Chapter 27 – Reign of Storms – Storm and Lightening
Kings Landing , 10th Month 283, Week 4, Day 7 – Red Keep
Grand Maester Pycelle shuffled into the throne room, his every step a protest of age and indignity. His gaze flickered briefly toward King Robert Baratheon, seated on the Iron Throne, the weight of power etched into his scowling features. Pycelle's thoughts were veiled behind a carefully cultivated mask of servility, but within, he simmered. Robert may wear the crown, but he rules with a hammer, not wisdom. A king needs guidance, and I shall ensure he receives it—though perhaps not in the form he expects.
Pycelle's fingers trembled slightly as he held out a collection of scrolls. "Ravens, Your Grace, from Casterly Rock, Winterfell, Pyke, and Dorne."
Lord Byren Caron took the scrolls and read them, going pale.
Robert scowled. "Read them Lord Hand."
Caron cleared his throat. "From Pyke - "To Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, You want us to kneel? Come and make us!""
Robert surged to his feet, his voice a thunderclap in the cavernous hall. "WHAT!?"
"There is more Your Grace." Byren Caron continued. "Dorne is sending Prince Oberyn to bend the knee but due to distance they didn't want you thinking they were not coming."
Robert nodded curtly. "And from the others?"
Byren's mouth went dry. He hesitated a moment too long, prompting Robert to descend the dais, his bulk an imposing shadow. "Speak plainly, damn you!"
"From Casterly Rock -" To Robert Baratheon, traitor, usurper: Come west if you dare. The Lions will roar, and the stag shall be devoured. We will not bend the knee to you. The West stands independent of the Seven Kingdoms until the True King, Jaehaerys, Third of His Name, takes back his throne.".."
Robert's roar of fury echoed through the hall as he hurled a tankard across the room. Byren flinched but continued.
"And from Lord Eddard Stark at Winterfell… "Robert, Usurper, defiler of Lord Rickard Stark. Come North at your peril. The North stands independent of the Seven Kingdoms until the True King, Jaehaerys, Third of His Name, takes back his throne. Come North if you wish, but remember—no army has ever taken the North—not even Aegon's dragons. This time, we will not bend to the South. Winter is Coming, and it is coming for the Usurper."
Byren barely had time to duck as Robert's fury exploded. He hurled curses and threats, pacing like a caged lion "I'll burn their castles to the ground, salt their fields and put their families heads on spikes! He roared as he stalked down the steps. "Call the banners!"
"Robert, Your Grace!" Lord Caron began, "Our men are exhausted, the sellswords have departed. We will not have enough men yet to fight either the Westerlands or the North and if the Iron Islands are also in revolt…"
Robert spun and glowered at him. "What do you mean? Speak plainly!"
"We cannot fight 3 wars right now. Winterfell will have called their banners and getting past the neck would be suicide. Not to mention that your killed their liege Lord and put his head on a spike. They will be very angry. And as for the Westerlands… while easier yes, Casterly Rock is well defended and Lord Tywin is well respected by his bannermen and several of them are very loyal to his heir, Lord Jaime." Which would bode another issue for sure. The next nearest heir to the West was Lord Tyrion, and he was 14 name days and... unfortunately, a dwarf, not, Byren thought, the family treated him any differently. He was educated and it was rumored that Tywin had arranged for Faircastle to go to Tyrion when the current lord, passed as he was without an Heir. Which knowing the Golden Lion of Casterly Rock, it was probably true, more so now that Jaime and his wife had, three children.
Robert cursed. "Which area would be easiest to deal with?' He asked.
"The Iron Islands. We have the Royal Fleet and our own. We might be able to garner support from the Reach… Lord Tyrell's wife just birthed a daughter… a betrothal between her and Your son might firm up that area."
"MY SON!? TO A ROSE!? NO!" Robert yelled. "NEVER IN THE SEVEN KINGDOMS! THEY WILL BE LUCKY IF THEY KEEP THEIR HEADS AND KEEP!" Robert stormed from the Throne room yelling for the Red Woman.
When he barged into the rooms she had been given, he found them in disarray. A cough from the door had him turning to find Varys standing there. "Ah the Lady was arrested by the High Septon." He said in a light tone. "I believe she is on her way to the Sept for trial."
"TRIAL!?" Robert bellowed.
"Yes, Your Grace. She demanded the heads of a late Lord Paramount and the former King. She had them executed without Trial and their heads mounted. It was on her order was it not?"
Robert all but roared and stormed past Varys. He could not risk the death of the Red Woman, he needed her power more now than ever. As he stormed to the stables he ordered guards to ride to the Sept.
Kings Landing , 10th Month 283, Week 4, Day 7 – Sept of Balor
The plaza before the Sept of Baelor was packed with smallfolk, their faces a tapestry of fear, curiosity, and grim satisfaction. At the top of the marble steps, the High Septon—a portly man resplendent in pristine robes—addressed the crowd.
"Brothers and sisters of the Faith, children of the Seven who are One, gather your hearts and open your ears, for today we cast down heresy and affirm the light of the true gods!"
"Behold this woman, garbed in the fire of deceit and crowned in the ashes of sin—a servant of false flames, a prophet of lies! She calls herself the Red Woman, a priestess of R'hllor, but her god is a shadow, an illusion cast by the fires she worships. Do not be deceived by the flicker of her flames, for they do not warm—they burn. They burn the innocent, they burn the faithful, and they burn the sacred bonds of truth and unity that hold this realm together under the watchful eyes of the Seven." He looked around boldly. "The Mother weeps for the lives stolen by her hand, lives snuffed out in sacrifice to her heathen fire. The Father, who judges all, sees her guilt written across the skies. The Maiden shuns her, for she defiles purity with her foul rites. The Warrior scorns her, for she turns battle into slaughter. The Smith rebukes her, for her works sow ruin. The Crone, in her wisdom, sees through her false prophecies. And the Stranger awaits her, for her soul is already marked for the darkness she has sown."
He drew breath pausing for affect. "She claims her god is the one true god, but we know the truth. There is no god but the Seven, who are One. The Seven, who shape our lives, guide our steps, and bind us together in their eternal light. This Red Woman, with her fire and shadow, seeks to tear us from that light and lead us into the void. Her crimes are as numerous as the stars, and not content to kill the King, King Rhaegar she committed a crime that above all stands as an affront to gods and men alike. She took the life of Lord Rickard Stark, Lord Paramount of the North, a man whose Honor and loyalty were known across the realms. She murdered him in cold blood, defiling the laws of hospitality and kinship, and mounted his head on a pike like some savage beast. This act was not merely murder—it was desecration. It was blasphemy. The Mother weeps for the Stark children left bereft, the Father demands justice, and the Stranger himself recoils from the shadow she has cast over the world! The blood of the North cries out for vengeance, and the Seven, in their infinite wisdom, demand retribution. She claims her god is the one true god, but we know the truth. There is no god but the Seven, who are One. The Seven, who shape our lives, guide our steps, and bind us together in their eternal light. This Red Woman, with her fire and shadow, seeks to tear us from that light and lead us into the void. And so, by the authority granted to me as the Voice of the Seven, I condemn her to death. Her crimes are many, her sins are great, and her soul is unrepentant. Let this judgment serve as a warning to all who would defy the Seven. Let it reaffirm our faith, our unity, and our unyielding devotion to the gods who watch over us! Let the fire she worships consume her, and let her ashes be scattered to the winds, so that no memory of her heresy may take root in the hearts of the faithful. Justice shall be done this day, not in the name of vengeance, but in the name of the Seven, who are One. May their light shine ever brighter as we rid ourselves of this darkness!"
Melisandre, bound and gagged, stood defiant, her red robes a stark contrast against the grey pyre. Her eyes burned with an otherworldly fire, unyielding even as the torches approached.
In the crowd, a baker's wife whispered to her husband, "Do you think her god is real? They say the flames spoke to her."
"Nonsense," he replied, though his voice quavered. "She's a witch, nothing more."
"May the Seven protect and guide us. Let us pray." The High Septon announced ignoring the so-called new King.
Robert's arrival was announced by the thunder of hooves and the clatter of armor. The crowd parted in a wave of panic as the King's horse climbed the steps, trampling those too slow to move. "HIGH SEPTON, YOU WILL STOP!" Robert bellowed.
"I will not Your Grace" He replied, his crown gleaming in the afternoon light as two young men moved to the pyre with torches. "This woman has been found guilty by the Seven and her sentence is confirmed. LIGHT IT!"
Robert spurred his horse further up to the steps, trampling several more small folk who could not get out of the road in time, cries and screams echoed around him as he urged his horse up the steps in his attempt to free the woman who had helped him topple the Targaryen's.
As he reached the top of the stairs, he could hear his men behind him and more screams from the small folk but he could see that he would be too late to save the Red Woman. He drew his war hammer and brought it down on the High Septon's unprotected head, killing the Most Holy instantly.
The flames roared to life, devouring the Red Woman in a pyre of smoke and shadow. The smallfolk stood frozen, their horror reflecting in the firelight, as they bore witness to the cruelty of their new king.
Days later when their New King's Queen arrived in Kings Landing, no Small Folk welcomed her procession, no cheers, instead they sealed themselves in their houses and pretended that nothing was happening.
Over the coming Months, Lords and Ladies from the 4 'friendly' Kingdoms came to bend the knee. None from the North, or the West or the Iron Islands came. And Robert knew the day was coming when he would need to face the issues. He sent the Royal Fleet to deal with the Iron Born, and while they had some success, that war still waged. Robert ordered trade with the North and West cease, thinking to drive them into surrender but several houses ignored the edict and trade continued and the Freys at the Twins were often hard pressed to control the flow of people heading North, as a couple of enterprising people set up ferries further down the Trident and ignored the Frey's demands for coin.
Any envoy sent to Winterfell or Casterly Rock returned without good news. One had tried to threaten the wife of Lord Tywin and had been sent back in pieces.
The reign of Robert Baratheon, forged in rebellion, had begun in turmoil—a grim prelude to the storms yet to come.
Kings Landing – Red Keep - 12th Month, 283, Week 2, Day 3
Robert Baratheon sat at the head of his Small Council, his gaze shifting from face to face, the weight of the crown heavy on his brow. He had once dreamed that Eddard Stark would sit at his side as Hand of the King, but now, those dreams seemed a distant memory.
"Lord Hand," Robert said, his voice booming as he turned to Byren. "How goes the Realm?"
Byren, the current Hand, met Robert's gaze with a steady, though weary, expression. Robert had chosen him for his loyalty, if not his brilliance. For now, Byren would suffice.
"The Westerlands remain in revolt. Lords have barricaded the roads, and several have sent word that any envoy loyal to you will be treated as the last one was—sent back in pieces."
Robert clenched his jaw. That envoy had caused a great deal of damage, and Byren had been livid.
"The North remains in opposition as well," Byren continued. "No one is getting past the Neck. Lord Benjen Stark is encamped at Moat Cailin, and he's responding to any envoy with arrows."
Robert's face darkened, but he nodded. "And the Iron Islands?"
"Their fleet is being pushed back to Pyke, but the battle still rages. That's the only good news we've had."
Robert grunted, trying to digest the information. "The Other Kingdoms?"
"The Riverlands are quiet—for now. The West are holding their borders, and the Reach hasn't moved either. They're sending us food as agreed," Byren said, his voice carefully neutral. "The Stormlands are settled, and the Crownlands are also calm. However… there have been reports of Red Priests in King's Landing, and the Septons are ignoring your edict to leave them be."
"Even High Septon Carral?" Robert snapped, incredulous.
"He's ineffectual, Your Grace," Byren replied, choosing his words carefully. "Several Red Priests and Priestesses have been killed. Their bodies left at the steps of the Sept as a warning."
Pycelle cleared his throat. "It seems, Your Grace, that the people are not pleased with these... infidels. The Maesters are in agreement; their presence sows discord."
"My birds say several lords have killed them on sight when they've come to their keeps," Varys added from his seat. "And as for White Harbor—ships bearing the Stag emblem have been sunk. Some of them were carrying Red Priests."
"I gave orders!" Robert bellowed, thumping his fist on the table.
"Your Grace," Lord Piper spoke up cautiously, "it has always been the Faith of the Seven that governs the lords south of the Neck. These new priests and priestesses are not welcome. The Northerners tolerate them, as they do not push their religion on others."
Oberyn Martell lounged in his chair, his gaze sharp and predatory. "One wonders, Your Grace," he drawled, "if we might yet see the Faith Militant rise again." His eyes glittered with a mix of amusement and warning. "It has happened before, when the Faith felt under attack. The Crown has sworn to protect the Faith, and you swore the same at your Coronation. Yet you allow these priests to preach against the Seven. This will not end well."
Robert's voice hardened, steel in it. "They helped me win the war."
Oberyn's smirk deepened. "I would not boast of that, Your Grace. The common folk already whisper of witchcraft and sorcery. It's causing panic among the nobles. Many have already fled the city, seeking refuge in their holdings far from King's Landing."
"Don't be ridiculous, Oberyn," Robert snapped. "They would not dare rise against me."
Lord Piper's calm voice cut through the tension. "If you continue to make their presence known, Your Grace, and especially if you make it public that the Red Priestess used Lord Rickard and King Rhaegar's blood to help you achieve victory, the nobility will revolt."
"They would not dare!" Robert shouted, slamming his fist on the table again.
"Your Grace, I fear this is not a matter of daring," said Ser Arthur Fellows, his new white cloak rustling as he leaned forward. "We don't have enough men to protect the city and the Keep. If you send out troops to protect the Red Priests, it will only fuel dissent."
"Varys?" Robert turned his gaze to the Master of Whisperers.
Varys gave a small shake of his head. "Not wise, Your Grace. Protecting your family—the Queen, Crown Prince, and Princess—must be paramount. These priests and priestesses may be the least of your problems."
Robert was about to retort when a sharp knock at the door interrupted him.
"Come!" Robert snarled.
The door opened, and Lord Jon Arryn entered, looking more haggard than usual. His presence added a heavy weight to the room. The animosity between Robert and Jon had lessened, but the tension remained. The sight of Jon Arryn's grim expression made it clear that something had gone terribly wrong.
"Your Grace," Jon began, his teeth clenched. He stepped aside, and a guard dragged in a limp figure, throwing the form at Robert's feet. "This man... this Red Priest dared to come to me and demand that I hand over my heir—an infant of two-name days—to be sacrificed in the flames for your glory."
Robert's fury ignited. "I am your king!" he bellowed. "They do my bidding!" He was ignoring the fact that he had again demanded the head of an infant.
Jon's eyes narrowed, his voice booming with authority. "Your bidding? You demand my heir be killed for what? How dare you, Robert Baratheon!" Jon's fists clenched at his sides. "And you wonder why people are revolting against you?" He turned to the slumped Red Priest. "Keep your false priests away from my house and mine!" With a flash of steel, Jon slit the priest's throat with a dagger, leaving the corpse bleeding out on the floor.
Jon turned and stalked out of the room, his voice ringing behind him. "I rue the day you ever came to my keep!"
The Small Council sat in stunned silence. Robert, still seething, didn't register the fact that Jon Arryn had drawn a blade in the King's presence.
Hours later, guards were dispatched to apprehend Jon Arryn, only to find a note in his stead:
"We disavow Robert Baratheon and hereby declare that if he so much as attempts to make us bend the knee, he will perish."
The rumours in the Red Keep spread like wildfire, and ravens flew to the far corners of the kingdom. Now, Robert could only claim four of the Seven Kingdoms, while the remaining three were in open revolt.
Small Council of Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name:
Hand: Lord Byren Caron
Lord Commander of the Kingsguard: Ser Arthur Fellows
Master of Laws: Prince Oberyn Martell
Mistress of Whispers: Varys
Master of Coin: Lord Clement Piper
Master of Ships: Lord Adrian Celtigar
Grand Maester: Maester Pycelle
Kings Landing – Red Keep - 12th Month, 283, Week 2, Day 3
Lysa looked around the chambers that had been prepared for the new Royal Family. They were grand, gilded in gold and red, the colors of House Baratheon now mingled with the flame and fervour of the red priests. The sight filled her with unease, the weight of her surroundings pressing down on her like an iron yoke. She hated it here. Hated King's Landing with its stifling heat and endless intrigue, hated the Iron Throne that seemed to demand more blood than even Robert's endless wars, and most of all, hated her marriage to the man who now sat upon it.
She had agreed to the match, yes, but not out of love or loyalty. It had been duty, cold and calculated. A way to secure her family's position after the chaos of rebellion. In truth, she had prayed Robert would fall in battle, that his recklessness and thirst for glory would end him before they could be bound together. But the gods—or perhaps the red god Robert now worshipped—had been cruel.
Stephon, their son, was her solace, a fragile tether to hope in this bleak and dangerous world. At two name days, he bore his father's dark hair and stormy eyes, yet his temperament was entirely hers: calm, cautious, observant. He watched the world with an intensity that unnerved even her, as though he already understood the machinations surrounding him. When she looked at him, she saw her younger brother Edmure, so wide-eyed and trusting before the weight of responsibility hardened him. Her daughter Sairsa was a more recent blessing, but the joy of her birth was dampened by Robert's relentless demands for another child. Succession, he called it, though Lysa knew better. It was not about legacy but about control, his attempt to bind her to him with children while he gave his heart—and his soul—to fire and fanaticism. How long until he demanded one of their children for the flames?
Moon tea had become her salvation, a bitter brew that kept her from bearing more of Robert's children. She accepted it from her Septa without hesitation, a silent rebellion against a man who barely knew her or acknowledged her beyond the marriage bed.
Her sister, Catelyn, had been no comfort. Lysa's letters to Winterfell were met with terse replies, cold as the northern winds. Catelyn refused to set foot in King's Landing so long as Robert claimed the throne, a sentiment Lysa quietly shared. Robert's rebellion had ended one supposed tyranny only to replace it with another, and she loathed the role she was forced to play in this charade.
The red priests were the worst of it, their fiery sermons echoing through the halls of the Red Keep, their presence a constant reminder of the foreign god who now held sway over her husband's court. Lysa had felt a grim satisfaction upon learning that the infamous red woman had been burned at the stake—a fitting end for a woman who sought to spread her flame to Westeros. Yet, even in her small victory, Lysa moved cautiously, ensuring the smallfolk affected by the woman's schemes received aid from her personal funds. Her loyalty was to Riverrun, to her family, and to the old ways, not to the zealotry consuming her husband.
Brynden, her uncle, had come to bend the knee, bringing a chest of coins she kept hidden in her chambers. It was a reminder of where her true alliances lay, a lifeline should she ever need to escape this gilded prison.
As her maid entered with the children, Lysa forced herself to smile. "Your Grace," they curtseyed, their deference a sharp contrast to the simmering contempt she felt for her title.
"Good, let's go for a walk in the garden," she said, smoothing her skirts and standing tall. If she had to endure this farce, she would do so on her terms. Her dress was Tully blue, a deliberate statement of her identity, a refusal to fully embrace the colors of House Baratheon.
Walking through the Red Keep, she overheard whispers of the red priests seeking to remove the weir woods from the godswood. The thought filled her with dread. The godswood was sacred, a place untouched by the flames of the red god, and yet now even that seemed threatened. How long before the Septas on her staff were replaced? How long before her own faith was called into question?
Her septa was waiting for her at the door to her chambers, the woman's face was set in strained lines. "Is something wrong Septa Mora?" Lysa asked softly.
"A red priestess wanted to enter your chambers and those of the children." Septa Mora replied softly.
"Did they enter the rooms?"
"No, Your Grace. But they are demanding they are allowed in. They said that they wanted to make sure no one within was plotting against the King."
Lysa's mind raced as she entered and gave the order to secure the room. She opened her chest, removing a bundle of letters bound in ribbon. Letters from Karlyn Lannister, Olenna Tyrell, and her own sister—correspondence that could be twisted into treason if found. Without hesitation, she tossed them into the fire, watching as the flames consumed them.
As the Septa whispered of the new Septon's unpopularity and the conclave's plans, Lysa felt a chill. If the Septons and Septas were recalled, the red priests would gain uncontested influence.
"Then the red priesthood will have won," she said softly, her voice tinged with both resignation and resolve.
But they would not win without a fight. Lysa Tully Baratheon was no meek southern lady. She was a daughter of Riverrun, a Tully through and through. And she would find a way to protect her children, her faith, and herself from the flames threatening to consume them all.
Authors Note:
Thank you for all the reviews. I am trying to plot out the next steps, Robert may learn to his detriment what his actions have caused and then there are those who fled. What their plans may be.