Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 381: Cersei Seeking to Survive

When the last stag banner fell, a sudden rumble of thunder echoed overhead. One drop, two drops, three—raindrops, as large as beans, began to pound the blood-soaked ground, forming small pits in the black-and-red mud. More pits appeared, turning into pools of muddy water that flowed unchecked, washing away footprints, hoofprints, and the deep ruts left behind.

Clerks moved through the aftermath, counting the losses and gains. Unlike the fierce battles of the past, this one-sided clash had claimed fewer lives. He estimated the final casualties on both sides would be fewer than 10,000—perhaps even 7,000 or 8,000. Viserys’s losses would not exceed 1,500, and that included only the dead, not the wounded. Even the giants had simply paraded the banners around the battlefield, never once touching blood.

Viserys, however, had no desire to meet with the defeated noble families of the Riverlands and Westerlands. After all, Conwyra had delivered Robert to him alive.

The pounding rain on the tent's canvas was nearly deafening, drowning out the sounds from outside. Viserys’s tent, guarded by the elite Order of the Dragon, formed an impenetrable ring. Beyond them, a thousand Unsullied stood watch. Inside, the tent was packed with Viserys's senior officers, their faces tense in the flickering lamplight.

At the table, Viserys and Daenerys sat, the Lightbringer—a relic pried from a pile of ashes—laid before them.

In the center of the tent stood Robert Baratheon, bound tightly in ropes. A rag, torn from his battle standard, was stuffed in his mouth, though it was unclear whether he would even bother to speak. His armor remained on, but his hair hung in wet, disheveled clumps over his face, masking his eyes. The corner of his mouth was swollen—perhaps from a punch, or from his own fall.

Jon Connington stood nearby, his eyes fixed on Robert. Of everyone present, Connington seemed the most affected. It had been nearly sixteen years since the rebellion began. So many lives lost, so much chaos in Westeros—all because of his own failure or misguided sense of honor. The Targaryens had nearly been wiped out, and he had watched the Blackfyre line rise to power in their place.

As Connington looked at Viserys and Daenerys sitting behind the table, he felt a lump rise in his throat. Without unyielding perseverance and an extraordinary stroke of fate, they would never have come this far.

'History will remember this day,' he thought. 'The War of Restoration.'

"Congratulations, Your Grace! The shame of usurpation has been washed away! Long live Viserys! Long live Daenerys!" Connington drew his sword and raised it high above his head in salute to Viserys. Following his lead, the others unsheathed their blades in unison.

Hoyt, Roth, Young Connington, Dick, Gerrold, Conwyra, and the rest all turned their eager eyes toward Viserys and Daenerys.

"Long live Viserys! Long live Daenerys!" they chanted, their voices rising in chorus.

"Long live Viserys! Long live Daenerys!"

Kneeling on the ground, Robert could feel the cheers digging into his soul like knives. His body trembled uncontrollably, tormented by the echoes of their celebration. His mind drifted back to the day he had ascended the Iron Throne. The sounds of joy and revelry had filled the Throne Room, enveloping him in a victory that seemed eternal. At that time, all that remained of the Targaryens was Dragonstone and a few scattered ships. But then, a storm had swept it all away.

When his fleet sailed to Dragonstone, the resistance had been pitiful, barely worth mentioning. The only regret was that Viserys and Daenerys had escaped. 'If I had known this was where I’d end up, I would’ve sent my forces sooner,' he thought bitterly. 'Even if it meant attacking Braavos itself.'

Suddenly, Robert recalled something his father had once told him, and with a surge of determination, he struggled to his feet. His abrupt movement caught the attention of everyone in the tent, and Eustace marched over, delivering a swift kick to Robert’s head.

"What are you squirming for, usurper? Want me to fetch you a doe?" he sneered.

The others watched in cold silence, their faces expressionless. Viserys raised a hand, motioning for the rag to be pulled from Robert’s mouth. Blood and saliva dripped from the gag as it was yanked away. Robert coughed twice, then locked his gaze on Viserys.

"Do you want to know how I killed Rhaegar the rapist?" Robert rasped.

"Bastard!" someone shouted.

"What's that creature screaming about!" another roared.

"I’ll kill him myself!"

The taunt sparked a wave of anger throughout the tent. Even Daenerys, seated beside Viserys, felt the heat rise in her chest, her violet eyes flashing with cold fury. But Viserys raised his hand again, silencing the commotion. He gestured for Robert to continue.

"Rhaegar was a skilled warrior," Robert began, his voice steady now. His blue eyes drifted upward, staring blankly at the canvas above his head, as though lost in the memory. "He wounded me badly. I pretended to surrender. And when he lowered his weapon, I struck. When he wasn't paying attention..."

Robert smirked, his gaze snapping back to Viserys and Daenerys, his eyes daring them. 'Go ahead! Kill me!' his expression seemed to say. The officers and advisers surrounding him seethed with rage, muttering threats to tear him apart.

Viserys, however, remained utterly unmoved, his face cold and expressionless.

"Your Grace," Hoyt murmured, stepping forward slightly. "If you wish, you could hand him over to Meris."

Viserys stood up and walked over to Robert, his eyes cold and unyielding.

"Robert," he said, his voice low and grim, "I don’t know why you’re in such a hurry to die, but I promised I’d kill you at the Ruby Ford, and that’s exactly where it will happen. I’ll break your bones and scatter them there, and from that day on, it’ll be known as Stag Bone Ford."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence, Viserys’s tone sharp with finality.

...

The news of Robert’s defeat soon reached Harrenhal, sending the castle into chaos. Inside, Cersei cradled little Tommen in her arms. He wasn’t so little anymore, and not nearly as fat as before. Tommen was sharp enough to sense that their world was crumbling around them. He had already lost a noticeable amount of weight since they’d fled King’s Landing.

Joffrey, despite being fourteen and taller than most his age, looked hollow and lifeless. He had grown, yes—towering over his peers and standing eye-to-eye with many adults—but his spirit was weak. In the face of the chaos, he could only huddle close to his mother, clutching Tommen for comfort.

"Mother," Joffrey asked, his voice trembling slightly, "didn’t the Onion Knight take Myrcella to form an alliance? Why hasn’t he returned?"

Neither Joffrey nor Cersei knew that Myrcella had been detained in Tyrosh. Cersei, already fraught with worry, could only offer her eldest son a strained, anxious look. Outside, the sounds of disorder echoed through the halls—fighting, the crash of crockery shattering, and hurried, frantic footsteps.

The soldiers had been led away by Robert, leaving Harrenhal defenseless. Inside, the few remaining maidservants and servants were desperately looting whatever valuables they could find. Robert hadn’t even left Cersei a dozen guards. He had taken not only her personal guard but even the men Tywin had assigned to protect her. Robert's final cruelty was not just abandoning her at Harrenhal—he had trapped her there with Joffrey and Tommen, left to face the chaos alone.

Cersei knew this was Robert’s revenge. He wanted her to die here, in the chaos of his defeat, along with her children.

"Oh, no. The king will have twenty, and you will have three. Gold shall be their crowns, and gold their shrouds."

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