmatism was useful. Jon Arryn's moral outrage was also useful – it reinforced the image of the "honorable" rebellion, an image Voldedort himself had carefully cultivated for House Stark. He needed to play his own part perfectly.
"Lord Arryn is right," Voldedort declared, his voice ringing with Eddard's righteous fury, a fury that, for once, Voldemort found easy to channel, as it served his purpose of distancing the "honorable" rebels from Lannister's atrocities. "This is a stain upon our cause! We offered Lord Tywin entry to secure the King and save the city from wildfire, not to unleash a massacre upon its people! This barbarity must cease!"
His words resonated with many of the Northern and Vale lords, who looked to Eddard Stark as a moral compass. Hoster Tully, despite his earlier pragmatism, also expressed his disgust.
Before any concrete action could be decided, however, a Lannister herald, his crimson cloak spattered with something that looked suspiciously like blood, arrived at a gallop, bearing urgent news. He was brought before the assembled rebel leaders.
"My lords!" the herald announced, his voice strained but triumphant. "King's Landing is fallen! Lord Tywin Lannister holds the city in the name of King Robert! And… King Aerys Targaryen is dead!"
A stunned silence greeted this momentous proclamation. Aerys, dead. The Mad King, whose tyranny had plunged the realm into war, was finally gone.
Robert Baratheon let out a whoop of pure, unadulterated triumph. "Dead! The bastard is dead! Hah! I may not have killed Rhaegar's sire myself, but this is a victory sweet enough!" He grabbed the nearest flagon of wine and drank deeply.
Jon Arryn looked relieved, yet deeply troubled. "How did he die? Did he… unleash the wildfire?"
The herald hesitated, his gaze flickered towards Voldedort, as if Eddard Stark's known reputation for justice made him uneasy. "His Grace… King Aerys… was slain in the throne room of the Red Keep. By… Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard."
Another shockwave rippled through the gathered lords. Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer. A knight of the Kingsguard, sworn to protect his king, had struck him down. The implications were staggering, a violation of the most sacred oaths.
Voldedort's mind seized upon this. Jaime Lannister. Tywin's son. A young, arrogant, but exceptionally skilled warrior. Why had he done it? To save the city from wildfire, as some might claim? Or on his father's orders, a cynical act to curry favor with the new regime by eliminating the inconvenient old one? This was a pivotal piece of the puzzle. Jaime Lannister was now a figure of immense infamy, but also, perhaps, immense utility.
"The Kingslayer," Robert spat, his initial elation tinged with contempt. "Even in victory, the Lannisters find a way to stain themselves. But no matter! Aerys is dead! The throne is mine!"
"We must enter the city immediately," Jon Arryn urged, his face grim. "We must restore order, see to the welfare of the people, and secure the Red Keep. And we must… ascertain the circumstances of Aerys's death."
Voldedort nodded in agreement. "The Northmen will advance. We will help secure the city, and ensure that… justice is seen to be done." His emphasis on "justice" was carefully ambiguous. He needed to witness the scene in the throne room, to assess Jaime Lannister, to ensure no vital information or artifacts related to Aerys's reign or Rhaegar's prophecies were lost in the chaos.
The rebel armies, with the Northern host under Voldedort at the vanguard alongside Robert's Stormlanders and Jon Arryn's Vale knights, began their advance into King's Landing. The scene that greeted them was one of utter devastation. The proud city, so recently the jewel of the Seven Kingdoms, was a vision of hell. Buildings smoldered, bodies lay uncollected in the streets, and the gutters ran with a vile mixture of blood, wine, and filth. Lannister soldiers, their discipline having clearly broken down (or perhaps never truly enforced), were everywhere, many drunk, laden with loot, their faces flushed with a savage triumph. The cries of the terrified populace were a constant, haunting backdrop.
Eddard Stark's soul recoiled in horror and disgust. This was not liberation; this was a brutal sack, an atrocity that would forever mar their victory. He felt a burning shame that his rebellion, his quest for justice, had culminated in this. Voldemort, however, viewed the scene with a cold, appraising eye. The city was broken, its spirit crushed. It would be easier to control this way. The Lannisters had done the dirty work, and they would bear the public blame. He, as Eddard Stark, could now sweep in as the voice of order and righteousness, further enhancing his own reputation.
He issued strict orders to his Northmen: maintain discipline, offer aid to any civilians in distress, apprehend any Lannister soldiers caught in acts of brutality, but avoid open conflict with Tywin's main forces unless directly attacked. He needed to project an image of Stark honor amidst the Lannister depravity. His men, already disciplined and fiercely loyal to their lord's ideals (or what they perceived them to be), largely complied, their grim Northern presence a stark contrast to the crimson-clad marauders.
Their primary objective was the Red Keep. As they made their way through the ravaged streets, Voldedort's senses were on high alert. He looked for signs of wildfire deployment, but while there were many fires, they seemed to be the result of looting and random arson, not the systematic conflagration Aerys had supposedly planned. Had Jaime Lannister's act prevented it? Or had the threat been exaggerated?
He was also keenly aware of the magical atmosphere of the ancient city. The Red Keep, built by Maegor the Cruel, was said to be riddled with secret passages, hidden chambers, and perhaps, forgotten magic. The Targaryens, for all their madness, had been dragonlords, touched by an ancient and powerful sorcery. Voldedort wondered what remnants of that power, what secrets, might lie within the castle's depths.
As they approached the Red Keep, the signs of fighting became more intense. The main gates were shattered, and the courtyard was littered with the bodies of Targaryen loyalists and some Lannister soldiers. Tywin Lannister himself, a tall, imposing figure with cold, calculating eyes, met them in the outer ward, his armor immaculate despite the surrounding chaos.
"Lord Stark, Lord Arryn, Your Grace," he said, nodding to Robert with a bare flicker of acknowledgement for his new king. "Welcome to King's Landing. As you can see, the city is secured. Aerys Targaryen will trouble you no more."
Robert, impatient, pushed past him. "Where is he? Where is the Kingslayer?"
The throne room of the Red Keep was a scene of eerie, terrible stillness. The vast chamber, usually alive with the pomp and ceremony of the Targaryen court, was dimly lit, a few torches casting flickering shadows on the tapestries depicting dragon conquests. The air was heavy with the smell of stale blood and fear.
And there, slumped at the foot of the Iron Throne, was the grotesque, sprawled body of Aerys Targaryen, the Mad King. His eyes were wide with a final, uncomprehending terror, his clothes dishevelled, a dark stain blooming on his chest.
Sitting on the steps of the Iron Throne itself, his golden hair dishevelled, his white Kingsguard cloak stained with the Mad King's blood, was Ser Jaime Lannister. His sword, also bloodied, lay across his lap. He looked up as the rebel lords entered, his expression a strange mixture of weariness, defiance, and something unreadable.
"Ser Jaime," Jon Arryn said, his voice filled with a shocked disapproval. "What is the meaning of this? You were sworn to protect your king."
Jaime Lannister laughed, a harsh, jarring sound in the silence of the throne room. "Protect him? From whom, Lord Arryn? From himself? From the ashes he intended to make of us all?" His gaze, green and cynical, swept over them.
Robert Baratheon strode forward, his face a mask of fury. "You dare sit the Iron Throne, Kingslayer? After murdering your king?"
Jaime rose slowly, gracefully, despite his evident exhaustion. "Someone had to. He ordered his pyromancers to burn the city. He ordered me to bring him my father's head. I chose… a different path." He looked directly at Voldedort, at Eddard Stark. "Perhaps Lord Stark, a man of such renowned honor, will understand. Sometimes, oaths must be broken to prevent a greater evil."
Voldedort met Jaime's gaze, his own expression unreadable. Eddard Stark would have been torn. The act was undeniably treacherous, a monstrous breach of sacred vows. Yet, if it had indeed saved the city from wildfire… Voldemort, however, saw only opportunity. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, was now a pariah, a man who had defied all convention. Such a man could be incredibly dangerous, or incredibly useful, if his motives could be understood and his loyalties… redirected.
"You will answer for this, Ser Jaime," Voldedort said, Eddard's voice cold and hard as Northern ice. "There are laws, even in war. Oaths have meaning." He needed to maintain the Stark facade of unwavering adherence to principle. But his mind was already working, analyzing. What did Jaime Lannister truly want? What did Tywin intend for his Kingslaying son?
Before the interrogation could proceed further, a new, more horrifying discovery was made. Reports came from Maegor's Holdfast, the fortified inner sanctum of the Red Keep, where the royal family had taken refuge. Princess Elia Martell, Rhaegar's Dornish wife, and her two young children, Princess Rhaenys and the infant Prince Aegon, were dead. Murdered. Not by Aerys, but by Lannister soldiers, Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch, acting, it was whispered, on Tywin Lannister's implicit orders.
A wave of genuine horror, this time shared by both Eddard's persona and even a flicker of Voldemort's detached disgust at such… unnecessary crudity, swept through Voldedort. The murder of children, the brutal slaying of a princess who was effectively a hostage… this was an atrocity that even the most hardened soldiers would find repellent. It was also a colossal political blunder on Tywin's part, one that would enrage Dorne and stain Robert's new reign before it even began.
Robert, when he heard the news, seemed more annoyed than outraged. "The dragonspawn are dead? Good. Less trouble for me later." His callousness was shocking even to Jon Arryn.
Voldedort, however, saw an opportunity in the midst of the horror. He allowed Eddard's profound revulsion and grief to show, his face paling, his eyes filled with a cold, righteous fury.
"This… this is an abomination!" he declared, his voice shaking with barely suppressed rage. "The murder of innocents, of a princess and her babes! This is not war! This is butchery! Tywin Lannister will answer for this! These… animals who committed this act will be brought to justice!"
His outrage was palpable, and it resonated deeply with Jon Arryn and many of the other lords, even some of Robert's own Stormlanders. He was positioning himself, and by extension the North, as the moral core of the rebellion, the voice of true justice in the midst of chaos and savagery. This would give him immense leverage in the days and weeks to come.
He immediately dispatched a trusted contingent of his own Stark guard to Maegor's Holdfast, ostensibly to secure the scene and protect any remaining members of the royal household, but also to gather any information, any evidence, that could be used against Tywin Lannister if necessary. He also wanted to confirm, with his own senses, the nature of the deaths, to see if there were any… magical traces, though that seemed unlikely in such a brutal, mundane slaughter.
The Red Keep was now firmly in rebel hands. Aerys was dead. His presumed heirs in King's Landing were dead. Robert Baratheon was, for all intents and purposes, the King of the Seven Kingdoms. But the victory was soaked in blood, tainted by atrocity, and fraught with new, dangerous political currents.
Voldedort stood in the chaos of the throne room, the Mad King's corpse still lying at the foot of the Iron Throne, Jaime Lannister now under armed guard, Robert already making pronouncements about his new reign. The air was thick with the smell of blood, fear, and the dawning, uncertain light of a new era.
His greensight offered him a final, chilling image: the Iron Throne itself, not with Robert upon it, but empty, its barbs and jagged edges seeming to writhe like living serpents, and a great, shadowy direwolf with eyes of fire coiling around its base, its true form hidden in the darkness beneath.
The crown was won. But for Lord Voldemort, the game had just entered a new, more intricate phase. The conquest of a kingdom was a triviality. The true prize was power itself, in all its forms. And King's Landing, the Red Keep, with its secrets, its history, its lingering Targaryen magic, was now his to explore, his to exploit. The serpent had not just coiled tighter; it was now at the very heart of the web, ready to pull the strings.