Chapter 30: Reactions (I) : Kings Landing

The audience chamber remained still as everybody watched the old man recount his tale. Today, every single person worth of note in the armies of the Rebellion had come to listen to the account of the rare few survivors of the decimation of the Westerlands Army.

In a chair in the middle of the hall right in front of the Iron Throne sat Phillip Plumm. On the throne was Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Unusually grave, and silent, which was very rare for him, he was gazing at old Plum with a hint of fascination in his eyes. Next to him stood Hoster Tully, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, and the acting hand in the absence of Jon Arryn, Lord Paramount of the Vale. The remaining leaders of the Rebellion were all present and watching in fascination at the sole survivors of Bitterbridge.

Conspicuous by his absence was Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West. Upon his arrival, Plumm had first visited Tywin and had spoken to him for forty minutes, after which a thoroughly shaken Plumm had come out of the room and gone to his room. By morning, it was realized that Tywin Lannister had disappeared from the Kings Landing. In the middle of the night, Tywin had boarded his personal galley and departed as if the demons of hell were nipping upon his feet. The conclusion was inescapable in everyone's minds. Tywin Lannister had actually fled from Kings Landing fearing the wrath of Quentyn Martell!

When the king had heard of it, he had thrown a terrible tantrum in his rage, and had ordered the remaining survivors of Bitterbridge to come and give an account of what had happened in the aftermath of the battle, which was why the grand assembly had been called.

"Having lost the battle of Bitterbridge, we had laid down our weapons and surrendered. Eighteen thousand of us!" Plumm whispered as everyone became still and a few gasps of shock were heard at the huge figure. Never before in the history of Westeros had an army of that size surrendered. Even at the conclusion of the Battle of the Trident, the number of those who had surrendered was less than eight thousand. The remnants had all fled to the four corners, and had dissolved back into the common folk.

On his chair, Phillip Plum cut a pitiable figure. Broken, hunched down and in despair, he seemed to have aged further by twenty years, with his face wan, eyes bloodshot, and his body trembling. It was clear that the man had been completely broken by what he had witnessed.

"Then we were all gathered up and led to a barren wasteland, l-littered with g-gig-gigantic holes!" Plumm continued, as everybody became still as the macabre tale went on.

"A-and r-right above our eyes … sat Quentyn Martell," Plumm's eyes glazed over as he remembered the scene vividly.

On a barren wasteland, atop a hilltop on a chair almost akin to a throne, sat Quentyn Martell as he gazed at them all with pitiless eyes.

"Curse you Martell! Is this how you treat men who have surrendered to you!"

"You are an inhumane bastard! Your infamy will be remembered for generations!"

"Ser Albert … Just what is he … going to do to us?"

"That's right! You are twisted! The heavens won't forgive you for this!"

"We'll curse you! Curse you with our dying breaths!"

"Mercy! Please spare us! There are some young boys here too! At least spare them!"

"No way in hell are we going to forgive you! You Dornish trash!"

Finally, Quentyn stood up and gazed at the thousands of men below and spoke in a voice that carried over the fields.

"Did you show mercy to the people of Bitterbridge whom you slaughtered like hogs? Those good people believed you to be allies and welcomed you with open arms, and yet you dogs committed the most heinous crime under the heavens by violating guest rights and slaughtered all the living beings in that city! The heavens reward those who are just and punish those who are unjust! This is the fate that awaits any man who serves Tywin Lannister! As long as that cursed old lion rules above you, this is all that awaits you!"

"DO IT!" he ordered as the soldiers of the coalition came forward and dragged the tied-up prisoners to the holes and began to throw them in by the hundreds. Screams for mercy rent the air, but there was not a single person who cared. As each hole was filled, the soldiers of the Reach who especially enjoyed this act, threw soil over the still breathing prisoners and began to bury them alive.

"Damn, this is going to take all day!"

"I hope we can finish this by dinnertime!"

"Is … is this … okay!"

"Fuck off! This is what those cursed shits in the West deserve! Today we pay them back for Bitterbridge with interest! ...Bahahaha!"

"Die …. Lannister scum!"

While the soldiers of the Reach and Dorne toiled like this, the men of the West were screaming themselves hoarse.

Suddenly a voice rang out. It was Tygett Lannister, who was being buried alive with all the Lords of the West who had been captured in a separate grave.

"My friends … let's all die together … and curse Dorne with all of our hate for eternity!" he spoke even as piles of sand began to rise around him and in a few minutes … he too was buried alive.

As Phillip Plumm finished his tale, with tears streaming through his eyes, every man in the hall felt a chill down the back of their spines.

Robert was pensive and looked almost apprehensive, while Hoster wiped out a bead of sweat from his brow. For the first time, since the beginning of the rebellion, he wondered if they could survive this coming storm.

"Very well, Lord Plumm, if that is all, I grant you leave to return to the west to retire," Robert decided to end the assembly before the depressing mood in the hall infected everyone. At that moment, Phillip Plumm looked at Robert and spoke out, "A moment if you will, Your Grace, I have a message for you from Quentyn Martell himself," he spoke out in a listless tone while everybody in the room froze and turned almost as if they were synchronized at the same moment towards the old man.

"Oh?" Robert looked intrigued and sat back on the throne and waved for him to continue.

"You wish me to convey it here?" Plumm asked uncertainly, while Robert smirked.

"It makes no difference if you speak it here or in private Plumm, the brat will make sure that it is known to everybody in the world regardless. He likes to show off his grandeur after all, he would have made a magnificent mummer if he had not been born a prince," Robert chuckled, while a smattering of muted chuckles could be heard throughout the hall.

Plumm sighed and prepared himself for the veritable backlash that was sure to ensue. "Prince Quentyn has indicated that he has no intention of stopping and plans to move towards the West with his army. His ultimate goal is to take Casterly Rock. He will not rest until Tywin lies bound beneath his feet," Plumm continued, at which Robert froze on the throne with a stupefied look on his face, while Hoster Tully took a deep breath to steady himself.

"Audacious little brat, just because he has won a couple of battles, he thinks he can take Casterly Rock? That young fool does not know his limits!" Hoster snorted in contempt, while Robert smirked and shook his head in pity. It truly seemed that his few victories had inflated the sense of self-worth the boy prince possessed. There was a reason why Casterly Rock was known as one of the five impregnable fortresses in the entire known world. Since the age of heroes, no one apart from Lann the Clever himself had managed to take it, and this boy-prince claimed that he would do it! Preposterous! Absurd! There was a limit to how arrogant one could be!

"That is all?" Robert asked with a wry chuckle, to which Plumm took a deep sigh and continued in an almost fatalistic tone. "He also states that before marching to Casterly Rock, he needs his armies to rest, and therefore he orders you to vacate Kings Landing so that his forces can use it as a rest stop."

For a second, it appeared as if time itself had stood still in the grand hall. The words were so audacious, so out of context and belief, that the meaning of those words itself did not sink into the heads of most of the people present for a few moments.

A few seconds later, Robert stood up from the Iron Throne and roared in anger "WHAT DID YOU SAY!?" followed by Hoster and every other member of the Rebellion who followed their king similarly.

"That fucking brat dares to …"

"How dare he …"

"Who the hell does that whelp think he is?"

"That up-jumped son of a bitch!"

Robert looked at Plumm and forcibly restrained himself and sat on the throne and waved at Plumm ordering him to continue.

Plumm bowed and continued, "Quentyn Martell has crowned himself the King of Southern Westeros and has claimed Dorne, the Reach and the Crownlands as his domains. Mace Tyrell has already bent the knee and pledged the Reach to him. He and all the lords of the Reach and Dorne are now making their way to Oldtown where he intends to crown himself the King of Southern Westeros in the Starry Sept!"

Robert gripped the armrest of the throne so hard that the blades cut deep into his palms and they began to bleed, but he gave no heed as he looked at old Plumm with a relentless gaze. Hoster Tully was aghast at the turn of events, which had spiraled so badly out of control and literally moaned in pain at the unfurling disaster.

The hall was deadly silent as everybody held their breaths and looked at Robert in fear and apprehension.

"Is that all or is there more?" Robert asked with a grunt as he looked at Plumm with a piercing gaze.

"He has said that as long as you vacate the Crownlands and Kings Landing, he will spare your life and not consider you his enemy any more. In his words, it was your idiotic decision to support Tywin Lannister after the deaths of Elia Martell and her children that put you at odds with him. He says that as long as you apologize for supporting Tywin and withdraw peacefully, he will allow you to live. He will even allow you to take the Iron Throne with yourself so that you may crown yourself the King of the remaining Kingdoms in Westeros, if you so desire!" Plumm finished and sank down on his chair, while Robert's face reddened until it looked like a ripe tomato ready to burst. Hoster physically winced as if somebody was pouring molten iron into his ears, before he suddenly paused, and turned to look at Plumm with an incredulous gaze.

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN BY SAYING THAT HE WILL ALLOW US TO TAKE THE IRON THRONE WITH US!?"

For a few minutes Plumm remained silent, and then fatalistically shrugged, "In his words, the Iron throne is nothing but a worthless piece of scrap metal and means nothing to him. According to him, a true king is recognized by his deeds, and not by sitting his useless arse on a piece of worthless junk. But since it means a lot to some of the other lesser lords in Westeros, he is willing to allow you to take it with you as compensation for peacefully vacating the Crownlands. That concludes his message, Your Grace!"

Every single person in the hall shot up to their feet, Robert included, with shock and horror on their faces. The sheer arrogance in the words, the disdain, the contempt in those words directed towards them, seared their hearts as if they were being branded by a burning iron rod.

"THAT FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!" Finally, Robert Baratheon gave in to his rage, and with a terrifying roar, grasped the armrests of the Iron Throne and without caring for the wounds that caused, heaved with all his might, until finally, the Iron Throne itself shook from its foundations. Without caring, in his rage, Robert brought forth all his monstrous strength and heaved until the Iron Throne itself tilted and then fell to the side with a thunderous crash!

A deathly silence prevailed in the hall and everybody lowered their eyes, not even daring to look at their King. The rumors about Robert Baratheon's monstrous strength had always been bandied about, and had gained some credence when he had crushed Rhaegar Targaryen's plate armor with a single blow of his Warhammer, but this, this shook their hearts to the core. Finally, they realized, that the demon of the Trident had well and truly been enraged beyond reason.

At that moment, they all knew deep in their hearts.

The Monster of Dorne was going to clash against The Demon of the Trident and this battle would decide the fate of Westeros.

Author's Note:

Thanks for waiting everyone. I have decided to do the reactions piece by piece as POV chapters. Kings Landing will be the first, and from their it will go through Casterly Rock, Highgarden, and end with Essos.

After which, we move on to the last arc of this story 'The Battle of Kings Landing'.