Kevan Lannister could truthfully say that he had taken King's Landing without spilling much blood.
Under the cover of night, a carefully prepared Lannister elite force of over eight thousand men slipped into the city with almost no resistance. The operation had been planned down to the smallest detail—routes, signals, timing, and targets. By the time most of the city realized something was wrong, it was already too late.
Aside from a handful of unfortunate souls outside the walls—whose throats were slit before they could even cry out—Kevan seized King's Landing in less than two hours.
It had been easier than Tyrion visiting a brothel.
The Gold Cloaks of the City Watch collapsed almost instantly. Some were dragged from their posts and executed on the spot, their heads rolling across the stones before their comrades could react. Others were disarmed in their barracks, still half-asleep, never understanding what had happened until Lannister swords were already at their throats.
Faced with overwhelming force and ruthless efficiency, the remainder chose surrender.
Once the final pockets of resistance were crushed, the fully armed Lannister troops seized every city gate under the darkness of night.
Anyone who resisted was killed immediately.
No negotiations.
No explanations.
No mercy.
Any living thing that stood in their path—man or beast—was cut down without hesitation, split vertically as if even breathing were a crime.
The citizens of King's Landing, sensing the unnatural movement and the distant screams, barred their doors and shuttered their windows. In Flea Bottom and beyond, people learned again the first rule of survival in this city:
Be blind. Be deaf. Stay alive.
Kevan Lannister entered the city through the King's Gate, personally leading one column of troops along the city walls toward the Red Keep.
Meanwhile, the rest of the army split into three divisions.
The largest force—nearly four thousand cavalry—rode hard along the outskirts of King's Landing. They stormed into the ramshackle settlements of the poor beyond the walls, trampling hovels beneath iron hooves. Swords and spears fell mercilessly, blood splattering the dirt as fires were set deliberately.
Fear was their weapon.
Led by Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch, the cavalry moved like a pack of rabid beasts—slaughtering, burning, and driving survivors away while securing the outer approaches to the city's seven gates.
At the same time, another force of just over three thousand infantry broke through the King's Gate and Lion Gate, pushing inward. Some advanced along the walls, killing defenders and claiming control towers, while others poured into the streets, moving with frightening speed.
Barracks were seized. Armories secured. Gold Cloak garrisons dismantled piece by piece.
The last Lannister contingent—five hundred elite soldiers—was personally commanded by Kevan Lannister himself.
They marched directly into the Red Keep.
There was almost no resistance.
Inside the Red Keep, the night was abruptly shattered.
Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, was dragged from his chambers and shoved roughly into the Throne Room. His clothes were disheveled, his hair uncombed, and though his face still carried a faint smile, his eyes betrayed unease.
Short and slender, with grey-green eyes and a neatly trimmed goatee, Littlefinger still looked every inch the clever courtier—handsome in a fox-like way, even now.
Kevan Lannister stood at the foot of the Iron Throne, his back turned.
He did not speak.
Petyr tested the silence once. Then again.
Receiving nothing in return, he wisely shut his mouth.
The braziers lining the Throne Room burned brightly, casting long shadows across the ancient blades of the throne. The long crimson carpet stretched from the bronze oak doors to the foot of the throne like a river of blood.
Not long after, another figure was dragged in.
Grand Maester Pycelle.
The old man looked as though he had been seized directly from his bed. His long white beard was tangled, his robes hastily thrown on, and his heavy chain of office—normally never removed—was conspicuously absent.
His watery eyes squinted as he looked around the Hall.
"Ser Kevan Lannister?" Pycelle asked in a slow, confused tone.
"What… what is the meaning of this? How did you get in?"
He sounded genuinely bewildered.
Littlefinger glanced sideways at the old maester, then back at Kevan's unmoving figure.
Something felt… wrong.
Among the Small Council, one man was missing.
Varys.
The Spider.
Time dragged on.
After nearly half an hour, four armored Lannister soldiers entered the Throne Room and dropped to one knee.
"Lord Kevan," the captain reported carefully, "the Master of Whisperers was not found."
"According to his serving girl, Lord Varys retired early. But his chambers were empty. We searched the entire Red Keep. He is not here."
Silence followed.
Kevan's reaction was calm.
Petyr Baelish broke it with a polite smile.
"Perhaps he fled earlier," Littlefinger said mildly. "We all know the Spider possesses… unusual instincts."
Kevan did not even look at him.
After a moment, Kevan nodded slightly.
"Very well. Expand the search into the city. Focus on the shadows—cellars, tunnels, brothels."
"Yes, my lord!"
The soldiers withdrew quickly, relieved that no punishment followed.
When their footsteps faded, the Throne Room fell silent once more.
A cool wind blew in from Blackwater Bay, stirring the crowned stag banner hanging in the Hall.
Only then did Kevan turn.
"I never imagined I would meet the two of you like this," he said calmly.
"Good evening, Grand Maester. Master of Coin."
"I hope you do not mind this… invitation."
His words were courteous.
His eyes were ice.
"I am an old man," Pycelle replied after a moment, "perhaps next time you might choose a gentler approach. I would be most grateful."
Littlefinger finally spoke, forcing a thin smile.
"I agree. I am still young, and I would prefer fewer such experiences."
He paused, then added lightly,
"I will confess—my breeches may not be entirely dry."
Kevan studied them both in silence.
Only when Petyr's smile began to falter did Kevan nod.
"Very good," he said. "You both understand the situation."
"However—if either of you knows where Varys has gone, now would be an excellent time to speak."
Pycelle lowered his eyes, yawning exaggeratedly. He even stumbled, nearly falling.
Petyr shrugged.
"No one truly knows the Spider's movements, my lord."
Kevan was not surprised.
"Very well," he said. "Then allow me to explain."
"King's Landing is no longer safe. Mercenaries from the Free Cities have infiltrated the city. For your protection, House Lannister has assumed control of its defenses."
"And for your safety," he added, "guards will remain with you."
With that, Kevan gestured dismissively.
A soldier seized Littlefinger before he could speak and escorted him from the Hall.
As Pycelle shuffled after him, Kevan spoke again.
"Wait. Grand Maester—stay."
Littlefinger's eyes flickered with understanding as he left.
Kevan turned fully toward Pycelle.
"You truly don't know where Varys is?"
Pycelle straightened, the pretense of sleep gone.
"I swear it, Lord Kevan."
Kevan sighed.
"It matters little. King's Landing is ours."
He then asked quietly,
"Barristan Selmy—does he know of this plan?"
"Even if he does," Pycelle replied, "there is nothing he can do."
"He has taken most of the Kingsguard and six thousand Gold Cloaks east. They march toward Harrenhal."
Kevan finally relaxed.
"If Selmy were still here," he said, "this night would not have gone so smoothly."
He looked back toward the Iron Throne.
"Now," Kevan said softly, "tell me, Grand Maester… how do we rule this city?"
Pycelle hesitated.
"I am only a maester," he said carefully. "Governance is beyond me."
Kevan understood.
Tywin Lannister had already given him the answer.
Gregor Clegane.
Amory Lorch.
Fear.
Kevan Lannister knew exactly what he had to do.
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