The Red Keep stood atop Aegon's High Hill, the tallest of the three great hills of King's Landing. As the royal palace of the Seven Kingdoms, it overlooked the sprawling city below and the shimmering waters of Blackwater Bay beyond.
From its battlements, one could see Visenya's Hill crowned by the Great Sept of Baelor, and Rhaenys's Hill, where the Dragonpit loomed like the bones of some ancient beast.
This geography mattered.
Because contrary to Karl's expectations, Kevan Lannister had not attempted to flee King's Landing.
Tracking him through the chaos, Karl noticed something peculiar. When Kevan and the small force he had gathered passed through the Iron Gate, they showed no signs of escape.
In fact, they marched with purpose.
Straight toward the Red Keep.
Along the way, Kevan gathered scattered remnants of the Lannister forces—broken units, fleeing knights, stragglers desperate for leadership. Like a seasoned commander, he reorganized them even in retreat. With these men, he managed to drive off the clan warriors pursuing him and carve a path up Aegon's High Hill.
Then, without hesitation, he entered the Red Keep.
The massive gates slammed shut behind him.
This war had unfolded differently from typical sieges. The struggle for the outer city walls had not reached the intensity of prior conflicts. Thus, when Kevan retreated, relatively few were positioned to intercept him atop the walls.
Karl's order to prevent Kevan's escape had not spread quickly enough through the chaos.
The tribal warriors chasing him were forced back by the reorganized Lannister forces and could do little but retreat.
"I still lack enough men I can truly rely upon," Karl muttered inwardly.
He recognized the flaw immediately.
But there was no time to dwell on it.
Kevan Lannister, fleeing across the walls, did not realize that one man still pursued him through the burning city.
Karl.
Below Rhaenys's Hill lay Flea Bottom—the most infamous slum in King's Landing. Narrow alleys twisted like a maze. Beggars crowded the streets. The poorest of the city survived here in squalor.
As the fighting near the Dragon Gate ended and Lannister formations collapsed, Flea Bottom became both shield and chaos incarnate.
Broken Lannister soldiers fled blindly through its alleys.
Clan warriors pursued them with ruthless enthusiasm.
Fire spread.
Screams echoed.
Blood ran along cobblestones.
Plunder, slaughter, assault—the ugliest face of war unfolded openly.
Karl moved through it all, gilded longsword flashing. Each swing cut down another fleeing foe. But the chaos slowed him. Every corner held conflict. Every alley threatened delay.
By the time he reached the square before the Red Keep's outer bailey, Kevan had already vanished inside.
The gates were closed.
The square itself remained strangely untouched by the destruction consuming the rest of the city.
Karl stood in the shadow of a narrow alley and raised his eyes to the fortress.
The Red Keep's pale red stone walls towered overhead. Crenellations lined the battlements. Thick parapets guarded the archers' positions. Bronze gates and iron portcullises sealed the entrances. Smaller side gates lay hidden within layered defenses.
And between certain gatehouses, mounted upon iron spikes, were rows of severed heads.
Some were fresh.
Others had clearly hung for days.
Flies buzzed.
Fat ravens pecked at hollow eye sockets.
Cheeks had been torn away, exposing bone.
The display was meant as a warning.
Karl needed no explanation.
He swallowed the surge of anger rising within him.
Now was not the time.
What puzzled him more was Kevan's decision.
Why retreat here?
Why not flee west, regroup, preserve strength for another day?
Instead, Kevan had gathered what remained and sealed himself inside the Red Keep.
To defend it?
To make a final stand?
To threaten hostages?
Karl frowned.
The people inside meant nothing to him personally. If Kevan intended to use them as leverage, he misunderstood his opponent.
As long as the Iron Throne endured and Baratheon ruled, Kevan's gambit was meaningless.
Unless—
Unless there was something more.
Kevan Lannister was not a fool.
If he had chosen this path, there was a purpose.
Karl did not pursue immediately.
Do not chase a cornered enemy.
Do not enter a forest blindly.
Kevan's head was already a prize secured in fate.
There was no need to rush.
More urgent was the chaos spreading through King's Landing.
Karl withdrew.
He cleaned himself thoroughly, washing away blood and soot. He changed into polished plate armor. Jon had carefully cleaned his antlered greathelm—the stag crown gleaming in the fading sunlight.
He unfurled the crowned stag banner Robert had personally entrusted to him before his departure north.
Clad in shining armor, bearing the King's sigil, Karl rode once more through the city.
This time—not as a butcher.
But as a savior.
He issued strict commands:
"No killing of those who surrender."
"Capturing prisoners counts as merit."
The effect was immediate.
Men who had fought like cornered animals laid down their weapons when offered life. Few are born desperadoes; the instinct to survive is carved into every heart.
By dusk, order was restored.
The Lannister soldiers—three to four thousand of them—were disarmed and gathered. Over a thousand of Karl's own troops were assigned to guard them outside the Iron Gate, near Blackwater Bay.
Positioning them there reduced the need for manpower and minimized risk.
Karl would not waste energy on broken soldiers.
Throughout King's Landing, relief turned to celebration.
People realized they were alive.
They had survived.
On the marble plaza before the Great Sept of Baelor, beneath the towering statue of Baelor the Blessed, commoners gathered to pray.
They thanked the Seven.
They praised King Robert Baratheon I.
And they whispered a new name.
Karl Stone.
The Bastard who was not a bastard.
The knight who had exposed Lannister treachery.
The warrior who descended like divine wrath.
Songs began that very evening.
Taverns roared with drunken cheers.
Karl allowed himself a small measure of satisfaction.
He was glad he had chosen restraint.
Blood might win battles—but mercy won cities.
As the sun dipped low, casting golden light across Aegon's High Hill, Karl gathered three hundred men.
They marched once more toward the Red Keep.
Halfway up the hill, something unexpected happened.
From the watching crowd lining the roadside, a beggar stepped forward.
He wore a tattered cloak that reeked of filth. His beard was tangled. Greasy hair obscured his face.
He blocked the path.
Qira instinctively reached for her weapon, but Karl raised a hand.
The beggar lifted his hood.
"My lord—"
Before he could finish, Karl stepped forward slowly.
He circled the man.
The beggar straightened gradually. His posture shifted—from frail to sturdy.
Not a starving man.
A strong one.
Karl's lips curved faintly.
"You carry yourself like a noble," he said calmly. "And beneath that stench… I smell perfume."
The beggar's eyes flickered.
Karl stopped in front of him.
"Am I correct?"
"The Master of Whisperers—Lord Varys?"
It was a gamble.
But Karl's confidence never wavered.
The man's disguise was superb. Yet only one person in King's Landing would dare block his army with such composure.
The Spider.
Varys's pupils trembled—just slightly.
Then he smiled.
He removed the false beard. The wig followed. His posture softened into familiar stoop.
His voice changed—higher, smooth, unmistakable.
"Ser Karl's insight is… extraordinary," he said with a mild chuckle. "Indeed, His Grace was wise to trust you."
He bowed slightly.
"You are correct."
"I am Varys."
The Octopus Spider had blocked his road.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)