Chapter 12: The Serpent's Coil and the Kingdom's Fear
The first month of King Baelon I Targaryen's reign settled upon King's Landing like a shroud of black ice – cold, unyielding, and utterly terrifying. The Red Keep, once a labyrinth of whispers and furtive ambition, now moved with a stark, disciplined efficiency. Fear was the new currency, and Baelon, the Serpent King, was its sole, formidable minter. His youth – a mere twenty namedays – was belied by the ancient, chilling wisdom in his pale blue eyes and the ruthless pragmatism that marked his every decree. Lord Voldemort, wearing the crown of Aegon the Conqueror, found the taste of absolute, recognized authority… intoxicating.
His Small Council meetings were exercises in brutal clarity. Lord Lyonel Strong, retained as Hand, often looked bewildered by the King's unnervingly swift grasp of complex issues and his merciless solutions. Larys Strong, the new Master of Whisperers, however, thrived in the chilling sunlight of Baelon's favor, his reports delivered with a subtle, almost gleeful precision, his clubfoot tapping a quiet rhythm on the stone floor as he detailed the fear and grudging compliance spreading through the city. Pate, Keeper of the Royal Ledgers, was already streamlining the Crown's chaotic finances, his fear of the King outweighed only by his meticulousness. Ser Arryk Cargyll, a stoic pillar of white-cloaked loyalty, commanded the reorganized Kingsguard, ensuring Baelon's safety with a zealot's devotion.
The fate of the Green conspirators was the first order of business. Baelon presided over their trials himself, seated upon the Iron Throne, its jagged edges a fitting backdrop to his pronouncements. There was no lengthy prevarication, no indulgence of legalistic maneuvering. The evidence, meticulously compiled by Larys and Pate, was irrefutable.
Otto Hightower, stripped of his titles and finery, stood before the throne, his famed composure finally shattered, replaced by a dawning, horrified understanding of the abyss into which he had fallen. "I… I acted for the stability of the realm," he stammered, his voice a pale shadow of its former authority.
"You acted for the advancement of your house, Lord Otto," Baelon corrected, his voice like the whisper of scales over stone. "You sought to subvert the line of succession, to usurp my birthright, to plunge this kingdom into war for your own aggrandizement. That is not stability. That is treason." The King's gaze was unwavering, a physical weight that seemed to crush Otto's remaining defiance. "The penalty for high treason is death."
A gasp went through the assembled court. Viserys would have dithered, exiled, perhaps even forgiven. Baelon was not Viserys.
Grand Maester Orwyle, weeping and broken, confessed his complicity, babbling about pressure from the Queen and the Hand. Ser Criston Cole, his handsome face bruised and sullen, remained defiantly silent, his hatred for Baelon (and by extension, for the memory of Rhaenyra who had spurned him) a palpable force. Several lesser lords, who had thrown their lot in with the Greens, trembled in the docks.
The sentences were delivered with chilling finality. Otto Hightower was condemned to lose his head on the morrow, his lands and titles forfeit to the Crown. Grand Maester Orwyle, stripped of his chains and robes, was sentenced to the Wall, a living death amongst the ice and shadows. Ser Criston Cole, for his treason and his earlier assault on the King's person (when Baelon was still a prince), was also condemned to death, but by a method Baelon deemed more… fitting for a Kingsguard knight who had betrayed his vows so spectacularly. He would face Silverwing in the Dragonpit. The lesser lords received varying sentences – some to the Wall, others to heavy fines and the loss of castles, their power broken.
Queen Alicent was brought before the throne, not as a prisoner in chains, but as a queen in disgrace. She was pale, her eyes burning with a mixture of grief and impotent fury. Her sons, Aegon and Aemond, and her daughter Helaena, were with her, their faces reflecting a spectrum of fear and defiance.
"Your Grace," Baelon began, his tone deceptively mild, "your husband, my father, is dead. Your chief counselor and your sworn shield are condemned traitors. Your sons… they are young. Perhaps misled by the ambitions of others." He paused, letting his words sink in. "You and your children will remain within the confines of Maegor's Holdfast. Honored guests of the Crown, for now. Your future conduct, and theirs, will determine the longevity and comfort of that hospitality."
Alicent opened her mouth to speak, perhaps to plead or to curse, but Baelon raised a hand. "Silence. You will grieve your losses, Your Grace. And you will reflect upon the consequences of treason. Aegon," he said, his gaze shifting to his trembling half-brother, "you will attend lessons with the Maesters. You will learn humility and obedience. Sunfyre will be well cared for in the Dragonpit, but you will not fly him without my express permission." Aegon looked as if he might faint.
"Aemond," Baelon continued, his eyes meeting the sapphire glare of his one-eyed brother. "You are a dragonrider. Vhagar is a formidable beast. You will learn to control your temper, and your dragon. Any unauthorized flights, any hint of rebellion, and Vhagar will find herself without a rider, and you without a head. Is that understood?"
Aemond's jaw tightened, but he gave a curt, resentful nod. Helaena simply stared at Baelon, a strange, sad smile on her lips. "The crowned serpent sheds its skin," she murmured, "and the green vines wither in its shadow."
Baelon ignored her, though he filed away her words. The Hightower threat, for now, was neutralized, its leadership decapitated, its remaining members held as valuable hostages. Fear, he knew, was a more effective deterrent than any wall or army.
The ravens flew, carrying news of King Baelon's accession and his brutal, swift justice. The lords of Westeros, from the frozen North to the sun-baked sands of Dorne (though Dorne remained outside the fold, its princes watched with keen interest), were summoned to King's Landing to swear their oaths of fealty.
Rhaenyra Targaryen was among the first to arrive from Dragonstone, accompanied by her husband, Ser Laenor Velaryon, and her two young sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys, both dark-haired and sturdy, their Velaryon names a thin veneer over their Strong parentage. Lord Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys also attended, their expressions a mixture of shrewd assessment and familial pride.
The meeting between King Baelon and his half-sister took place in the throne room, less a formal audience and more a pointed assertion of the new order. Rhaenyra, garbed in Targaryen black and red, her beauty undiminished by her recent pregnancies, knelt before the Iron Throne.
"Your Grace," she said, her voice clear and steady. "I, Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone in my own right by the will of my father, King Viserys, do recognize you, Baelon, First of Your Name, as the true and lawful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. I offer you my fealty, and that of my house."
Voldemort looked down at her, a faint smile playing on his lips. She was playing her part well. He had, after all, guided her towards this pragmatic acceptance. "We accept your fealty, sister," King Baelon replied, his voice resonant. "You are, and shall remain, Princess of Dragonstone, and your son, Jacaerys Velaryon, shall be recognized as your heir, and heir to Dragonstone after you, to follow in the line of succession after our own trueborn issue, should the gods bless us with such." This was a careful phrasing, acknowledging her status while firmly cementing his own future dynasty's primacy.
He saw a flicker of relief, and perhaps calculation, in her eyes. "You are gracious, Your Grace."
Lord Corlys, ever the pragmatist, also swore fealty with a flourish, clearly pleased that his Hightower rivals had been so decisively crushed. The Velaryon alliance, for now, seemed secure.
The true test, Baelon knew, would be Daemon. The Rogue Prince. News of Viserys's death and Baelon's coronation would have reached him in Pentos, where he was reportedly dallying with his new Velaryon bride, Baela, and her twin sister Rhaena. Weeks passed, filled with the grim theatre of executions – Otto Hightower's head now graced a spike on the Traitor's Walk, a potent warning – and the arrival of various lords to bend the knee. Then, one blustery afternoon, the unmistakable, ear-splitting roar of Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, echoed over King's Landing.
Daemon Targaryen did not request an audience. He landed Caraxes in the main courtyard of the Red Keep, a brazen display of arrogance, and strode into the castle as if he owned it, his hand resting on the pommel of Dark Sister. He found Baelon not in the throne room, but in the royal solar, calmly reviewing architectural plans for… modifications to the Red Keep.
"Nephew," Daemon said, his voice laced with its familiar sardonic drawl. He was dressed in black leather, every inch the warrior prince. "Or should I say, 'Your Grace'?" He offered a mocking half-bow. "I hear you've been busy. Re-decorating the ramparts with Hightower heads. A bold choice."
Baelon looked up from his plans, his pale eyes meeting Daemon's challenging gaze. "Uncle. I trust your journey from Pentos was… stimulating. You find me engaged in the necessary duties of kingship. Consolidating power, eliminating threats. The usual tedious, yet essential, affairs."
"Tedious?" Daemon laughed. "Some might find it exhilarating. You certainly seem to have a talent for it. My brother, your father, bless his gentle soul, would have agonized for months over what you accomplished in days." He prowled the room, his gaze sharp. "So, the Greens are crushed. Rhaenyra has bent the knee. The lords tremble. What now, King Baelon? Do you plan to rule in peace and piety, like some sainted Baelor? Or do you have… grander ambitions?"
"Peace is a pleasant fiction, Uncle," Baelon replied, rising to his feet. He was nearly as tall as Daemon now, though slighter of build, yet he radiated an intensity that more than matched Daemon's overt ferocity. "There is only power, and those who seek to wield it. I intend to wield it absolutely." He paused. "And you, Daemon? You have returned. To what end? To offer fealty? Or to test the strength of the new regime?"
Daemon stopped his pacing, his violet eyes narrowed. "Perhaps a bit of both. I have never bent the knee easily, nephew. Not to Otto Hightower, not even to Viserys, much as I loved him. Why should I bend it to you?"
"Because I command it," Baelon said, his voice dropping to a low, resonant tone that seemed to vibrate in the very air of the room. For a fleeting instant, Daemon felt an unnatural chill, a prickling sense of dread that had nothing to do with Baelon's youth or physical strength. It was something else, something ancient and terrible, looking out from behind the prince's eyes. He saw a flash of Umbraxys in Baelon's mind, a silent projection of the shadow dragon's terrifying majesty. "You will kneel, Rogue Prince, or you will burn from within."
Daemon blinked, the sensation passing as quickly as it came, leaving him with a residue of unease. He saw only his nephew, the young king, standing before him, outwardly calm. But something had shifted. He had faced down dragons, fought in countless battles, stared death in the face a dozen times. This… this was different.
"You have your father's eyes," Daemon said slowly, "but your mother's… no. There is something else in you altogether." He considered for a long moment, the silence stretching taut. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all his years of rebellion, he slowly, almost reluctantly, went down on one knee. "Dark Sister is yours to command, King Baelon. For now." He offered the hilt of the legendary Valyrian steel sword.
Baelon looked down at his uncle, a faint, cold smile touching his lips. He did not take the sword. "Keep Dark Sister, Uncle. She suits you. And your loyalty, however conditional, will be… noted." He gestured for Daemon to rise. "There are those who believe you a destabilizing influence. A rogue element. I, however, believe your… particular talents… could be of use to the Crown. If properly channeled."
In the weeks that followed, King Baelon I began to reshape the governance of the realm. He instituted rigorous audits of all royal accounts, unearthing decades of corruption and mismanagement, which he punished with merciless efficiency, refilling the Crown's coffers. He reformed the City Watch, placing it under the command of a battle-hardened captain personally vetted by Ser Arryk, a man whose loyalty was solely to the King. He sent strongly worded missives to the Great Houses, demanding not just oaths, but tangible commitments of troops and resources should the need arise, his demands backed by the unspoken threat of Silverwing's fire and his own chilling reputation.
He spent hours in his hidden Valyrian chamber, communing with Umbraxys, drawing on its power, delving deeper into the arcane secrets of the glyphs. He was searching for something specific now – knowledge related to extending his own lifespan, not through the crude soul-splitting of Horcruxes, but through the potent blood magic and elemental bindings of Old Valyria. He sought true immortality, the kind that would allow him to rule for centuries, to forge an empire that would dwarf even that of the original Dragonlords. Umbraxys, ancient and attuned to the primal forces, seemed to understand his quest, guiding his mind towards forgotten pathways of power.
Larys Strong brought him news of the realm. Most lords had grudgingly accepted the new King, their fear outweighing their resentment. The Starks of Winterfell sent word of their unwavering loyalty, as did the Arryns of the Eyrie. The Lannisters of Casterly Rock sent lavish gifts and flowery promises. Only the Martells of Dorne remained aloof, their ancient enmity with the Targaryens undiminished.
But there were whispers. Whispers of Hightower loyalists gathering in Oldtown, of Aegon's quiet despair turning into a sullen, hidden defiance within his gilded cage, of Aemond's burning hatred. Helaena, in her strange way, continued to murmur. "The serpent king sits firm, but the sea snake writhes, and the rogue prince dreams of fire. Three heads has the dragon, but one is shadow, one is storm, and one wears a crown of borrowed gold…"
Baelon knew his reign was built on a foundation of fear and decisive action. It was a strong foundation, but one that would require constant reinforcement. He had won the throne. Now, he had to keep it, and then, to use it to achieve his true, timeless ambitions. The game of thrones was far from over; it had merely entered a new, more dangerous phase, with a player unlike any Westeros had ever seen. The serpent's coil was tightening around the Seven Kingdoms, and its fangs were always ready to strike.