Oberyn

War was never desirable. He knew that more than most—the petty pissing contests of nobles were rarely based on anything but greed and vanity, and it was never them who paid the price. It was the farmers and smiths, craftsmen and sailors, orphans and widows. It was the innocents who paid, whilst the nobles who'd started it watched from above.

It was the face of two certain innocents, however, that flashed in his mind as he set his eyes on the behemoth at the opposite end of the tunnel, and made him think that this time, war might just have been worth it.

I swear, Elia, this time I'll finish the job.

The golden bitch shouted something shrilly in response to her husband's cold supply, but Oberyn barely heard it. At this point, he didn't care about politics, or war, or the personal vendetta that anyone present might have against another. No, he had one target, and one target only.

Around him, he could feel those on his side charge forward, and as he looked up, he could see all those opposite running toward him. All, but for a few. He could spot three golden crowns slip back through the door they'd just come through, a harsh bark leaving the lips of the tallest. Another followed them, but Oberyn pushed it from his mind and locked eyes with the giant who was still standing still, his greatsword pointed straight at him .

With that, they both charged, sword against spear, meeting over half a dozen corpses decked out in a variety of livery; they may have been his comrades, they may not have been—in this moment, as he ducked under the swinging steel, he didn't care.

The Mountain was slow, Oberyn noticed, even slower than before. The sword lacked the precision it had had before, and there were no longer the grunts of irritation or exertion whenever he missed his targets. There was…nothing, only mechanical attempt after mechanical attempt to swat the insect that was currently annoying him. A simple flick of the spear toward the jaw had his helmet careening through the air, and Oberyn finally got his first look at the bastard's face.

Despite himself, Oberyn couldn't help but smile.

Gods, is this my work? Maybe I didn't die for nothing, after all.

The skin was like that of a corpse—which, it may have been, as far as Oberyn was cone. The mottled grey tones seemed to have a sheen of permanent dampness, as though the skin was slowly rotting off the bone, and any hair that may have once been there was long gone. It was the eyes, however, that gave Oberyn an inkling that he may have already had more success than he'd previously believed. The dark brown eyes that had glared furiously at him as his head had been crushed were gone, replaced with dead black circles, ringed with blue and red, utterly devoid of any emotion.

No, Oberyn had killed the Mountain long ago.

Now it was simply time finish the job.

It never would have been a challenge, particularly; the Red Viper was one of the most skilled warriors on the continent, while the Mountain was distinctly average; his only virtue being his colossal size and the constant anger that had fuelled him. The ironic thing, however, was that Oberyn had no shortage of rage himself, and had enough pride that the anger was outsized. That, in the end, had been his fatal mistake. His rage had blinded him to his pride, and his pride had allowed a fallen man—who by all rights should've died—to get the best of him.

This time he'd get it right.

For Elia.

For Rhaenys.

With that, Oberyn Martell plunged his spear forward. It was the perfect thrust, the result of a lifetime dedicated the training. It hit its target in the mouth, cutting through the soft flesh of the gums above the upper teeth, through the roof of the mouth, and straight into the brain, exiting the skull with a splatter of murky brown blood as the body fell with a thump.

At last, the Mountain had fallen.

Visenya

She'd scarcely seen any of it—the figures had been murky splodges dancing back and forth on the deck, and the voices were muffled and dull, drowned out by the ringing in her ears. Still, there was no mistaking the flash of silver hair on the man who fell to the floor, nor the crazed laugh of the man who stood over him.

Her brother was dead.

She'd seen the same before, of course—all those years ago, she'd watched his body be laid on a slab, not even three miles from where they currently were. The realm had wept, of course, but Visenya never had. By that point, all she felt for Aegon was indifference at best, and sheer emptiness at worse. But now there was none of that. Now, watching her brother collapse to the ground in a pool of his own blood, she felt an icy stab in her gut as she realised that her brother was gone once again.

Rhaenys, however, had never seen such a sight. Her scream was piercing, marred with sobs as she desperately dragged her body over to their brothers. Craning her head up, she spat at the feet of Euron Greyjoy, and her glare was filled with all the fire promised in their house's words.

'I'll kill you, you bastard,' she croaked. 'I swear to any god that will listen, I'll kill you and dance on your grave.' Gradually, she pulled herself up to her feet, drawing her sword with a shaky hand.

Greyjoy simply laughed. 'Is it true what they say about Valyrians, you know, that you don't burn? I hope it's true. Oh yes, I hope you survive me burning this fleet to the ground, so we can all…get to know each other.' A grin spread across his face as his gaze turned to Visenya. 'You and your sister here.'

With a snarl, Rhaenys jumped at him, swinging her sword with surprising skill, forcing the Crow's Eye back as he was barely able to bring his axe up in time. He ducked under a horizontal swipe, and stuck a leg out with tremendous force, hitting her midriff and sending her careening backwards. A thud could be heard as her skull made contact with the deck, and Rhaenys did not get back up. Euron didn't spare her another glance, simply turning back to where the horn was, in the stiff, smouldering hands of one of his crewmen.

Seven fucking hells, Visenya thought. I've got to do every bloody thing myself.

With a groan, she pushed herself up, every bone in her body screaming for her to stop. Her sword, she noticed, was out of reach, and as Greyjoy approached the horn, she knew she lacked the time to find it. Spotting Gerion's prone form, however, her eyes fixed on the glittering gold lion pommel at his hip, and the ghost of a smile appeared on her face. After all, he'd spent his life looking for this sword, and Visenya thought that the least she could do was provide it with a story worthy of its pedigree.

How about being the sword that killed Euron Greyjoy?

Now on her feet, she hurriedly staggered after him, the perfectly balanced blade practically dancing through the air. The horn was near his lips now, and she likely had less than a few seconds before he blew it. A second, however, was all she needed. Brightroar's arc was perfect, the Valyrian steel singing as it came crashing down onto the wrist that grasped the horn, sending it onto the deck with a splatter. Euron stared at it dumbly for a moment before turning his gaze back to Visenya. His brow was furrowed, and his mouth seemed to have a strange twist to it—this was no longer the laughing rogue, for whom everything was a performance, with the intent of striking fear into the hearts of his opponents. No, this was a man who'd been wronged and was looking for revenge.

As the recipient of such a feeling, Visenya felt a chill run down her spine.

'You bitch!' he shouted, axe already in hand and swinging wildly at her head. 'I fucking liked that hand! I used it for everything! Everything!'

It clearly hadn't been used for everything, as the initial unskilled axe swings of the remaining hand were being replaced by ones with obvious training behind them. Visenya's brief surge of alertness was fading fast, and she felt that she could collapse at any moment. The ringing in her ears was growing louder, the blood flowing from her nose showed no sign of stopping, and every muscle in her body felt as though it was on fire.

Fuck.

Out of nowhere, the bloody stump was smashing into her face, with the axe clattering to the ground and Brightroar being yanked out of her hand. She felt the boot to the stomach, and in an instant was on the floor, positioned as though she were crawling.

'You shouldn't have done that to my hand,' he spat, some of the prior joviality having found its way back into his voice. 'Still, it's only fair I return the favour, is it not?' With that, he plunged the sword down, slicing through the skin and bone and muscle of her hand, and pinning her to the deck

Visenya let out a slight groan, but silenced herself almost immediately. There was no chance she'd give this bastard the satisfaction of seeing her scream.

'It would seem that I've won,' he crowed, seeming to stand impossibly tall over her. 'Say hello to your brother for me, would you? And don't worry, your sister will be joining you momentarily.' Euron yanked the sword up, out of her hand, and clumsily positioned it at her collarbone. 'Any final words?'

'Just the one,' Visenya rasped, her eyes momentarily gaining focus again as she saw a shadow rise behind the Crow's Eye's looming figure. 'Dracarys.'

The stories had always told of Balerion the Black Dread versus Harrenhal; how the stone had ruptured and cracked, the hay burnt and the iron melted under the colossal force of the dragon's fire. It must have been the will of the gods, the peasants would say, that such a creature could be imbued with such sheer destructive power.

Balerion, as had been reborn, had no such power—true, it could breathe fire, but scarcely enough to char some meat, and it was closer in size to a mid-sized dog than the storm clouds it had originally rivalled.

It would seem, however, that these differences were inconsequential when the talons were gripping a man's shoulders, and the stream of fire was flooding directly into a man's eye.

All in all, Euron Greyjoy never stood a chance—he screamed for a minute, and then fell utterly silent forever, falling to the ground with a thump when the talons unclenched his shoulders.

Balerion fluttered to the ground, going over to its master and pressing its head to his.

No one else heard the shallow breaths, nor saw the slight flex in Aegon's fingers, until the dragon gave a shrill shriek, and Visenya slowly limped over to her brother, clutching her hand to her chest.

'Seven hells,' she muttered, pale lilac eyes widening. 'He's still alive.'

Jaime

'Fuck,' Jaime said exasperatedly. 'Dead end. We need to get out now, or we'll never get out at all.' Turning back to where he'd just been, he peeked through a door leading to some mid-level apartment and, seeing it to be empty, signalled for the rest to follow. Tommen and the serving girl obeyed, but when Jaime turned back, he saw that his sister had remained in place.

'Let them come,' she said, the ghost of a drunken smile appearing on her face, although she gradually made her way over, even locking the door behind her. 'The lion bows to no-one. I've been paraded through this city once before, and my head stayed high. No, if they should find us, their victory will be hollow, and their precious little queen will never escape the rumours. The child king was snuffed out by the tyrant queen, stabbed in a dark corridor without so much as a trial.' She had a knife in her hand, all of a sudden, and was waving it about with such reckless abandon that it would appear she had no concern for small cuts or even major injuries that might be caused.

'What?' It took a moment, but he grasped what she meant. 'Are you fucking mad?' he hissed, making sure that neither Tommen nor the serving girl heard him.

'No!' Anger seemed to flash in her eyes at any allusion of madness. 'I am simply willing to do what is necessary to ensure that my son never falls into the hands of those monsters.'

Jaime simply stared for a moment, scarcely recognising the woman stood before him. 'Listen to yourself, Cersei! He's your son, you'd really kill him for, for what? Spite?'

'Everything I do is out of love,' she spat back. 'Not as though you'd know what that is?'

Jaime scoffed. 'I've spent my entire life loving you sister, even when the entire world said I shouldn't have. And who knows? Maybe they were right.'

Cersei simply glared for a moment, before letting out a single breath of mirthless laughter. 'Of course. At this point, even my darling brother decides to turn against—'

'For fuck's sake, I'm not turning against you! But this is murder, Cersei, plain and simple.' His tone turned pleading. 'Please, don't make me stop you.'

'You, Jaime? Stop me? We both know you could never do that. You love me too much, of all things.' With that, she turned to her son, who was stood with the serving girl near the bed. He could hear the rumble of boots and steel, and knew that that it wouldn't be long before they were discovered. 'Tommen,' Cersei called, her voice high and melodious and everything a noblewoman's voice should be. 'Come here, darling.'

'Cersei,' Jaime begged. 'Please, don't do this.' His arms were lead, and he felt as though he were watching from the outside as his son went to his sister.

Cersei pulled Tommen into a hug, closing her eyes as she pressed his lanky teenage frame against her. 'Mother loves you, darling. Never forget that.'

Steel met flesh, and Jaime was helpless to stop it.

One body collapsed, and two others stepped back. The reddened steel fell to the floor with a clatter, and a single whisper could be heard.

'That was for my father, you monster,' said the serving girl with a strangely bank face. 'The North remembers.'

Cersei

The pain was in her stomach, in which cold seemed to seep in as the warmth bled out. Gods, why did her brother have to be so fucking noble? She'd been perfectly happy to leave that little bitch in the royal apartments, but no, Ser Jaime had insisted that she come along with her betters.

Even here, on the cold granite floor as the puddle around her grew and the rumble became ever louder, it was clear to Cersei that the only person she could ever depend on was herself. After all, if she were to stab someone—as she'd obviously been about to do—she'd make damn well sure to go for the heart, or the throat, or gods, even the eye. Anywhere but the fucking stomach.

'You'll be fine, Cersei. I swear, it'll be alright,' her brother muttered, kneeling at her side and cradling her head. She'd always loved how he'd played with her hair, and it was some small comfort in what were obviously her final moments that he was doing it again.

'Jaime,' she croaked. 'They're nearly here. The, the men, they're almost here. You need to…finish it.'

Fuck, it hurts to speak. Why couldn't that little bitch at least finish the job?

'You…what? No, sister, you'll be fine, I promise.'

Cersei let out a gasping breath of laughter. 'You've spent your life on battlefields, Jaime. You've seen enough of these wounds to know that fine is a load of horseshit. End it, brother. Please.'

He simply stared for a moment, tears welling in his eyes, before swallowing. His eyes hardened and his eyebrows furrowed. 'Girl, Tommen,' he said, never tearing his eyes from Cersei. 'Get out. Now.'

'What? But, mother,' Tommen sputtered, concern obvious in his eyes. Gods, what had she ever done to deserve such a pure child?

'Out!' Jaime shouted, spurring the other two into action. Tommen left first, with the girl about to follow. 'Girl. One more thing.' At last, he turned his head, staring the girl straight in the eye. 'Should anything happen to Tommen, anything, I'll kill you myself. I swear it.'

Yes, she's got me. She'll have no interest in him.

'Yes, milord,' the girl said simply, before stepping back, seeming as though she were in a daze. She left the room, and Cersei could hear the tell-tale sound of the lock clicking. At last, they were truly alone.

Maybe she'll fall down some steps somewhere, maybe break her neck, Cersei thought. That'd serve the little bitch right.

And then, it was just the two of them; as it always had been, and as it always should've been. She pushed herself up slightly, supported by her brother's strong arms, and pulled him into one final embrace. 'Do it now, Jaime. Before they get here.'

'I love you Cersei.'

'I love you too, Jaime.' Strangely enough, she meant it this time.

As the fleet reached the shores and a body was rushed to the nearest maester, as the last of the crimson and gold soldiers were either killed or forced to surrender, and as a company of men led by a man with an antlered helmet started trying to bash down the solid oak door of what had once been a minor bureaucrat's apartment, the Valonqar wrapped his hands round a pale white throat. The Valonqar squeezed, ignoring the struggles for breath until there were no more to be heard.

As the door finally gave way and a group of men burst in, the Valonqar stayed knelt by the pale white body.

The Valonqar wept.

A/N: At long fucking last, the conquest of King's Landing is complete! Never realistically thought I'd actually make it this far, but here we are. Cersei, Euron, and the Mountain dead, Aegon on the brink of death, Visenya crippled, and Jaime just about ready to kill Arya (the second he finds out who she is). A victory? Yes, but by no means a complete one.

Once again, I've got deadlines coming out my arse, so I can't guarantee how soon I'll be able to update, but it shoudl hopefully be a shorter gap than it has been as of late.

Cheers again to all those who have favourited, followed, and reviewed-you guys are excellent, and a huge motivator for my writing.

See you (hopefully) soon,

-Kinginthenorth1

Force Smuggler: Hope I did Euron justice, sorry there was ultimately no confrontation between Robert and Cersei-there were so many moving parts directed at Cersei, and I figured the most important ones would be Arya and Jaime. Still, hope you liked it nonetheless.

kingmanaena: Cheers!