Chapter 169 — Dracarys
King's Landing
The dome of the Great Sept of Baelor rose so high it made the eyes ache.
Thousands of candles burned, their wavering light painting the marble in gold. The faint sweetness of melting wax mingled with resinous incense, masking most of death's rot — but not all. Beneath it lingered the cold, unmistakable scent of a corpse.
At the heart of the sept, beneath the shifting glow of sacred light, lay a massive crystal bier.
Inside, the wasted body of Aerys Targaryen the Second was wrapped in linen. Two pebbles, painted to resemble eyes, rested on his lids — as if meant to keep watch over the filthy world he had left behind.
The golden crown that once symbolized supreme power sat heavy upon his brow, denting deep into stiffened flesh. But the king would never feel pain again.
The Silent Sisters, wrapped in austere grey, had already passed their cold fingers along his rigid neck and limbs, carefully cleansing him with cloths soaked in preserving oils.
Three white-cloaked Kingsguard stood at attention beside the bier, hands resting on sword hilts — guarding their king one final time.
"Please accept my condolences, Your Grace."
The Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister, stepped forward across the thick carpet without a sound. He stopped before Queen Rhaella, clad in a long black gown.
"The heart of the Seven Kingdoms is shattered by His Grace's passing."
His crimson cloak, embroidered with the golden lion, flowed behind him as he bowed slightly.
"May the Seven grant you strength to endure this long, cold night."
"Thank you, my lord," Rhaella replied, lowering her head. Her voice was hoarse with despair, like a dragon bound in chains.
Damn… I shouldn't have played so long with that woman last night.
Was she sad Aerys was dead?
A little.
But far more than grief, she felt anxiety — whether Viserys could truly rule.
Still… with her as regent, it should be manageable.
Seeing her despondent state, the faintest downward curl touched Tywin's lips.
A widowed queen. A four-year-old king.
Who could they possibly rely on?
Only him. Tywin Lannister.
Lord of Casterly Rock. Hand of the King. The most powerful lord in the realm.
To everyone present, the Iron Throne now resembled a freshly gutted dragon — its carcass drawing predators eager to tear at its flesh.
And Tywin was the strongest. The most patient.
The thought passed; the expression vanished. His green eyes burned with quiet certainty. The path to power seemed already paved — he need only ascend step by step.
Lords and nobles approached in turn, offering rehearsed condolences to win favor with the soon-to-be regent queen.
Then—
"My king—!!!
My Aerys—!!!"
A heart-rending wail ripped through the solemn air.
The Master of Coin, Qarlton Chelsted, came barreling forward, his fat body half stumbling, half crawling to the bier. He slapped helplessly at the crystal lid, knuckles reddening.
"Seven save us!!! Why take the brightest star of the realm?! Who will lead us poor lambs now?!"
Tears and snot streamed down his face. His sobs were louder than the widow's, as if he had been Aerys's spouse.
And in truth, the grief was genuine.
Under Aerys, Qarlton — together with Velaryon and Symond — had barely managed to hold Tywin at bay.
Now Symond was replaced by Kevan Lannister. Aerys was dead. Viserys was four.
They would be clay in Tywin's hands.
As for Rhaegar…
Who?
Irrelevant.
Qarlton's wailing drew every eye. Even Rhaella began to sniffle softly — if he cried that hard, she supposed she ought to make a show of it too.
Tywin's gaze swept over the blubbering figure. A quiet snort escaped him.
He strode forward toward the heart of the sept.
The plump High Septon, who had been muttering prayers beneath the statue of the Father, quickly stepped aside, surrendering the stage.
"My lords," Tywin's voice rang out, filling the vast hall.
"We mourn the end of an era—"
"But we must also hail the dawn of a new one!"
"The old king is gone. The Iron Throne calls for a new king to rise!"
Tywin's expression was charged with fervor. Every word he spoke fell like a hammer, striking the hearts of the gathered nobility.
His gaze swept the hall. Silence returned at once. Even Qarlton shrank back, his wailing dying in his throat.
A faint smile tugged at Tywin's lips as he raised his voice.
"The will of the Seven Kingdoms flows like an unending river!"
"In this most sacred place, beneath the gaze of the Seven, and before the witness of you, my lords—"
"Let His Grace Viserys Targaryen ascend the throne as king!"
At once, hundreds of eyes turned toward the open doors of the sept.
Outside, the dark red banner of the three-headed dragon drooped in the still air.
A small figure appeared in the doorway, backlit by pale daylight.
The boy stepped forward.
Clad in a perfectly tailored black velvet doublet, the three-headed dragon sigil writhed in embroidered gold across his chest.
Viserys Targaryen.
The new king of the Seven Kingdoms.
Four-year-old Viserys was clever enough to understand why he was here.
But beneath the blazing attention of so many nobles, their gazes like searchlights, his small face went deathly pale — stark against the black of his robes.
He swallowed hard and looked ahead.
Upon the altar lay his father's corpse, rigid within crystal, the heavy crown biting into lifeless flesh.
Below the steps: a sea of silent, suffocating, unfamiliar faces.
He could almost smell them — ambition, reverence, hunger, judgment.
All of them watching.
Watching the child who would be king.
And at the far end—
That towering figure in crimson.
Eyes green and cold as the Blackwater, fixed unblinking upon him.
Viserys trembled.
The invisible weight in that stare crushed his chest. He could barely breathe.
He should walk forward, as his father would have. He should go to the statues of the Seven and claim the throne of House Targaryen.
But those green eyes felt like unseen hands, clamped around his legs, holding him in place.
"Let His Grace Viserys Targaryen ascend the throne!"
Tywin called again, sharper this time. His gaze flicked toward the handmaid at the boy's side.
Startled, the girl pushed Viserys from behind without hesitation.
The child stumbled one step forward.
Rage flashed across many faces in the hall.
But no one dared speak.
Because all knew — this came from the Hand of the King.
The three Kingsguard stood beside Aerys's bier, hands tight on their hilts. Fury burned in their eyes—
Yet they did not move.
Duty chained them to the dead king.
Viserys trembled, his pale face flushing red with humiliation.
But he only took shallow breaths, not daring to protest.
"Haah…"
He steadied himself and prepared to step again.
Then—
Two cries rang out.
Young.
Sharp.
But filled with terrifying, primal authority.
"SKREEEE—AANG—!"
"SKRAAA—!"
The sound ripped through the sept like a blade.
People flinched, hearts lurching. Confusion spread as heads turned toward the source.
Silence fell.
Before fear had time to settle—
A cold, indifferent voice sounded.
Soft.
Clear.
Utterly merciless.
"Dracarys…"