Building an Empire in Game of Thrones (REWORKED VERSION)-Chapter 93: Sept of Baelor

Slamming her fist on the table, Cersei balled up the paper that was in her hands. "They've captured my father and subjugated the North. And then on top of that we have an ultimatum from the Emperor himself." The Small Council had to convene an emergency meeting in response to recent events and message raven they got from the West.

Across the table, Tyrion was visibly distressed with the situation. He was already not liked very much by Cersei and Joffrey and the only thing keeping him alive was their father Tywin who placed him as Hand in his place. But since Tywin has been captured by the Imperials, what was stopping Joffrey or Cersei from torturing him.

"Maybe, My Lady we need to send soldiers to go and save the Imperial Lord who was taken prisoner by the Faith Militant. If we do this, then maybe we can negotiate with the Emperor." Maester Pycelle suggested. He had recently been released from his captivity by Tyrion after Cersei threatened him.

"Negotiate?" Joffrey questioned. "This Emperor has conquered six of my seven Kingdoms, and you think we should negotiate with him. We should be out there fighting and showing those weak and pathetic lords how a King leads."

"And how do you propose we do that, Your Grace?" Tyrion asked, sipping from his goblet. "By riding out personally with what remains of the Crownlands' forces and throwing yourself into the mouth of a dragon?" He tilted his head. "I assure you, the effect would be dramatic, if not particularly long-lasting."

"Shut your mouth, Imp!" Joffrey shouted, slamming his fist on the table. "I am your King!"

"And yet, kings can still die," Tyrion murmured darkly, though just loud enough for everyone to hear.

Aurane Waters, the bastard of Driftmark and House Velaryon was the current Master of Ships. In these desperate times even, Bastards had their uses so he offered his advice to the Small Council. "My lords, my lady... and Your Grace. We mustn't lose ourselves to emotion. What we face is not a rebellion or foreign incursion, but an empire, that is disciplined, unified, and backed by power we cannot match, especially now that Lord Tywin has been taken."

Cersei rose from her seat and began to pace. "We have dragons in our skies, foreign armies marching through our lands, and now every other kingdom is bending the knee. The North, the Vale, the Riverlands, the Reach, even Dorne. Dorne! They wouldn't lift a finger for the realm in Robert's Rebellion, and yet they kneel before this... this Maximus."

"Because Maximus has power and has always been against the crown," Aurane said. "He is not some barbarian tyrant. He is a conqueror with vision and control. He threatens annihilation, yes, but then offers order, prosperity, and peace. And now with Tywin gone, the last real counterbalance to his advance has vanished."

"Peace bought with submission is slavery!" Cersei spat. "What does he even want? Why not just kill us and be done with it?"

"Because unlike you," Tyrion replied, "he seems to understand politics. He wants legitimacy. He wants loyalty from former enemies, not a graveyard of corpses he must rebuild from scratch."

Pycelle cleared his throat nervously. "There is, perhaps, some wisdom in reaching out. If we were to offer some token of cooperation... the Emperor might consider sparing King's Landing."

"Or turn it into rubble," muttered Ser Meryn Trant from his place against the wall. "We're in no state to fight dragons or this Imperial army."

"Enough of this," Joffrey said, standing. "We'll rally the Stormlands. Lord Tarly still commands forces. The Crownlands are mine. The Emperor wants a fight, then he shall get one. And when he lays siege to my city, I'll hang his dragons from the walls and feed his soldiers to the hounds!"

Tyrion slowly rose to his feet. "You will do nothing of the sort. You'll sit here in your palace and let others bleed for your pride while you play king. If we fight Maximus now, we lose. This isn't a war we win. It's a war we survive. If survival is even possible."

Cersei looked between them all, her eyes burning. "So, we're just supposed to accept his rule? Let the Lannister legacy be ended? Let Tywin die a prisoner? No. No, there must be another way..."

Aurane gave a slight smile. "There may be a way to stall him. A gesture of peace. Perhaps the Emperor would be more patient if we... returned his captured ambassador from the Sept of Baelor?"

Joffrey sneered. "You want me to bow to the Faith, free the man they claim is some kind of heretic? That traitor who arrived in gold and steel like a god? They'll riot in the streets."

"Let them," Tyrion said coldly. "A few stones thrown are preferable to a city burned. Besides, your reign has never been popular." As Tyrion finished this, the entire Keep had shook as if something heavy had just landed on top of it.

"What was that!" shouted Joffrey as he was visibly scared.

"I don't know." replied Cersei as she turned to Ser Meryn. "Ser Meryn, go and find out what's going." she ordered. Ser Meryn reluctantly agreed and had left to see what was going on.

Several minutes later, Ser Meryn had returned with the rest of the Kingsguard. "Your Grace, there are dragons all around the city!"

"Dragons?" Cersei questioned, her voice caught between fury and disbelief. "How many?"

"I stopped counting after 20," Ser Meryn said, wiping sweat from his brow, "They're bearing the banners of the Imperial Union. They're circling the Sept and the Red Keep. One landed directly on the tower spire." freēwēbηovel.c૦m

Joffrey's face paled. "This is an invasion!"

Tyrion finished the rest of his wine and slammed the goblet down. "No, Your Grace. This is a rescue operation. The Emperor has come for the Imperial Ambassador."

As if summoned by his words, the windows of the Small Council chamber darkened as a massive shadow passed overhead. The shrill screech of a wyvern echoed through the sky like a harbinger of death. Outside, commoners scattered and screamed, retreating into homes or diving for cover as the Imperial wyverns descended onto the plaza in front of the Sept of Baelor.

On the Wyvern's back, the riders carried a few Witch Elves whose mission was to kill as many Faith Militants as they wanted and rescue Lord Theon. They wore their typical clothing which consisted of some very revealing clothing that covered the most important parts but still left much to be seen. Shadowhand agents fanned out across rooftops, drawing their swords as they surrounded the Sept. They had already disabled the anti-dragon weapons that the city had, rendering them useless.

Inside the Sept of Baelor, Lord Theon and Varys sat chained in the dungeons below, their cell doors reinforced by stone and prayer runes scribed in blood by the militant priests of the Faith.

Upstairs, High Septon Maelgor, wrapped in silken robes and carrying a seven-pointed star of steel, addressed a gathered crowd of Faith Militant and lowborn faithful alike.

"Today, we prove our devotion to the Seven!" he shouted. "We will not kneel to these godless beasts, to this false Emperor and his servants! We..." He was interrupted by a loud crash as the glass window was shattered. Over a dozen Witch Elves had descended.

Their laughter echoed throughout the Sept, eerie, melodic, and inhuman, as they faced the Faith Militant. The Witch Elves of the Imperial Union, trained in forgotten martial rites, struck instantly, their curved blades seeking out the blood of their enemies.

A red mist filled the Sept as the first few Faith Militant were torn apart, limbs sliced at the joints, throats opened, and eyes plucked out by daggered fingers. Screams were replaced with prayers.

Maelgor's voice faltered at the sight of this massacre. "Stand fast! Stand fast for the Seven!" he cried.

He was answered by a spear that was hurled through the air, impaling a septon behind him and pinning him to the marble wall like a moth to parchment.

From the rafters, a Witch Elf landed directly before Maelgor, her long white hair stained with blood. She grinned and whispered in a tongue never heard of before in Westeros. "You're no god's voice... only a man who pretends." She slit his throat with one motion.

Around her, the battle became a massacre. The Witch Elves moved as if in a trance, weaving through sword strikes like spirits of death, driven by the ecstasy of violence. Their blood-slicked blades danced, and their war cries turned the Sept into a shrine of carnage. Stained glass shattered and statues were destroyed in the process.

One Witch Elf disemboweled a man alive, cackling madly as she carved sigils into his chest with her fingernails. Another leapt from one end of the room to the other, cleaving heads with her twin daggers before disappearing into the shadows.

Outside, the plaza was in full retreat, the remaining Faith Militant men tried to flee, but were intercepted by Shadowhand agents who emerged from alleyways and roofs. The wyverns above roared, spitting gouts of flame into the sky to keep the crowd away.

Below the Sept, in the dungeons, Theon Valerion heard the commotion, the explosions, the screams. Varys leaned toward him, smiling faintly despite the situation. "I believe your Emperor has sent his... finest."

The door exploded inwards, and three Witch Elves walked in. One crouched low, inspecting Theon's shackles. The other two fanned out and slit the throats of the guards before they could even stand.

The Witch Elf who approached Theon looked him over, eyes narrowing. "Lord Theon Valerion?"

He nodded, blinking. "I am."

She sliced through his chains with a blade that hissed with venom. "You are wanted. Alive." She cut Varys loose as well.

"You honor me," Varys said, straightening his dirtied robe. "May I ask your name, my lady?"

She looked at him and said in a cold voice. "I am not your lady."

"Of course." he replied, scared to even say anything else.

They ascended through the stairwells. Smoke now choked the halls of the Sept. The upper levels had become a warzone of smoldering corpses. As the group emerged into the sacred chamber, they found piles of bodies, mangled and still twitching, spread across the floors like fallen wheat.

A Witch Elf approached, her face and arms soaked in blood. "We are done here," she said to her sisters.

Without another word, they gathered around Theon and Varys. One of the wyverns crashed through the entrance and crouched low. The Witch Elves vaulted onto its back. Lord Theon and Varys were pulled up behind them.

As Wyvern took flight, another Wyvern finished burning Sept, causing it to collapse. The bell that stood on top came crashing down and the walls were destroyed.

From the Red Keep, Joffrey stared, mouth agape. "They burned the Sept. They killed the High Septon!" There was nothing they could do except watch the Sept burn. Tyrion seeing this, already started to plan his escape from Kingslanding. If he remained here any longer then he would lose his life fighting for people who would much rather see him dead.