ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 94: ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔬𝔰 ℑ𝔰 𝔞 𝔏𝔞𝔡𝔡𝔢𝔯.
The air of King's Landing was as terribly unpleasant as ever; if Vlad had been there, he would no doubt have cursed the Targaryens again for creating an absurdly unnecessary network of underground tunnels instead of a proper sewage system.
But aside from the stench, life in the streets seemed to be improving.
The war had ended, at least in appearance, and merchants resumed their travels while prices began to stabilize, supported by Tyrell provisions; the smallfolk, as gullible as ever, began to convince themselves that peace had returned thanks to the crown.
The lines outside bakeries were long, sailors returned to the docks, and artisans reopened their workshops, while only in the taverns did rumors about Vlad and his armies circulate, though nothing that seemed truly significant.
Not yet.
The Faith was the first to shape those rumors, for in the sept sermons the new Sparrows spoke of "the one who used vile sorcery," of a blasphemous king determined to enslave all the good men of Westeros, and of his wife, the last Targaryen: a creature born of incest who murdered innocent women to remain young and beautiful.
Thus they built the image of an absolute evil that only the Seven could confront, which, of course, served their own interests: the more fear that shadow inspired, the stronger the priests' influence became.
Meanwhile, the nobles of the capital, oblivious to all this, continued indulging in their games, organizing banquets, sealing marriage alliances, and offering their daughters to the Tyrells almost in bulk.
They believed the worst had passed with the deaths of Joffrey and Tywin.
However, the reality was that the court was far from stable, for the Lannisters, without Tywin to guide them and with Cersei as the sole head in the capital, were slowly losing ground to the Tyrells.
Lady Olenna remained in King's Landing while preparations for her granddaughter's wedding were finalized, a wedding she herself financed, as she so often liked to remind others.
Tommen was only just beginning to enter puberty and still had years before he could be considered a man, yet none of this seemed to concern the Tyrells, nor Margaery, who had already secured both the boy's attention and her influence over him.
What they did not expect was that, for one reason or another, the boy would actively strive to be a good ruler, reading books about previous kings considered competent and insisting on attending council meetings; the good news was that he accepted decisions as long as the majority agreed.
For her part, Cersei sank deeper into paranoia.
After the fiasco of Lukard's trial by combat, she personally ensured that the High Septon, who had promised his cooperation in exchange for a generous donation, disappeared under mysterious circumstances during a journey to the Citadel.
In his place, she made sure that the new religious sect, the Sparrows, rose to power without obstacle, and the new High Sparrow was none other than Lars of the Vale, the very same young man she believed she had manipulated into leading the Faith.
Meanwhile, inside the Red Keep, Petyr Baelish sat in his chambers, contemplating with satisfaction the parchment open before him; it was not an important letter, merely a report from his spies at court, yet he read it with great pleasure.
He had left King's Landing before the Red Wedding, officially to secure the support of the Vale, though in truth he had already had Lysa Arryn eating from his hand long before that.
Marrying her had been the logical step, the key that made him Lord Protector of the Vale, master of castles and troops, the "loving father" of a sickly boy who would not be surprising if he died in the coming years, and the husband of a mother who signed every order he dictated.
Lysa was useful, though to him she had never been more than that: a woman too fragile, too eager to please him, and too obsessed with him, who posed no challenge and barely satisfied him enough for her company to be tolerable; he found her almost tedious, though he would never admit it.
Catelyn, on the other hand… she had been the desire, the unattainable goal, the one who never yielded to his smile or his words, the only one who had truly made him want to possess her.
The memory of her death at that cursed wedding still poisoned him.
And Sansa… little Sansa had been the closest thing to reclaiming that dream: to shape her, to have her in his hands, to use her as an heir and as a woman, as a political weapon and as a consolation for his obsession.
But that card had slipped from his grasp, for some more skillful player had returned the girl to her brother in the North, and Littlefinger had never known for certain who had pulled the strings.
He suspected the Spider, of course, but that blow still haunted him. "If I could not have Catelyn, having her daughter would have been enough. I would have made her mine, one way or another."
He leaned back in his chair, letting out a satisfied sigh, because everything had followed its course. Chaos, after all, had always been his domain; others feared war, but he understood it better than anyone.
"Chaos is a ladder."
The interruption came at just the right moment to spoil his reverie. A servant knocked at the door, nervous, his voice trembling.
—My lord… a messenger has arrived, I fear he brings urgent news —said one of the servants as he caught his breath.
Petyr raised an eyebrow, amused, because news arrived constantly, though he usually received it before anyone else thanks to his network. He liked that detail: always being one step ahead, knowing secrets even the Council itself did not yet grasp, so he rose calmly, smoothed the fold of his tunic, and walked toward the entrance, while his fox-like smile returned to his face, ready to play with whatever that man had brought.
The messenger, covered in dust from the journey, handed him a sealed parchment with trembling hands, and Littlefinger broke it open calmly, already savoring how he would use that information against his rivals or how he would sell his neutrality to the highest bidder.
However, the smile vanished by the second line, and by the time his eyes reached the end of the message, it had disappeared completely.
The letter spoke of a black fleet of hundreds of ships that had encircled the coasts up to Lannisport, taking it with little difficulty, and then, after less than a day of fighting, Casterly Rock had fallen; there were even clear mentions of "fire sorcery that melted the gates into pools of molten metal."
Petyr Baelish remained still as the parchment crumpled under the pressure of his fingers. It was inconceivable: the Rock was a fortress and should not have fallen so quickly, so he decided to keep that information to himself until he could confirm it. However, as more and more messengers began to arrive in the following days, all bearing the same news, he had no choice but to accept the truth: the Rock had fallen in less than a day. Unheard of.
That thought left him with a deep sense of unease, for the capital was, at the very least, ten times easier to conquer than the Rock. Even so, Littlefinger was not a weak man, so after gathering all the necessary information, he went to the Council to report the situation and, in the process, devise how to profit from it.
After all… chaos was a ladder. Wasn't it?
----
[Citadel, 3 days after the fall of Casterly Rock]
The Citadel rose over Oldtown, formed by stone towers, courtyards, and corridors where maesters worked tirelessly. Some walked with parchments in hand, others spoke in low voices while reviewing texts, and many simply wrote, absorbed in their work.
Life there was simple, for those who inhabited the Citadel lived devoted to study or their own matters, largely detached from the intrigues of the rest of Westeros. There were scarcely any court conspiracies, and the Hightowers, lords of the city, remained a stable presence, preventing tensions and open factions.
Above all, the Hightower tower dominated the horizon, visible from any point in the city.
At its highest point, a chamber remained closed.
Inside, several elderly men sat waiting around a stone table, their chains resting upon their chests. The links clinked softly at the slightest movement, all tipped with Valyrian steel. In practice, they were the highest authority of the Citadel, though the institution itself rejected any formal hierarchy beyond accumulated knowledge.
The door opened and a maester entered, notably younger than the rest; though in the Citadel, that meant around fifty years old.
He crossed the room without haste and took his place. The silence lasted only a few seconds before he spoke:
—Gentlemen, I bring bad news, we have lost the West —the younger man announced.
Glances were exchanged.
—That is unheard of —one frowned— The Rock is the strongest fortress in Westeros; only Harrenhal could compare. A siege should last months, even years.
—It did not —the younger man replied without hesitation— It fell after two days of fighting.
Several shifted in their seats.
—That makes no sense —the obese elder shook his head— It cannot have fallen so quickly.
—Calm yourselves —another bald elder intervened— If it is true, we need to understand how it happened. Did the Impaler use his dragons?
—No —the younger man answered— The dragons did not participate. According to our reports, they arrived after the fortress had already been taken.
The silence tightened.
—Then explain it —he placed his hands on the table— Because even with a fleet and a considerable army, taking the Rock in two days is absurd. Did he have men inside? Were the gates opened to him?
—There is no evidence of that —he replied— Our informants agree on the same account: Vlad Drakul dismounted and advanced to the gates, and there he used what we can only describe as pyromancy to melt steel doors over ten centimeters thick as if it were nothing.
No one spoke for several seconds.
—That is impossible —one muttered— There is no record of pyromantic capability of such magnitude, not even in the Age of Heroes.
—Is this confirmed? —another asked.
—It is irrelevant —the younger man said, making them all frown— Whether he breached the gates using magic or dragons does not matter, though it must be investigated thoroughly.
—What do you mean it doesn't matter? —the obese elder nearly snapped.
—Vlad Drakul is just as capable of taking the throne now as he was when he gained dragons —he said seriously— I have no doubt that if the claims about his magic are real, it makes him more dangerous, but that does not change the fact that only dragons would have allowed him to conquer Westeros on his own.
—You are not wrong —said the thin man— but such magical capability presents problems we must address.
—Faceless Men, perhaps —another elder suggested.
—Too expensive —the obese one said— They would ask for all of Westeros as payment.
The youngest placed his hands on the table.
—This has ceased to be a problem we can delegate —he continued— Vlad Drakul is a threat to Westeros and to us. A magic user with such capabilities has no precedent, and if we do not act now…
He left the sentence hanging.
—I propose we deal with him immediately —he concluded.
There was a brief silence, but all nodded, though not with enthusiasm. The Citadel had avoided overt conspiracies since the Dance of the Dragons, preferring subtler methods ever since.
—And how do you propose we do that? —asked the obese elder.
The younger man smiled.
—I have heard that in King's Landing a new faction of the Faith of the Seven is gaining power —he explained, almost savoring it— It has even convinced the Queen Regent to allow the restoration of the Faith Militant.
Several exchanged glances; the Faith Militant was a serious matter, but it could serve their immediate interests.
—What do they call themselves? —asked the thin man.
—The Sparrows —the younger man replied with a smile.
----
First of all, thank you once again for being here this week. I truly appreciate you continuing to read the story.
I also want to apologize for the slight delay. I was given a few days off after all the work I've been doing, so I took the chance to rest and recover. I've basically been sleeping more than anything, and it wasn't until today that I was able to sit down and write properly.
I've also seen some comments saying these notes are sometimes longer than the chapter itself. It might be half a joke, but I mainly write them to get more feedback and see what you think about the story.
As for the chapters, I think I've improved quite a bit: I started with around 900 characters, and now I can easily reach 1800–2000 without padding or unnecessary descriptions, so I'm pretty happy with that progress.
Regarding today's chapter, I added a few things at the last moment, like the Citadel scene, which I think gives better context to what's coming next.
Also, this month I managed to write several chapters at once thanks to narrating my ideas out loud and then organizing them, which lets me move much faster. If I keep this pace, I might be able to publish more than one chapter per week, but for now I'm not making any promises.
Thanks again for being here this week, and see you in the next chapter.