ARC III: THE AWAKENING OF THE DRAGONS AND THE WAR OF THE EMPIRE
Chapter 49: The Consolidated Iron Throne
POV: Gendry Baratheon (303 AC)
Sitting on the Iron Throne was never an enjoyable experience. Anyone who had ever settled upon that contorted hill of swords and blunt blades would know that the structure was designed by Aegon the Conqueror with the explicit purpose of reminding the monarch that a king should never rule in comfort.
However, after Emperor Arawyn Stark's passage through this room, the seat became an even more implacable physical torture. The eternal runic ice that now covered the entirety of the Iron Throne did not melt under the heat of the torches or the Southern climate; it emanated a continuous cold that pierced through the velvet and leather of my trousers, making my bones ache with every court audience I was forced to conduct.
This war was an absolute disaster in every conceivable sense for the houses of the South. We lost what little political prestige we had left, ground most of our armies to dust, and saw our authority shattered by the runic blades of the North. In the end, our simple retention of power and the preservation of my coronation were nothing more than a calculated clemency from Arawyn.
The biggest loser of this bloodshed was, without a shadow of a doubt, my late mother's family, House Tully. The Riverlands paid the highest price for the obstinacy of their leaders. Catelyn and Lysa met their deaths at the Emperor's steel, while my uncle Edmure had previously fallen in the slaughter at the ruins of Oldstones. Hoster Tully had lost all three of his eldest children. The old lord still remained alive within the fortress, but the maesters guaranteed that his breathing would not last much longer; the excruciating pain of seeing his entire direct lineage cut down before him was a fatal blow. In one of his last lucid acts, Lord Hoster named his younger brother, Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, as official regent for Edmure's newborn, orphaned son.
In addition to losing its key members, House Tully saw its map shredded irreversibly. More than half of the river territory was confiscated by the Winter Throne; all ancestral lands belonging to Houses Mallister, Blackwood, and Frey were officially seized and annexed into the domain of the wolves, creating a military cordon of isolation that guaranteed the eternal vassalage of the South.
After finishing listening to the last tedious petitions of the lesser lords of the capital, I gestured to the guards and withdrew from the Throne Room. Even though I had not yet been formally crowned, both I and my uncle Stannis—who had officially assumed the office of Hand of the King to keep the administrative machine running—were working to the point of exhaustion. But the wait was about to end. The Northern vessels had already been sighted in the bay; with Arya's arrival, the official coronation and our wedding would finally take place.
Walking through the corridors of the Red Keep, I let out a short sigh, shaking my head at my own thoughts. Perhaps the chronic weakness of the men of House Baratheon truly was a woman of House Stark. I had never imagined, in all my years living in King's Landing, that one day I would be so deeply in love with someone as I was with that wild girl of Winter.
The next morning, the evening sun had barely crested the horizon when I took my position at the docks of the capital's harbor, accompanied by a small guard of honor. The armored Northern warship docked with majestic grandeur, and the first scene I witnessed was the figure of Arya leaping from the wooden plank and running to wrap herself in a tight embrace with her father, Prince Ned Stark.
After a brief and courteous greeting between us, the entourage made its way to the Red Keep. Hours later, when the whirlwind of official welcomes had finally dissipated, I found myself alone with Arya in the private gardens of the castle.
We settled side by side on a long stone bench under the shade of the trees, where we remained seated throughout our conversation. The silence that settled between the two of us was dense, imbued with a strange shyness. Before this whole devastating military campaign began, we had already understood each other perfectly; we had exchanged whispered promises and even shared a few rough kisses in the gloom. However, trying to return to normalcy and act like an ordinary couple after rivers of blood had washed over the continent proved to be a considerably complex task.
Arya held a whetstone, passing it methodically along the blade of a sword whose beauty and craftsmanship bordered on the unbelievable. The dark metal ribbon gleamed under the rays of sunlight sifting through the leaves, covered in runic inscriptions that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. It was a tool so perfect that I would venture to say it possessed more sorcery and enchantment in its structure than the Wall of the North itself.
"— Is that sword... new? —" I asked, turning my face toward her and breaking the silence.
Arya raised her grey eyes in my direction, a glint of satisfaction appearing on her rustic features while keeping her body relaxed on the bench.
"— It is, —" she replied, lightly running her fingers along the blade's perfect edge. "— Arawyn presented me with it shortly before I boarded for the South. He told me that a Stark Queen who is to rule among the men of the South must carry a weapon worthy of her lineage."
"— It's an impressive piece... —" I commented, genuinely curious and relieved to have broken the ice between us. "— And what are the mystical enchantments the Emperor placed on it?"
Arya let slip a half-sadistic smile, the kind of expression that would make any Southern lord take two steps back in pure dread.
"— Several... but Arawyn told me there is one in particular that is the most important of all."
"— And what mystical enchantment does the Emperor of the North himself consider so vital for a queen? —" I questioned, arching an eyebrow without moving from the seat.
"— He enchanted the steel so that any wound inflicted by this blade never stops bleeding, —" she explained, her voice calm. "— The victim's blood simply flows until life is completely drained."
I plunged into a brief reflection on the engineering of that weapon. From a military and tactical standpoint, it was a spell of overwhelming cruelty and power; any superficial cut in combat would become potentially fatal in a matter of minutes. However, I could not understand the specific reason why Arawyn considered that property so essential for the role of a queen in the South.
"— It is a terrible sorcery for the battlefield... but why exactly did the Emperor say this would be the most important enchantment for you? —" I asked.
Arya let out a short, clean laugh, putting the whetstone back into her leather pouch.
"— I asked him that exact same question. And Arawyn answered that if you decide to follow in the footsteps of your late father, King Robert, and start frequenting brothels or sleeping with harlots across the capital, I am to personally castrate you... and this enchantment will guarantee that you die of bleeding shortly after."
She uttered that absurd threat with a perfectly serene smile on her face, keeping her grey eyes fixed on mine. I felt an icy shiver run up my spine.
"— Well... I will personally ensure that you never, under any circumstances, need to test the effectiveness of that enchantment on me, —" I declared with extreme conviction.
Arya raised one of her thick eyebrows, and her gaze slid slowly down my tunic until resting on the involuntary and evident bulge that had formed in the fabric of my trousers before that erotic and dominant threat.
Without standing up from the stone bench, Arya leaned her body slightly in my direction. She raised her leg and positioned the tip of her heavy leather boot directly over the rigid bulge between my thighs. With a wickedly slow and provocative smile on her lips, Arya began to move her foot firmly, applying a calculated and rhythmic pressure against my intimate parts.
"— Does that mean the idea of being punished by my sword leaves the future king this needy? —" she teased in a low whisper, keeping the continuous movement of her boot while staring into my eyes.
The heat rose violently through my chest. I tried to hold my breath in my throat, but the rhythmic friction of her boot against the tense fabric of my trousers was overwhelming. Arya didn't merely tease; she continued right there on the bench, working the foot's pressure with the skill and determination of a hunter who doesn't leave the job half-done. In a matter of a few minutes, the sensation of intense pleasure completely dominated my body. I let out a muffled groan against my shoulder, closing my eyes as I spilled my seed hot and abundantly, thoroughly staining the linen of my undergarments and the inner fabric of my trousers.
Arya drew her foot back with a satisfied, playful smile, lightly tapping her boot against the stone floor to clean off any residue before reclining comfortably on the bench.
"— Now you are properly calmed down for the court's duties, —" she joked, winking at me.
With my body still trembling and the linen of my tunic and trousers completely ruined and damp, I said goodbye to Arya and was forced to hurry off to my private quarters. I desperately needed a hot bath and entirely clean clothes before any lord of the court noticed the embarrassing state in which my Stark fiancée had left me after "finishing the job" in the garden.
After washing up and dressing in a clean dark velvet tunic, I headed to the Red Keep's great banquet hall for the reception dinner of the Northern delegation.
The atmosphere in the hall was a fascinating mix of political tension and military camaraderie. The focal point of the main table was, without a shadow of a doubt, the interaction between Arya and Lord Tywin Lannister. According to the constant whispers circulating through the corridors of Casterly Rock, Arya had always been Tywin's favorite grandchild, for reasons most lords of the South could never fully understand.
Watching the two converse that night, the reason became crystal clear. The extremely sharp, clever, and unservile responses Arya fired in the old lion's direction seemed to earn Tywin's respect and pride in a way none of his other grandchildren ever had. The Lord of the Rock laughed openly at the young Stark's retorts, treating her with an austere, almost paternal affection.
Seated at the same table were the remaining members of House Stark still in the capital, alongside the nobles of the West. Right beside Ser Jaime Lannister sat the heiress to the Isle of Tarth, the golden knight's loyal squire. According to the new songs bards were already singing in the realm's taverns, Jaime—after demonstrating genuine remorse for his past faults—had finally been absolved of his guilt by the legendary Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne.
However, for anyone observing the dynamics between Jaime and Brienne during dinner, it was evident that the relationship between the two far exceeded the formal boundaries of a knight and his squire. They remained leaned in toward each other throughout the meal, whispering intimate words, sharing complicit glances, and restrained smiles that revealed a deep connection forged in the heat of war.
The Coronation and the Blood of Two Crowns
With Arya's arrival and the consolidation of the alliances, the date for the official ceremonies was finally set.
The marriage was split into two distinct stages. The first consisted of a private and restricted ceremony under the faith of the Old Gods of the North, held in the castle gardens. The rite was surprisingly swift and solemn; Lord Tywin Lannister was the official tasked with conducting the ceremony under witnesses, while Prince Ned Stark walked beside Arya, delivering his daughter's hand into mine with a look of pride and silent warning.
Next, the continent witnessed the grand public event: the official coronation and wedding before the Faith of the Seven in the Great Sept of Baelor, where hundreds of lords from all remaining provinces of the South crowded to pay homage.
Before I could receive Arya's hand before the people, the coronation ceremony began. The rite was conducted by the realm's new High Septon—a man considerably more humble and wise than his predecessor. The replacement of the cleric had occurred under mysterious circumstances; the former High Septon and his inner circle of most corrupt followers had been found dead in their quarters weeks ago, displaying serene features as if they had simply fallen asleep and never woken up.
The most fanatical priests spread the narrative that the Seven themselves had descended from the heavens to punish the corruption of that circle of clerics—a mystical explanation I deeply doubted, knowing the terrifying capabilities of pestilence magic and mind control that Ned Stark's children, like Tommen, mastered. However, from the standpoint of my new government's political stability, that divine narrative of purification served our interests perfectly.
The new High Septon approached the main altar holding the holy oils, anointing my forehead, my chest, and the palms of my hands. I knelt before the crowd and swore the coronation oath, promising to rule justly, protect the helpless, and maintain peace between the realms—a solemn commitment I intended to keep with every drop of my blood.
The coronation concluded and the immense doors of the sept opened to begin the public wedding.
The sight of Arya walking down the central nave of the Great Sept drew suppressed gasps from the entire Southern aristocracy. She did not wear the lacy dresses or delicate embroideries traditional of Southern ladies. Over her shoulders, the young woman wore an immense, heavy white pelt, and resting on her dark hair shone a crown of dark, rustic iron forged in the style of the ancient crowns of the Kings of Winter. It was a clear and implacable visual declaration to all the lords of the South: she did not need to be crowned queen by the hands of a septon to demonstrate her absolute sovereignty over that hall.
I received Arya at the altar and held her hands firmly before gods and men. Looking into her grey eyes and sealing our marriage with a kiss before the Southern court, I felt a wave of renewed hope flood my chest.
With that marriage founded on the blood of the Stag and the Wolf, the war between North and South reached its definitive end. The Iron Throne now rested under the shadow of Winter, and I would do everything in my power to ensure that peace prevailed over the ashes of the old world.