Eleventh Moon of 69 AC
The Dragonpit Yard
Third Person POV
The people of King's Landing flocked to the Dragonpit yard in droves. The great courtyard, usually given over to tourneys and mummer's plays, was large enough to swallow thousands—and today it did, smallfolk and nobles packed shoulder to shoulder beneath the open sky.
Word of the Faith's treachery had spread through the city like wildfire, and it had kindled something close to fever in the people who followed it here. Never before had so many gathered in one place, drawn together by a single, terrible curiosity: to watch the King pass judgment with their own eyes.
Beneath the hard sun of early afternoon, the crowd buzzed with equal parts excitement and dread. Whispers passed from mouth to mouth—thirteen septons, treason against the Crown, dragonfire—each one carried further than the last.
At the center of the yard, the thirteen septons stood bound to wooden posts, their faces covered as though even they could not bear to be seen. Their hands were lashed tight behind their backs, robes filthy and torn from days in chains. They huddled as close together as their bonds allowed, some murmuring silent prayers to the Seven. Whatever fate awaited them, it had already been decided. Now they only waited for it to arrive.
But the true spectacle of the yard was not the condemned men. It was the shadow that lay behind them.
Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, lay coiled at the center of the courtyard, his enormous bulk swallowing the space around him. His bronze scales caught the sunlight and threw it back in dull, molten flashes; his wings lay folded along his back, his great head lowered as if in sleep. But even at rest, the dragon radiated a quiet, coiled violence that no one in the crowd could ignore. His breath alone seemed to shudder through the ground beneath their feet, and the sharp bite of sulfur hung thick in the air.
On the raised platform above the yard, King Jaehaerys waited to deliver his judgment. He turned to Ser Clement Crabb of the Kingsguard and asked, low enough that no one nearby caught the words, "Are all preparations complete, Ser?"
"Yes, Your Grace. Everything has been done as you ordered—and in secrecy."
"Good." Jaehaerys paused, then shook his head, a flicker of helplessness crossing his face. "And my wife?"
Ser Clement gave his king a sheepish smile. "Her Grace has refused to stay behind closed doors, Your Grace. Her exact words were—forgive me—'Tell my dear husband that if he thinks me some glass doll meant to sit at his side and look pretty, he can forget the way to my bed chambers from now on.'"
Jaehaerys shot the knight a sidelong look, well aware of how much Ser Clement was enjoying himself at the sight of his ever-composed king rendered helpless by his own wife.
"Let her do as she pleases," the King said at last. "But send more guards from the loyal vessel houses. I want no variables today—everything proceeds as planned." He muttered, almost to himself, "I only need this farce to run long enough for the High Septon to put the axe to his own foot."
He rose then, flanked by his Kingsguard and the lords loyal to the Crown, and stepped fully into view of the crowd. His face had gone hard as iron, his eyes like molten steel as he surveyed the sea of faces before him. When he spoke, his voice carried effortlessly across the silent yard.
"People of King's Landing," Jaehaerys began, "you have heard the charges. You have witnessed the trial. The Faith of the Seven, under the command of these men, sought to undermine the Crown—to spread lies and rebellion, to defile the very peace we have fought so long to preserve."
The crowd said nothing, hanging on every word. Many had already heard the tale secondhand, but to hear it from the King's own mouth carried a weight nothing else could match.
"These men," Jaehaerys went on, his gaze falling on the chained septons, "betrayed their sacred vows. They did not serve the Seven. They served only themselves. For that crime—for their treason—their punishment will be swift, and it will be just, for they have already faced a fair trial."
He did not pause long. His gaze never wavered. "The gods do not speak through traitors," he said, cold and final. "Judgment will be served."
The crowd watched in awed silence, feeling the full weight of the moment settle over them. They knew what was coming, and yet none dared look away. Some mothers pressed their hands over their children's eyes; others pushed forward for a better view, hungry for the spectacle.
The King turned toward the dragon. "Vermithor," he called, his voice soft, but carrying the unmistakable authority only a Targaryen could summon in High Valyrian.
At the sound of his name, the Bronze Fury stirred. His head lifted, eyes glowing gold like coals in a dying fire, fixed on the chained men before him. His body shifted, wings unfurling just enough to throw a wide shadow across the septons.
The crowd gasped as one, the air thick with anticipation. The sheer scale of the beast was terrifying to behold. Even those who had seen dragons before had never watched one summoned like this—called forward to carry out the judgment of a king.
Jaehaerys raised a hand and swept his gaze across the crowd. "Is there any man or woman here who wishes to object to this judgment?" His voice carried a weight that dared no one to answer—yet somehow left the door open, all the same.
For a moment, silence held. No one moved. The might of the Crown, and the dragon coiled beside it, made objection unthinkable.
The moment stretched on, and Jaehaerys was on the verge of lowering his hand when a sound cut through the stillness: laughter.
It was not the laughter of a man amused. It was wild, broken, the cackle of someone who had let go of reason entirely. It rippled through the courtyard and left a chill in its wake.
Every eye turned toward its source. It was the High Septon himself, still bound to his post, eyes wide with something close to madness. His face had gone pale, his mouth twisted into a grotesque grin, and he laughed—loud, uncontrolled, as though watching some private spectacle no one else in the yard could see.
For a moment the entire yard seemed to freeze, uncertain what to make of it. The High Septon laughed on, the sound echoing off the stone walls, until at last his eyes found the King's.
"You think this is the end?" he shouted, his voice climbing into something manic. "You think the gods will let this heresy go unanswered? Do you believe your dragons will shield you forever, King Jaehaerys?"
I cannot let this pass, the High Septon thought, laughter still spilling from him even as his mind worked coldly beneath it. Even if every dragon spawn dies today, I will not let the Faith be trampled and myself disrespected any longer. I have thousands of common folk before me—I need only turn them. And soon, two thousand of the Faith Militant will fall upon the Red Keep. Let him try to burn with his dragon then. They will hate him all the more for it.
Jaehaerys narrowed his eyes but said nothing, his expression giving away nothing at all.
"The Seven have abandoned you!" the High Septon screamed, his voice cracking under its own intensity. "I have seen it! I have seen their wrath! They will come for you, King of Ashes! They will tear your house down—stone by stone, blood by blood!"
A murmur passed through the crowd, some shifting uneasily where they stood. Bound and powerless as he was, the High Septon's words still carried an eerie weight. Among the smallfolk there remained those who feared the wrath of the gods more than the wrath of any king. Whispers of unease rippled outward, and for a moment the crowd stood caught at a crossroads, uncertain which fear to trust.
Before they could settle on an answer, the High Septon laughed again. "The people of Westeros number some ten or twelve million. How many do you think would follow seven gods over that number, my King?" His sneer deepened. "No less than five million, I'd wager—if you keep humiliating the Faith as you do now. And yes, I am threatening you. They will come for you and your wretched family. They will kill you in your sleep. Poison your food." He laughed again, high and ragged. "Targaryens are sinners, every one of you. I would suggest you beg my forgiveness and restore the Faith to its rightful place."
Lords across the yard cursed the man openly. If the atmosphere had not been tense enough already, the High Septon—who seemed almost to court his own death—had just made certain of it.
"Are you threatening me?" the King's voice was cold, though a thin thread of amusement lived somewhere behind his eyes—noticed by only a handful of those present. Beside him, the great bronze beast, sensing his rider's fury, let out a screeching roar that sent the entire crowd stumbling back a step.
But Jaehaerys said nothing further to the High Septon. He only turned, and spoke words that sent a chill down every spine in that courtyard—words no one gathered there had thought to imagine before this day.
"Ser Clement Crabb. It seems you have forgotten one of the culprits. You have missed the High Septon. Bring another post for him."
No one present had come expecting to hear such a sentence. Burning a High Septon alive was not a thing that happened in the course of an ordinary day. An uproar broke out at once—lords faithful to the Seven crying protest, begging for mercy alongside the three septons still standing beside their leader.
Whatever his crimes, they argued, such a punishment could not be given to the head of a religion. Even the Hand of the King stepped forward to object, insisting the sentence was excessive, that the whole of the Seven Kingdoms would rise against the Crown for it.
Jaehaerys answered without hesitation. "Why is it the lords and ladies here oppose me? The law I passed states plainly that all men stand equal before it. The punishment for treason is death. The High Septon has openly threatened this Crown in front of witnesses. Do the lords and ladies gathered here wish to defy that law as well? Do you wish to rebel alongside him?" His voice was cold, level, and every soul present understood exactly what it meant.
Stand aside and hold your tongues, or you are next.
The High Septon paled as he watched the guards approach, though he forced his voice into something like confidence. "You cannot do this to me. I am the High Septon."
A guard bearing the sigil of House Hightower stepped between the city watch and the condemned man. Jaehaerys turned toward him and asked, "Does Lord Hightower intend to stand against the Crown?"
Cold sweat broke across the Hightower men's brows. Their eyes flicked toward the bronze dragon, its reptilian gaze fixed on them with unmistakable menace. In the end, they chose to set aside their lord's warning never to provoke a dragon, and the faith bred into them since childhood alike, each of them privately hoping for a moment of glory worth telling in later years.
Their leader shouted, "This is tyranny! This is Maegor's legacy come again! Do the Targaryens mean to rule through fear forever?"
"Fear," Jaehaerys repeated. "Tell me, what would you do in my place? A man threatens to kill my family—in my own capital, in my own kingdom—and you would have me let it pass?"
"But I require no one's approval for what I do." He turned to his guards. "Seize them. Bind the High Septon to his post, and put the Hightower guards in the dungeons. I will address House Hightower's conduct in time." He allowed himself one private thought: just one more push, and this farce ends.
The High Septon's laughter broke into a scream as the guards closed in, hands reaching to drag him back to his post. He thrashed against them, wild and desperate, his voice climbing into a fevered pitch.
"If you burn me, your heretic son dies!" he bellowed, eyes bright with panic and malice. The words cut through the crowd like a blade, and for one breathless moment, silence fell—before the murmurs began.
"What did he say?"
"Did he just say the King's son?"
The claim spread through the gathered crowd like flame through dry grass, seeding doubt even in the hearts of the faithful. Could it be true? Could the High Septon—once the very voice of the gods' will—have sunk so low as to take a prince hostage? And if so, what madness had driven him to it?
On the platform, Jaehaerys's eyes narrowed, his expression hardening as he stared down at the trembling old man. The courtiers around him shifted uneasily, sensing the storm gathering behind their king's calm.
"What did you say?" Jaehaerys's voice cut through the murmuring crowd like a drawn blade. His bearing remained regal, but tension coiled visibly beneath it—fury held back by will alone.
The High Septon's eyes gleamed with something close to satisfaction, his twisted grin widening. "Ha! Yes—I sent the Faith Militant to take your heretic son, Baelon! He consorts with the Red Witch and her false god! Burn me, and his head will be delivered to you before the sun sets!"
Disbelief rippled through the crowd. Even the most devout among them, men and women who had knelt before the Seven their whole lives, felt the first true crack forming in their faith. That the High Septon—supposedly the voice of the gods on earth—had stooped to threatening a king's son was almost beyond comprehension.
"What else might the Faith have done, behind all our backs?" a woman whispered to her husband.
"Not only that," he murmured back. "It sounds as though they're behind the rebellions and riots we've suffered this past month as well."
A man nearby spat a curse. "Trade's been shut down for days. I've bread and meat rotting in my stall, and no way to feed my family if it spoils."
Another added, "Aye, same here. No one's hiring, not with rebellion in the air. My daughter hasn't eaten since yesterday."
"Bloody bastards," someone else snapped. "All because some old septon wanted a prince's head."
A grizzled old man who had lived through the worst of Maegor's reign spat on the cobblestones. "Faith Militant. Always stirring up trouble. Thought they'd been done away with years back. The Faith can't let honest folk live in peace."
Through it all, the King remained still, his face unreadable, his eyes fixed on the High Septon with an intensity that chilled everyone near enough to feel it. Then, to the astonishment of the entire yard, Jaehaerys began to laugh.
The High Septon blinked, caught off guard by the sound. Confusion flickered across his wild eyes—this was not the reaction he had expected from a father just told his son lay in enemy hands.
The laugh was quiet at first, but it grew, filling the courtyard with an echo that felt colder with every breath. Jaehaerys's shoulders shook, his mouth curling into something between a smile and a warning. It was the laugh of a man entirely in control—a king who feared nothing, not even the gods themselves. And he was very nearly done with this farce.
"High Septon," the King said, his voice thick with mockery, "you cannot be serious. Why would the Faith of the Seven—a holy order sworn to peace and justice—kidnap an innocent prince of the realm? And every soul here knows the Faith Militant was disbanded under the peace accord years ago."
The words hung in the air, seemingly rhetorical, and yet they did their work. The crowd, once frozen in awe, began to murmur louder still. The King's question was, after all, a fair one. Why would the Faith do such a thing? And if it had—what did that say of the men who claimed to lead it? Where, indeed, had a Faith Militant even come from?
But the High Septon, lost to his own madness, failed to notice the tide turning beneath him. He saw only the axe hanging over his neck, and he grasped at anything that might delay its fall.
"Your son is a heretic!" he shrieked, voice climbing to a fever pitch. "What more do you need? He consorts with the Red Witch, he brings the shadow of some foreign god to these shores! His death will be a tribute to the Stranger! Kill me, and the Faith Militant will burn him alive on a pyre of their own, and let the gods see for themselves whether your cursed house truly cannot burn!"
The venom in his voice, the sheer cruelty of it, sent a shudder through the crowd. Even the Targaryens, dragons and wildfire and all, had never spoken so openly of such horrors. The people recoiled—not from fear now, but disgust. They had come to witness justice. What they found instead was something far darker: a man in holy robes, spitting poison with every breath.
And in that moment, more than one soul in that courtyard began to wonder which man truly wore the mask of evil—the dragonlord king who had kept his realm at peace for decades, or the man who wore the robes of the gods and spoke like something unhinged.
The King's eyes blazed, his composure fraying at last around the edges. "What right," he said, voice sharpening like a drawn blade, "do you have to be judge and executioner of any man—let alone a prince of House Targaryen?"
Sensing his rider's fury, Vermithor stirred behind the High Septon and loosed a roar that shook the very stones of the Dragonpit. His golden eyes blazed like twin furnaces, and the crowd fell utterly silent, hearts hammering in their chests.
Thrown off balance by the sound, the High Septon collapsed to the ground, his face bloodless, hands shaking. He looked up at the dragon looming over him, its mouth curled in a snarl, and felt his heart very nearly stop in his chest.
Jaehaerys's voice cut through the silence like a sword drawn from its sheath. "You speak of heresy, and yet it is you who has betrayed the gods with your ambition and your lies. It is you who has sown chaos and death in the name of righteousness."
"In the name of the Warrior—where is your courage in this? In the name of the Father—where is the justice? In the name of the Mother—how you have protect the innocent, and instead you move to murder a boy of ten and two name day."
"Perhaps they were only ever empty words. Much like your religion."
The King's words settled over the crowd, and something in them rang true. Whatever faith the people had carried into this yard, it wavered now, as they stared down at the pathetic, quivering shape of the High Septon curled beneath the shadow of the dragon.
What the King said next was no longer merely rhetoric—it struck something deep in every commoner listening.
"People of the Faith of the Seven—tell me. Do you wish to follow a religion whose greed has caused the suffering of the poor? Whose rebellion has left the people of this city starving in their own homes for the better part of a moon? And all of it, so that they might kill my son—a boy who has spent these past years away from home, building roads for you. TELL ME. DO YOU WANT SUCH A FAITH?"
His voice carried across the entire yard and further still, into the very hearts of the smallfolk gathered there. The Targaryen gift for command—the charisma bred into every generation of that house—had never been more plainly on display. The people of King's Landing, having already witnessed so much this day, found themselves swept up behind him without a second thought.
"NO! NO! We don't want the Faith!" the crowd roared back, rallying behind their king.
"You…" the High Septon spat, shaking. "This is blasphemy. All of you will be cursed. The gods will not forgive this heresy. Their wrath shall fall upon this city and cleanse it. All of you will die. I have sent two thousand of the Faith Militant into this city already. They will kill every one of you. They will enact the gods' wrath upon this realm."
Whatever stature the High Septon had once held in the hearts of the people had collapsed entirely by now; his threats barely stirred them anymore. And yet his words still carried a splinter of real worry—the kind that comes from watching a man determined to destroy himself and everyone near him along with it. A man with nothing left to lose.
The King allowed himself a small, satisfied smile, as though the day's true purpose had already been achieved, though he pressed on regardless, intent on finishing what he'd started. "I don't believe a word of it," he said. "You say this only to save your own skin from the flames."
"Hahaha—foolish king! Any moment now, my Faith Militant will fall upon the Red Keep. They will drag your wife and your children into the streets and see them punished for the sin of their incestuous birth, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. Your dragon cannot save them—you would not dare use it and risk burning your own family alive! Hahaha…"
"Did he just admit to sending men to murder royal children?"
"The Faith has rotted through to its very core. I wonder how much longer we'd have stood in the dark, if not for today."
"I cannot follow a religion led by a man such as this."
"And they call him the Chosen of the Seven. I wouldn't trust the man to muck out my horse's stall."
Talk rippled through the lords and ladies gathered nearby—light in tone, but heavy with unspoken tension. They understood well enough what complications lay ahead. Too many of the great houses of Westeros held the Faith close to their hearts; it remained, without question, the most widely followed religion in the realm. Even after all that had come to light this day, its roots ran deep. House Targaryen would not walk away from executing a High Septon unscathed, whatever his crimes.
Then a guard of the city watch came running, breathless, and dropped to one knee before the King. "Your Grace! A mob thousands strong has attacked the Red Keep! The castle guard fights to hold them back, but I fear they cannot hold much longer. I fear for the safety of Her Grace, and the Prince and Princess."
Dread swept through the gathered crowd. Most had dismissed the High Septon's ravings as the delusions of a dying madman—but hearing them confirmed struck like a physical blow. Every eye turned toward the King.
How would he answer this? Any man, threatened where his family was concerned, became something dangerous—and the Targaryen temper was the stuff of legend. This alone might be enough to set the realm ablaze.
"YOU DARE—" the King's voice thundered across the yard, and sweat broke across the brows of every soul who heard it.
"Ha! There is nothing you can do," the High Septon crowed. "I'd advise you to kneel before me and beg. Perhaps then I'll grant your heretic family a merciful death. After I've had my taste of, of course—I hear she's quite the beauty." Every word only dug his grave deeper.
By now, no one gathered in that courtyard doubted it any longer—it mattered little whether every great house in Westeros rose in the name of the Faith. The royal family had reason enough now to see every last one of the men responsible put to the sword.
"Now that the Faith has shown its true face," Jaehaerys said, "there is no place for it in my kingdom any longer. I, Jaehaerys Targaryen, declare that the Faith of the Seven is no longer a practiced religion within Westeros. Within one moon's time, every sept and every place of worship shall be dismantled. After that moon has passed, any man or woman found wearing the robes of septon or septa will be killed on sight."
Septon Barth, Hand of the King, could scarcely believe what he had just heard. He sank to his knees, an entire lifetime of choices flashing behind his eyes.
"Any man, woman, house, or family who defends the Faith hereafter will be judged a traitor to this Crown, and will answer with Fire and Blood. Let this be known in every city, town, and village across Westeros."
"And now," Jaehaerys said, his voice heavy with finality, "you will face the judgment of fire."
Before the High Septon could utter another word—before he could summon even one last futile plea—Jaehaerys lifted his hand. "Vermithor," he commanded in High Valyrian, his voice ringing with regal authority. "Dracarys."
The dragon did not hesitate. Vermithor's jaws parted, and a river of flame roared forth, swallowing the High Septon and the septons beside him in an instant. Their screams lasted only a heartbeat before the roar of the fire drowned them out entirely.
The crowd looked on in stunned silence as the man who had once claimed to speak for the gods was reduced to ash before their eyes.
When the flames finally died and nothing remained but a heap of blackened bone and scorched cloth, Jaehaerys turned back to face the crowd. His expression had settled once more into calm, though his voice still carried the full weight of judgment.
"Let this day serve as a reminder," he said, sweeping his gaze across the sea of faces before him, "that no man—not even one who wears the robes of the Faith—stands above the law and Crown. The gods may pass judgment in whatever afterlife awaits us. In this realm, justice belongs to the Targaryens."
The people, still reeling from what they had witnessed, said nothing. But something in them had shifted all the same. The faith they had carried without question for their entire lives no longer felt unshakable. The High Septon's madness, his cruelty, his lies—all of it had laid bare a rot none of them could unsee now.
The King turned from the platform, his cloak snapping behind him as he strode away. He found Ser Clement Crabb and said, "See the plan enacted. I want not a single member of the Faith Militant to escape. Take them to the new prisons built for the justice system. They are all sentenced to life."
Septon Barth hurried to the King's side, his voice tight with worry. "Your Grace, we must move quickly. If two thousand of the Faith Militant breach the Red Keep, I fear for the safety of Her Grace and the children."
Jaehaerys allowed himself a faint smile. "My wife and children are not in the Red Keep, Barth."
The words struck several of the small council members flanking him like a physical blow. They had watched the King's fury only moments ago at the mere suggestion of an attack on his family—and now here he stood, entirely unhurried, even smiling. Something, clearly, had been kept from them.
"Your Grace... I don't understand," the Hand said.
"Ah. Of course you wouldn't." Jaehaerys's smile deepened. "My children left some days ago for Harrenhal, to visit their aunt Rhaena. As for my wife... well. There she is."
No sooner had he spoken than a roar tore across the sky above King's Landing—Silverwing, Queen Alysanne's own dragon, appearing overhead. The silver she-dragon, gentle by nature and reputation, looked anything but docile today.
"I know each of you has opinions on my decision this day," Jaehaerys said. "We will revisit them in time. For now, I ask you to accompany Ser Clement and see my will enforced—no questions asked. The Red Keep needs stability, and your presence there will help maintain order. See that things return to normal as swiftly as possible. I will help settle the crowds myself, from the sky. Now, if you'll excuse me—I mean to join my wife."
He left the assembled lords where they stood and crossed to Vermithor, climbing the great beast's flank before launching skyward to join his queen in a dance of dragons.
The crowd began to disperse, their faith in the Seven shaken to its roots, their loyalty to the Crown hardened by the King's unflinching display of power. They murmured to one another as they went, but the same question passed from mouth to mouth throughout the city:
If not the Faith—then who?
As the two dragons wheeled and danced above the city, the chaos still churning through King's Landing fell suddenly still at the sound of a new screech overhead—one that sent a chill up every spine that heard it. Looking up, the people saw a third dragon, one none of them had ever seen above this city before. Its scales burned a deep blood red, drawing every eye at once. Smaller than the other two, but its serpentine lines carried a menace all their own.
As the third dragon joined the dance, what remained of the Faith Militant—already broken, already reeling from an ambush they had never seen coming, surrounded on all sides by Targaryen soldiers in a Red Keep empty of any royal to threaten—lost the last of their will to fight.
The Red Keep, that day, earned its name in truth—red with the blood of its enemies.
The final knot of resisting Faith Militant went up in flame as their screams tore through the corridors of the keep. Within the fire, a boy in black, drenched head to foot in blood, was cutting down a soldier with a blade gone hot in his hand, as easily as parting butter.
His silver hair caught the light, and his face wore a smile with too much hunger in it as he moved through the flames untouched, the fire itself bending to the will of the red-robed woman who stood behind him. One man nearby, clutching the stump of his severed leg, looked up at him and gasped, "Monster—please, don't ki—"
"I'm enjoying this," the boy said, and drove his sword through the man's throat before dragging it free in a wide, red arc.
A wild, satisfied light danced in his eyes as he turned toward the window and caught sight of the three dragons circling above. His expression shifted at once—all its savagery melting into something warmer, almost fond.
"Well," he murmured to himself. "Seems it all worked out. Last-minute plan with father and all." His gaze settled on the crimson shape among the three. "That bastard Aemon. Went and claimed his dragon all on his own..."
Another wave of the Faith Militant surged toward him, and he turned to meet it, still smiling faintly up at the sky.
"...and now he's up there enjoying himself instead of helping clean up these filthy dogs of the Faith down here. Fine. Have your fun, brother."
"I'll finish this myself."