Chapter 11: The King is Dead, Long Live the Serpent King
The air in the Red Keep hung heavy and still, like the moment before a summer storm, thick with the metallic scent of fear and the cloying aroma of milk of the poppy that wafted from the King's chambers. Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, was dying. At twenty years of age, Baelon, Prince of Dragonstone, watched the slow, agonizing decay of his father with a cold, dispassionate clarity. Each rattling breath, each tremor of the King's withered hand, was a tick of the clock counting down to the inevitable chaos he knew would follow. Lord Voldemort, the ancient soul within the young prince, felt a familiar stirring – the thrill of impending power, the contempt for mortal frailty, the meticulous calculation of the moves to come.
Queen Alicent, her face a mask of strained piety and sleepless nights, rarely left Viserys's side, her green-clad ladies fluttering around her like anxious moths. Otto Hightower, recalled from Oldtown weeks prior under the guise of 'assisting the Hand in these trying times,' was a constant, brooding presence, his every glance a silent assessment of the shifting power dynamics. He and Alicent were a viper's nest of whispered conferences, their ambition a palpable force field around the dying King. They believed their moment was at hand. They believed Aegon, now a lanky youth of fourteen, swaggering and increasingly dissolute, would be their king.
Baelon knew otherwise. He had spent years laying his own subtle snares, weaving his own invisible web. Ser Arryk Cargyll of the Kingsguard was his eyes and ears within the White Swords, his loyalty absolute, forged in quiet respect and Baelon's unnerving prescience. Pate, no longer a mere scribe but a master clerk with access to the Citadel's correspondence and the Keep's ledgers, filtered crucial information to him daily. And Larys Strong, the Clubfoot, his new Master of Whisperers in all but name, moved through the shadows of the court like a spider, his network of informants rivaling any the realm had ever seen. Larys found a particular, twisted amusement in the Hightowers' clumsy machinations, often feeding Baelon their plans before they were even fully formed.
Umbraxys, his shadow titan, was a constant presence in his mind, its vast consciousness linked to his own. The pocket dimension Voldemort had carved out for it beneath Maegor's Holdfast was now a true abyss, a landscape of perpetual twilight where the great dragon coiled in silent majesty, its scales drinking the ethereal light. From this hidden nexus, Voldemort could project his senses, see through Umbraxys's eyes as it 'walked' the hidden pathways of the castle, its shadowy form indistinguishable from the shifting darkness, listening to the plots of his enemies, gauging the fear in their hearts. Umbraxys was more than a dragon; it was his familiar, his amplifier, his ultimate deterrent.
The end came on a grey, drizzly morning. Grand Maester Orwyle, a Hightower creature who had replaced the more independent Mellos, emerged from the King's chambers, his face pale, his movements furtive. He made straight for the Queen's apartments.
"The old flame flickers out, Speaker," Umbraxys's voice resonated in Voldemort's mind, cold and devoid of sentiment. "The green beetles scatter."
Baelon needed no further confirmation. While Orwyle was informing Alicent, and Alicent was hastily summoning her father and her sons, Baelon acted. He did not wait for pronouncements, for councils, for the charade of grief. Power was not given; it was taken.
"Ser Arryk," Baelon said, his voice calm as he found the knight ostensibly guarding his own chambers. "The King is dead. Queen Alicent and her father will attempt to usurp the throne and crown Aegon. We will not allow it."
Ser Arryk's face, usually stoic, showed a flicker of surprise, then hardened into resolve. "Your Grace. What are your orders?"
"Secure the entrances to the King's chambers. No one enters or leaves without my express permission. Detain Grand Maester Orwyle discreetly. He is a traitor. Then, gather those of the Kingsguard whose loyalty to the Crown – to my crown – is beyond question. We will convene the Small Council. The true Small Council."
While Arryk moved with deadly efficiency, Baelon sent a coded message via a trusted page to Pate, instructing him to secure the royal treasury and to prepare the Great Hall for an immediate coronation. Another message went to Larys Strong: "The hour is upon us. Unleash your whispers. Let it be known that any who conspire against the rightful heir will face not just justice, but oblivion."
The Hightower faction, in their arrogance, believed they had time. They thought to conceal the King's death for a day or two, to gather their allies, to ensure the Kingsguard was fully theirs, to perhaps even arrange a convenient 'accident' for Baelon. They underestimated the speed, the ruthlessness, the sheer, unadulterated power of the mind they were dealing with.
Otto Hightower, Queen Alicent, a nervous Aegon, a brooding Aemond (his sapphire eye glinting), Ser Criston Cole, and a handful of loyalist lords were gathered in the Small Council chamber, their voices hushed as they debated the wording of the proclamation that would name Aegon king. Grand Maester Orwyle was nervously recounting the King's last, supposedly confused words, which Otto was already twisting into a dying wish for Aegon to succeed him.
The doors to the chamber burst open, not with a bang, but with a silent, chilling force, as if an unseen hand had simply willed them aside. Baelon stood framed in the doorway, flanked by Ser Arryk and three other grim-faced Kingsguard knights in their white cloaks. He was dressed in black, unadorned save for the Targaryen dragon sigil subtly embroidered on his breast. His pale eyes swept the room, and an almost palpable wave of coldness, of pure, concentrated will, washed over the conspirators.
"Lord Hightower. Your Grace," Baelon said, his voice soft, yet carrying an edge of sharpened Valyrian steel. "It seems you are gathered for a council. An unsanctioned one, I believe. And in remarkably poor taste, given that my father, your King, has only just breathed his last."
Otto Hightower, for the first time in his life, looked genuinely flustered. "Prince Baelon… we were… discussing the arrangements… the succession…"
"The succession?" Baelon's eyebrow arched. "There is nothing to discuss. I am the Prince of Dragonstone, the proclaimed heir. My father's wishes, his laws, the laws of gods and men, are clear." He took a step into the room, the Kingsguard knights fanning out behind him. "Unless, of course, you were planning to disregard them."
Alicent rose, her face pale but her eyes blazing with a desperate fanaticism. "My son Aegon is the King's firstborn son by his lawful Queen! Viserys, in his final moments, expressed his desire for Aegon to…"
"Lies, Your Grace," Baelon cut her off, his voice like the lash of a whip. "My father, whatever his dotage, never unmade me his heir. Grand Maester Orwyle," he said, his gaze shifting to the trembling Maester who was now held firmly by one of Baelon's knights near the door, "will attest to the King's true last words, once he finds his courage. Or perhaps, once he feels the… encouragement… of a little truth-serum I happen to have acquired from Essos." He let that hang in the air for a moment. Orwyle visibly wilted.
"This is an outrage!" Ser Criston Cole snarled, his hand moving towards his sword. "Prince Aegon is…"
Before Cole could finish his sentence, Baelon' दीनs hand moved, a blur too fast to follow. There was no wand, no incantation audible to the room, but Ser Criston suddenly choked, his eyes bulging, his hands flying to his throat as if an invisible force were constricting his windpipe. He stumbled, gasping, his face turning a horrifying shade of purple.
A subtle application of Umbraxys's power, Voldemort thought, a cold satisfaction running through him. Constricting the air around his throat, a simple matter of focused will and shadow manipulation.
"Ser Criston seems… unwell," Baelon observed, his voice devoid of emotion. "Perhaps he requires some fresh air. And a lesson in respecting his future King." He made a slight gesture, and Cole collapsed, unconscious but alive. He needed the man alive, for now. A trial, a public example, would be more effective.
Aegon whimpered, shrinking behind his mother. Aemond, however, watched Baelon with a mixture of hatred and a dawning, fearful respect, his hand clenching around the hilt of his own sword.
"Lord Hightower," Baelon said, his attention returning to the former Hand. "You have committed treason. You have conspired to usurp the Iron Throne. You have sought to plunge this realm into civil war for your own petty ambitions." He walked slowly towards Otto, his gaze pinning the older man like an insect to a board. "What say you in your defense?"
Otto drew himself up, his pride warring with a very real, very new fear. "I acted in what I believed were the best interests of the realm! Your… nature… Prince Baelon… it is not suited to kingship!"
"My nature," Baelon said, stopping directly in front of him, "is to command. To rule. And to eradicate those who stand in my way." He smiled then, a thin, chilling expression that held no warmth, only the promise of utter annihilation. "You are under arrest, Otto Hightower. You and all who conspired with you."
The coronation was held within hours, not in the Great Sept with its tedious rituals and fawning Septons, but in the austere grandeur of the Great Hall, before the Iron Throne itself. Pate had worked miracles, and Larys Strong's whispers had ensured the loyalty, or at least the terrified compliance, of the key lords present in the city. Lord Lyonel Strong, the current Hand, his face grim but resolute (perhaps influenced by his son Larys, or by a genuine belief in Baelon's rightful claim), placed the simple, Valyrian steel circlet of Aegon the Conqueror upon Baelon's head.
"I crown thee Baelon of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!" Lord Lyonel declared, his voice echoing in the suddenly silent hall.
A cheer went up, somewhat hesitant at first, then gaining strength as the assembled lords and knights saw the unyielding power in their new King's eyes, and Silverwing, who had been brought to the courtyard outside, let loose a deafening roar that shook the very foundations of the Red Keep, a clear message to any dissenters.
King Baelon I Targaryen seated himself upon the Iron Throne. The barbs and jagged edges of the fused swords felt… appropriate. Comfortable.
His first acts were swift and decisive. Otto Hightower, Grand Maester Orwyle, Ser Criston Cole, and several other key Hightower loyalists were imprisoned in the Black Cells, awaiting trial for high treason. Queen Alicent and her children, Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond, were confined to their apartments in Maegor's Holdfast under heavy guard – Ser Arryk himself overseeing their containment. Baelon knew he could not kill them outright, not yet. They were hostages, bargaining chips, and their deaths, if necessary, would be public and exemplary.
He confirmed Lord Lyonel Strong as his Hand, for now. The man was competent, respected, and importantly, the father of Larys. He appointed Larys Strong as his official Master of Whisperers, a title that brought a knowing, almost predatory smile to the Clubfoot's lips. Pate was elevated to Keeper of the Royal Ledgers, his loyalty and efficiency rewarded.
News of King Viserys's death and Baelon's immediate, decisive ascension was dispatched by raven to all corners of the realm, including Dragonstone, where Rhaenyra resided with her Velaryon sons and, presumably, her husband Laenor. Voldemort had carefully cultivated a degree of wary understanding with Rhaenyra. He was the undisputed male heir; his claim superseded hers by every Westerosi law. He had also subtly supported her against the Hightowers. He anticipated her acceptance of his kingship, perhaps even relief that the Greens' ambitions had been so swiftly crushed. Her support, or at least her neutrality, would be crucial in the early days of his reign.
Daemon. That was the unknown variable. From the Stepstones, or Pentos where he had last been reported with his new Velaryon bride, how would the Rogue Prince react? Would he see Baelon's ruthless efficiency as a sign of a worthy king, or as a new, more formidable rival? Daemon's capacity for chaos was legendary. Baelon made a mental note to have Larys increase surveillance on any known associates of his uncle.
That night, King Baelon Targaryen, First of His Name, stood on the balcony of his new royal chambers, overlooking the darkened city of King's Landing. The Iron Throne was his. It was but the first step, a means to an end. He felt Umbraxys stir in its hidden lair, a silent thrum of shared triumph and ancient power.
"The nest is taken, Speaker," Umbraxys communicated, its voice a chorus of shadows in his mind.
"The nest is but a perch, Umbraxys," Voldemort replied, his gaze sweeping over the sleeping city. "The world is the true hunting ground."
He had prevented the Dance of the Dragons as history would have known it, the suicidal clash between Rhaenyra and Aegon. But he knew this was not peace. It was merely the prelude to a different kind of dance, one choreographed by a far darker maestro. The Greens were scotched, not killed. Rhaenyra's ambitions, and those of her Velaryon kin, were still a factor. Daemon was a storm unchained. And the lords of Westeros, for all their current fear-induced obedience, were a fickle, treacherous lot.
But he, Baelon, Lord Voldemort reborn, now King, possessed power they could not imagine. The magic of his old world, combined with the ancient, primal sorcery of Valyria, coursing through his veins, amplified by his bond with a creature of shadow and fire. He would bring order to this chaotic realm. An order forged in fear, maintained by absolute power, and dedicated to his own immortal reign.
The crown felt light upon his brow. The true weight, the true pleasure, was the power it represented. And he was just beginning to wield it. Westeros would learn to fear its new Serpent King.