34

Deep within his castle, Harry was at his forge. Magical flames danced within the large, stone enclosure as he used pinchers to slowly rotate a bar of Valyrian Steel. The dark gray metal grew hotter and hotter before it finally glowed nearly white hot.

Valyrians of old used to use their dragons to make the metal, but all Harry was doing was reshaping it. Reshaping it … and adding a bit of his magic, of course. Placing the glowing bar on the anvil, Harry picked up his specially-made hammer. Goblins from back on Earth used to use similar hammers. Magic easily flowed through the handles and into the steel heads. With those particular hammers, Harry could infuse his magic directly into the metal while working it. Holding the bar with the large tongs, Harry swung down and struck the glowing bar, sending dozens of sparks flying in every direction. The loud, metallic clank of metal on metal made his ears ring a bit. Another strike sent even more sparks out, while the bar itself began to flatten. The more he struck it, the more the new blade was taking shape. When the bar began to cool, Harry placed it back into the forge. The magical fire quickly had the metal glowing hot within a few minutes.

After another twenty minutes of hammering it out, Harry had a rough shape to start with. Pulling it out of the forge, he placed it back on the anvil and held the hammer tightly in his grip. He allowed his power and will to enter the hammer. He focused solely on what he wanted to achieve … on what he wanted the blade to be. As he swung the hammer down, fiery, golden flashes of magic erupted with every powerful strike. Harry smiled wickedly, and he smiled harder with every strike.

Loyalty was a very fickle thing, especially on the strange planet he found himself on. In Essos and Westeros, loyalty often could be bought and sold, so Harry figured that if he was going to have Great Houses that ruled in his name, he should at least ensure that they remained loyal to him. Oaths were nice and all, but they meant nothing. Even his own father had broken his oath. Whether he had a good reason or not mattered little. Magical Oaths were even better, but there was no fun in that. That was when Harry remembered a certain work written by a man named Tolkien. One ring to rule them all? Harry didn't care for jewelry … but he was planning on handing out a Valyrian Steel sword to everyone he appointed the title to. Would it be so bad if it had compulsions laced into the metal to keep the bloodline who owned it loyal to its creator? Harry certainly didn't think so.

The Dread Lord of Essos

Harry smiled as he looked down below while riding atop his dragon, Daemon. Myr was gathering an army. Heavy weapons were being placed strategically around the city, and there were lines of wagons at their gates ladened with food and other necessities. It looked as though they were getting ready to be invaded. Their paranoia wasn't unwarranted. Harry made sure to fly Daemon above the city every few days. Sometimes he flew by low and buzzed them, and sometimes he just circled high above them, looking menacingly down upon them. Either way, the message was clear. They had obviously taken his actions as a threat. The Dread Lord was looking to expand his empire, and Myr being closest was first on the list. Harry continued to study the city from above, making mental notes about ballista placements. Once done, he flew back to Seven Swords to speak with his army captains.

The Dread Lord of Essos

"Archers!" Robb Stark called out. His men lifted their bows up and angled them. Each pulled back on their arrows and held them steady. He had recently received word from his mother that a tentative agreement had been made between the Lannister bastard and the Starks. He would not attack the North while a Stark remained at his castle. A strange agreement to be sure, but it mattered little to the Lord of Winterfell. If it meant that he could push further into the Westerlands, then it was fine with him. Besides, from what he read, his mother and sister were being treated very well and were more than happy to remain there for the time being. "FIRE!" he yelled loudly.

Hundreds of arrows whipped into the air. They arched high into the air and came down on their enemies. The men of Sarsfield dropped by the dozens as arrows pierced chests, backs, and sometimes even skulls. The few lucky enough to have wooden shields raised them in an effort to block the projectiles. Within seconds, another volley of arrows came falling out of the sky. Ser Alhere Sarsfield, a distant cousin of the Lord of Sarsfield, was trembling in his armor, though he refrained from showing it. Beside him, a young lad lowered his shield at exactly the wrong time, and an arrow pierced his eye. The head of the arrow exited the back of his skull and clanked against the inside of his metal helm. He dropped to his knees and muttered something in a painful voice, but he couldn't understand him. Only a moment later, he fell on his face … dead. All around him, men young and old were on the ground. Some were dead, most were groaning and wailing with wooden shafts protruding from various body parts. One boy no older than ten was stumbling around with an arrow in his palm. A second later, he was knocked over and partially trampled as the men at the front of the formation were retreating from the relenting barrage of arrows. Alhere did not know the fate of the boy, because just then, an arrow buried itself deep into his thigh, slipping right between his armor plating.

"AAAAAAARGHHH!" he cried out, dropping his shield and grabbing the arrow shaft. He tried weakly to tug it out, but it only caused him more pain. The pain was too much, and he fell on his ass. He tried to stand up, but the sharp pain kept him from doing so. The sounds of men screaming in the distance made him look up. From so low, he couldn't see what was going on.

"Come, Ser Sarsfield! The Northerners are pushing forward!" one of his men shouted, grabbing him from behind and lifting him to his feet. Now standing, he could see that he was indeed correct. Robb Stark's army was charging, even while the arrows were still falling. A meaty thunk and a gurgle made him turn his head. The lad that had helped him up was holding his throat. His eyes were bugged out, and he was choking on his own blood. It was easy to see why. An arrow had pierced his neck. With no way out, Alhere lifted his sword, ready to face the Northern savages that were charging them like madmen when all of the sudden, he was hit from behind and fell to the ground. Groaning in pain, he looked up to see hundreds of horses speeding past him. Far behind him, a warhorn blew, and he could see the crimson banners with golden lions stenciled on the front. It looked like the Lannister army had arrived to reinforce them. He chuckled happily before passing out from the pain.

The Dread Lord of Essos

The crowd of peasants was speaking quietly to one another, yet their voices were urgent. An uneasiness was hanging over the Square. Every minute, the crowd was getting bigger. Everyone was staring at the same thing. In the King's Square, where the Street of the Sisters and the Street of the Seeds met, a disturbing sight met their eyes. One hundred smallfolk had been skinned, impaled, and displayed in a macabre fashion. Most were men, but there were some women and even some children. It was a warning from Joffrey. Clearly, he was tired of the constant protests and riots. As punishment for their constant annoyances, Joffrey had restricted their food completely. Already they were starving. Now they were being butchered. Everyone looked at each other, knowing what needed to be done. The various leaders of the slums had already talked things through and had come up with a plan. It was time to make it happen. They went back to their hovels and shanties to prepare, spreading the word as they went. That night would be a bloody one.

In the Red Keep, Joffrey actually smiled for once. The chants had finally stopped. For months they had beat on the inside of his skull like some primitive war drum. Finally, he had a bit of peace and quiet.

"PLEASE! STOOOOOOP!" the whore screamed while letting out a blood-curdling cry. She was strung up spread eagle on his bedroom wall completely naked. Joffrey watched with fascination as the razor-sharp blade sliced open her belly, letting her innards spill out onto the ground. Her screams were much better than the cries of those peasants. Theirs simply gave him a headache. Hers aroused him deeply. He was almost sad when she spat out her last gurgling protest before going quiet. Tossing the bloody knife back on the table, he knelt down and picked up her intestines. He shuddered as they slipped through his fingers … so warm … so wet.

Just then, he heard those goddamned peasants start up again. He would surely make them pay for ruining his enjoyment. For the next few minutes, he tried to put the peasants' screams and chants out of his mind, but he simply couldn't. They were getting louder and louder with every passing second.

"Your Grace!" Ser Preston Greenfield yelled as he burst into Joffrey's quarters. He ignored the fresh corpse hanging from the King's wall. It wasn't a surprise to him. He was the one to bring the whores up to his room, and then he was responsible for cleaning up after Joffrey had his fun. What did he care if a few whores were gutted? They were better off without the filthy creatures.

"This had better be good," Joffrey warned. He wasn't in the mood for any more surprises that day.

"The Great Sept of Baelor! It burns!"

Just then, fire bells began chiming all over the city, including the massive one that was located in the Red Keep. Joffrey pushed himself to his feet and walked to his window. Ripping open the curtains, he looked toward the Sept and saw flames and smoke devouring the large building.

"So have the men put the fire out," Joffrey explained nonchalantly, wondering why everyone was so incompetent. He moved back to the whore to play with her some more, leaving Ser Preston to stare out the window. Within the next minute, dozens of fires had broken out. Plumes of black smoke rose high into the air, pinpointing the origins of each one. "The smallfolk are spilling into the Street of Seeds," he gasped. "They're very nearly at Shadowblack Lane!" he cried out.

Joffrey huffed and moved back to the window. He sneered when he saw that the smallfolk were indeed coming toward the Red Keep. Did they think he was scared of them? The idea of mocking them behind the closed, bronze gates was appealing to him. Especially when he ordered his men to drop boiling oil on their heads. A twisted smile formed on his slightly misshapen face. "Let us greet them!" he suddenly said. Unable to say no, Ser Preston followed the young King out of the castle and down the courtyard to the curtain wall which held the gate. Once they reached the gate, Joffrey ordered it closed.

"Bar the gates, you idiots! And you up there!" he called out. The men on the gate towers looked down at him. "Get the oil nice and hot!" he smirked smarmily.

"Yes, Your Grace!" they answered back. It wasn't long before smoke was pouring off of the towers as the King's men boiled large vats of whale oil. The noise coming from the rowdy mob was getting louder, and soon after, one of the City Watch ran up to the bronze gates.

"The smallfolk have taken the Alchemists' Guild!" he declared. "The Grand Master was pulled from the building and taken. We don't know what happened to the rest of the Wisdoms, but the building has been sacked. We will try to stall their march as much as possible," he bravely told them.

"Don't you dare!" Joffrey hissed. "Let them come. Tell your men to stand down!" he ordered. Everyone looked confused.

"But Your Grace…" one of the men started.

"Quiet, Fool!" Joffrey stood proud while behind the safety of the gate. "When the fleabags of this city arrive, they will be in for a very pleasant surprise," he gleefully told them. "In fact, get some archers on the tower as well … NOW!"

Joffrey decided that the tower was the best place for him as well. He would be able to see all of the violence and gore without anything hindering his sight. Both he and Ser Preston stood on the tower looking down into the city below. All were nervous except the King. The smallfolk had reached Shadowblack Lane where they stopped just past the bend in the road, at the foot of Aegon's High Hill. They were just waiting with their makeshift weapons in hand. Only a few had swords. Some had knives, while others carried pitchforks. There were even a few with wooden poles sharpened to a fine point.

"What are they waiting for?" Joffrey asked, looking over the side. "Have the archers fire!"

"They will not reach from that distance," Ser Preston told him. The look on his face told him to just do it. Sighing, he called out for them.

"ARCHERS! TAKE AIM!"

They raised their bows and pulled back on their strings. "FIRE!" he yelled.

Dozens of arrows flew into the sky and rained down below. Each arrow fell well short of even the closest smallfolk. They could all hear the smallfolk laughing uproariously over their failure. Joffrey's face turned red in rage. "They laugh at me?!" he hissed. Suddenly, everyone noticed a horse-drawn wagon moving up the hill … alone.

"Can you see who's driving?" Ser Preston asked, holding his hand above his eyes to try and block some of the waning sun's rays. The light of the late afternoon made it difficult to see.

"The sun's blindin' me eyes," one of the men answered back. The wagon was moving fast. It wasn't until the wagon was nearly at the gate that Ser Preston saw that no one was controlling the horses. There was an old man wearing the brown robe of a Pyromancer who was gagged with his hands tied. He was sitting in the wagon driver's seat. Not only that, but the wagon was loaded with hundreds of small, clay pots with lids. Before he could say anything, Joffrey decided to open his mouth again.

"Pour the oil on the old fool and set it alight!" he cried out. "Let the peasants watch their negotiator burn!" he laughed evilly. Right on cue, they tipped the mounted cauldrons over, sending gallons of oil onto the old man and the horses. The sound the horses made as skin and flesh melted from bone was one that many of the men would never forget. The old man was gagged and barely made a sound as he died quickly. Ser Preston looked at the archer as he touched the tip of his arrow into the fire pit. As he took aim, Joffrey squirmed in excitement. The arrow was launched and hit one of the horses in the side. A wave of orange flame spread out in every direction until it hit the wagon. Ser Preston watched as a small sliver of orange flame suddenly turned emerald green. His eyes widened.

"WILDFI…"

The smallfolk cheered as the entire gate exploded in a ball of green fire. Green tendrils of flames reached out in every direction. Both towers toppled over as a huge hole was blown into the wall. "C'mon lads!" one yelled out, and the rest followed, cheering as they made their way to the breach.

The Dread Lord of Essos

In his room, when the thunderous boom shook and rattled the castle, Varys was knocked off of his feet and landed painfully on the ground. Hissing from the bruise he would undoubtedly have, he slowly pushed himself to his feet. His door burst open, and one of his "Little Birds" ran in, wide-eyed and terrified.

"The smallfolk 'ave gone mad! They blew up the castle wall! Green flames everywhere!" he cried out. Varys knew that this was it. Thankfully, he had the foresight to prepare. He quickly opened his desk drawer and pulled out a small, draw-string bag filled with coins and an unsigned letter. He handed them to the young boy.

"Give these to Mollark," he ordered in his soft, feminine voice. "He'll make sure everyone is paid, and he will give you instructions on what to do next. Now quickly … GO!" he urged him. The boy nodded his head and ran out of the room, leaving Varys alone. He emptied his drawers and tossed his papers into the fireplace. Watching the flames to make sure they all caught fire, he then grabbed anything that he needed and closed the door to his room for the last time. He quickly but calmly made his way down to the lower levels of the Red Keep. He knew the bowels of the castle better than most. There he waited a few more minutes until he heard hurried footsteps. A boy no older than thirteen ran up to him breathing hard.

"Mollark said to come meet you, m'lord," he said breathlessly.

"Yes … Now come," Varys commanded and led him to the far end of the room. The boy watched as he disappeared into a shadowy corner of the oddly-shaped room. One of the corners of the room wasn't at a ninety-degree angle. Instead, it appeared as though the two walls curled and overlapped. The darkness of the room and the shadows prevented him from seeing the true dimensions, however. "Come along, boy. Hurry!" Varys called out impatiently. The boy swallowed loudly and followed. He walked into the shadows and squeaked in fright when a hand grabbed his arm and pulled him.

A torch was suddenly lit, and he could see that Varys had led him to a secret passage that he never knew was there. Right in front of them were several heavy-looking bags. "Grab those and follow close." The boy did as he was told.

The Dread Lord of Essos

Joffrey's eyes fluttered open, and he found himself confused. Where was he and why was his head aching? What was all this green light flickering around him? His thoughts were quite jumbled. Sitting up with a pained groan, he rubbed the back of his aching head before gingerly getting to his feet. His arm ached fiercely, as did his head. Reaching up, he touched his head and saw that there was blood on his fingers. He took a moment to look around. Green flames and a pile of rubble were all he could see. Of course, there was also the man running around completely covered in green flames. He was screaming bloody murder, which Joffrey found amusing. Joffrey attempted to walk but nearly fell over again from the dizziness and from the fact that the ground was covered with broken bricks. Still, he kept moving. He came upon a waist-high pile of rubble and began to climb over it, trying to get back to the castle. It didn't bother him that several arms and legs were sticking out from the pile. When he reached the top, he rolled down the other side. His ears were still ringing, so he didn't notice the mob coming until it was too late. Peasants were jumping over the piles of rubble, including the one he was laying on. Staying very still and quiet, he tried to keep them from noticing him.

One Kingsguard cut down three peasants before two others jumped on his back. Another pulled the sword from his grasp and ran it right through his spine. Joffrey could hear his screams over the ringing in his ears. Two more peasants dragged another Kingsguard into view. It was his dog, Ser Preston. The peasants held his arms and were pulling them in opposite directions. The one with the sword walked up and swung it fiercely, hacking at Ser Preston's already bloody head and neck repeatedly. Blood and meat flew in every direction as Ser Preston dropped to his knees. Even as he dropped, they continued to hack him to bits. Joffrey would have loved the display if he wasn't so scared. In fact, he was so scared that his stomach decided to relieve itself. The sound of him shitting his pants made the angry peasants turn in his direction. One brave peasant walked up to him with a wicked smile. "My King," he dipped his head respectfully before slamming his foot down on Joffrey's head. His world went black.

The Dread Lord of Essos

Jaime was woken up by the sound of the explosion. Since Cersei had left, Joffrey had excused him from his duties, not wanting him anywhere within sight. Because of this, he had very few duties and a lot of time on his hands. He spent much of that time drinking and whoring, just as his younger brother had done so often. The sound of the explosion had woken him from his hangover-induced sleep. Even in his less than sober state, he knew that the sound wasn't good. He also knew that the city was always one killing away from a riot. Quickly getting up, he grabbed his sword and ran out of his room in his disheveled state. It didn't take long to figure out what had happened. The castle was flooding with commoners, all of whom were killing and looting anyone and anything in sight. With only one duty on his mind, he ran into the fray.

Slashing and cutting down anyone in his way, he pushed forward toward the castle doors. That was when he heard the familiar screams of his son coming from the castle courtyard.

Rushing to try and save Joffrey, Ser Jamie cut down dozens of smallfolk who were rushing into the castle. All around him, Lords were beaten with sticks and hammers. He didn't even want to think about what was happening to the Ladies of the Court. A slash across the face with his sword sent one peasant to the ground and opened up a lane to get through. It seemed they feared his abilities with a blade, and no one was eager to step up. Finally able to push through to the castle steps, he looked around and saw a large crowd. Joffrey was on the ground with a rope tied to each wrist and each ankle. "LET ME GO, YOU FILTH! I AM THE KING!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.

Jaime was just about to run over there when several men grabbed his arms and wrenched the sword from his grip. He was forced to watch as another rope was tied around Joffrey's neck. "Bring the horses!" one peasant called out as Joffrey thrashed, trying to escape their holds.

"NO!" Jaime screamed, also trying to break free of their holds.

Five horses were led over to the King where the ropes were quickly tied to. "Any last words, Your Grace?" they asked sarcastically. Joffrey continued to thrash.

"HELP!" he screamed for his Kingsguard to save him.

"Heeya!" they called out, slapping the rumps of the horses.

Jaime watched as the horses ran in different directions. Joffrey's body was pulled taut, arms and legs splayed out. Instantly the tightening of the rope made his face turn red then purple. His eyes bugged out as a gasping, gurgling sound left his lips. His bloated tongue protruded from his open, horrified mouth. And just like that, with a sickening, wet pop, his skin stretched then tore and bone separated. One leg was ripped from his body just as his head was torn from his neck. His head rolled a dozen or so feet and was quickly snatched up by the crowd who tossed it around like some morbid game of catch. Jaime vomited all over himself.

"Kill him!" they yelled, not having seen enough bloodshed for the day. Jaime was nearly put to the sword before someone stopped them.

"That's King Harold's father!" one man smartly yelled. "He must not be harmed!" That was the last thing he heard before someone knocked him out with the butt of his own sword.

The Dread Lord of Essos

One of Harold's black trading ships was leaving the dock. On its deck was a certain bald eunuch who was watching the city go up in flames. He was smart enough to have already sent his gold and important possessions to his friend in Essos in anticipation of this day. Whether he liked it or not, the game was moving forward, and he could either move with it or be left behind. Another explosion of green flames could be seen as the boat sailed for hopefully calmer waters.