The gates of King's Landing groaned open under the weight of four years of relentless war. The battered remnants of Robert Baratheon's army trudged through the scorched fields outside the capital, banners hanging limp, armor blackened with soot and blood. The Red Keep stood proud and untouched above the suffering city, but even its stones seemed to bear witness to the death that had gripped the realm.
Robert Baratheon rode at the head of the procession, his warhammer strapped across his back, his once-mighty frame slumped with exhaustion. The crown had not yet been placed upon his brow, but he was king in all but name. He had earned his throne not by blood, but by fire, steel, and sacrifice.
Behind him rode Jon Arryn, his face grave and pale, the old man weighed down not only by the burden of victory but by the cost of it. To his side were the Tullys, their numbers diminished. House Tyrell had sent envoys, but Highgarden itself was still licking its wounds after the battles with the Lannisters. And of course, Tywin Lannister was there, his golden hair dulled with ash, his crimson cloak torn and stained with the blood of his legions.
The gates closed behind them with a final, echoing clang.
Inside the Red Keep, the smallfolk whispered in fear as the conquerors approached. Many remembered the last time the city had burned—when Aerys had threatened to unleash wildfire upon them all. But the Mad King was gone. Slain not in battle, but quietly, by his own son. Rhaegar Targaryen had died on the Trident, and his father had followed him soon after. No Targaryen sat the throne.
In the throne room, the Iron Throne loomed above the chamber like a monster wrought of swords. It waited.
Robert entered slowly. He stood in silence, staring at the great edifice of kingship, forged by fire and fear. For a moment, he seemed frozen. Then he turned to the assembled lords.
"This is what we bled for?" he growled, voice thick with scorn and weariness.
There was silence.
Jon Arryn stepped forward. "You are the king now, Robert. The realm must be healed. The people look to you."
Robert looked past him, out a tall, broken window. Smoke still curled in the distance, and the smell of rot hung in the air.
"What people?" he spat. "Half the country starved, the rest dead or fled. The Reach is burning, the Riverlands drowned in blood. Dorne is a wound that festers. And the North… gods help the North."
"Peace must begin somewhere," Lord Hoster Tully said. "Let it begin here."
Tywin Lannister's voice cut through the air, cool and commanding. "Rebuilding begins not with kindness, but with order. We must secure trade routes, open the ports, and punish those who continue to fight under false banners."
Robert's eyes narrowed. "Aye, and line your vaults while you're at it, eh Tywin?"
Tywin did not rise to the bait. "We are all weaker for this war. But our enemies are not only within. Essos watches us like vultures. The Iron Bank will soon demand payment. If we do not establish dominance swiftly, we may not keep the realm at all."
Lord Jon Arryn intervened. "Let us not turn on each other. The Great Houses must stand united if we are to survive the aftermath."
Robert turned to him, eyes tired. "And where is your shining knight now, Jon? Where is Eddard? He abandoned me."
"He saved your cause," Jon said evenly. "He preserved the North when it could have fallen into chaos. He protected your future without asking for glory."
Robert grunted. "And what of Grafton? He kept to himself. Sold grain and iron to both sides, never raised his banner."
"Edward Grafton kept the Vale from collapsing," Jon replied. "He made sure the eastern ports still functioned. Without Gulltown's ships, we'd have never reached the Stormlands in time. Without his gold, half your army would have deserted."
Tywin added, "The man is ambitious, but not reckless. You will need men like him if you mean to rule."
The chamber fell into tense silence.
Robert finally walked up to the Iron Throne and placed a hand on one of its twisted swords. "It doesn't feel like victory. It feels like a tomb."
Jon Arryn stepped forward. "Then let it be the tomb of old ghosts. Let the realm live again."
That night, the new king did not sleep in the royal chambers. He drank alone, staring out at the blackened city below. The smallfolk dared not celebrate. Their king had won, but no joy followed him.
Meanwhile, messengers were dispatched across the Seven Kingdoms.
In the North, Eddard Stark watched the first snowflakes fall upon Winterfell's walls and wondered how long peace would last.
In Gulltown, Edward Grafton stood at the top of his fortified tower and stared out at the ships entering his growing harbor. His men were building a new dock, his merchants expanding into Essos. He heard the news of Robert's arrival and raised a goblet in solitary salute.
The realm had a new king.
But the game was just beginning.