A ship bearing the banner of the Titan of Braavos slowly docked at King's Landing.
As the gangway was lowered, a young man dressed in an opulent orange-red robe descended gracefully. Surrounded by an entourage of guards, he made his way through the crowded, bustling docks and arrived at the Mud Gate.
There, the City Watch—draped in golden cloaks—blocked their path.
"Who are you?" one of the guards demanded.
"A guest from Braavos," the young man replied politely. "My name is Bruce, son of Sealord Ferrego Antaryon. I've come to seek an audience with His Majesty, Caesar."
"The Sealord's son?" The gold-cloaked guard scrutinized the man's elegant attire and the well-equipped guards behind him, then softened his tone. "King Caesar is at the Great Sept of Baelor today. You can wait at the Red Keep. But your guards cannot enter the city."
"Understood."
Bruce ordered his escort to remain outside the gates before following the City Watch into King's Landing.
The streets were unusually empty—almost as if the entire city had flocked to Visenya's Hill to witness the king's worship of the Seven.
Sensing an opportunity, Bruce asked to accompany them to the Great Sept instead.
At first, the gold-cloaked guard was reluctant, but a discreet gold coin quickly changed his mind. Smiling, the guard led the Braavosi prince toward the Sept.
As they turned onto Sept Street, the emptiness was replaced by throngs of people. Crowds swarmed on either side of the road, a sea of black heads stretching into the distance. The central street was cordoned off by the City Watch, leaving an open path for official processions—perfect for Bruce to advance quickly.
Before they reached the Great Sept, a thunderous roar echoed through the air.
Bruce looked up to see three massive dragons circling above Visenya's Hill. The largest, a white dragon, bellowed loudly, its jaws wide open.
Suddenly, the bells of the Great Sept began to toll.
The crowd stirred uneasily.
"What's happening?" Bruce asked, sensing the charged atmosphere.
The gold-cloaked guard had no chance to respond before the bells of the Red Keep began to ring in tandem.
Clang... clang... clang...
One after another, the bells of the city joined the mournful chorus.
Above, a flock of startled white doves burst into flight, their wings flashing against the sunlight.
"Someone important has died."
Hearing this, Bruce's face stiffened, and he unconsciously slowed his steps.
"Who has passed?" he asked cautiously.
"No idea," the guard replied. "But bells like this... the last time we heard them was when Lord Tywin, the Hand of the King, died."
The crowd's unease began to spread, rippling outward as people murmured and speculated about the sudden tolling.
Bruce's mind raced, filled with possibilities as his imagination conjured scenes of chaos and bloodshed.
Was King's Landing on the brink of another upheaval?
Had he not been on an important mission, the Sealord's son might have turned and fled from the political storm brewing in the city.
Pushing his misgivings aside, he pressed on. Before long, the golden dome of the Great Sept of Baelor came into view.
Contrary to his expectations, there was no apparent chaos. Bruce sighed in relief.
"Make way for His Majesty the King!"
A knight in gleaming white armor galloped forward, shouting commands.
Bruce quickly moved to the side of the street and knelt respectfully.
Suddenly, an overwhelming pressure radiated from Visenya's Hill. It was so intense that Bruce's heart raced, and his breath caught in his throat.
The white dragon loomed above, blotting out the sun. But it wasn't just the dragon that caught his attention—a radiant figure appeared at the far end of the road.
Standing atop a grand chariot surrounded by white-cloaked knights, this man had golden hair and eyes that shimmered like the sun. He exuded a divine presence, like a god descended to walk among mortals.
The gathered crowds instinctively prostrated themselves, chanting Caesar's name in reverence.
Bruce, too, knelt and dared not look directly into the king's eyes.
In his heart, a tempest of emotions churned—fear, awe, and respect. Whatever doubts or schemes he harbored dissolved like foam on the waves, leaving only pure reverence for this god-like king.
It wasn't until Caesar's procession disappeared into the distance that Bruce dared to rise. Even then, he gazed after the departing chariot with a mixture of wonder and trepidation.
At that moment, the nobles following Caesar's entourage began descending the hill.
Spotting a familiar face among them, Bruce
hurried forward and called out:
"You must be Lord Tyrion Lannister! I am Bruce Antaryon, son of the Sealord of Braavos."
Tyrion stopped, his mismatched eyes scanning the young man before him.
"Greetings, Lord Bruce. What can I do for you?"
"Can you tell me for whom the bells toll today? Who has passed?"
A shadow crossed Tyrion's face as he hesitated before answering.
"The High Septon."
"The High Septon?" Bruce exclaimed, startled. "How did he... pass away so suddenly?"
"Perhaps the Seven summoned him home," Tyrion replied with a shrug.
Bruce blinked, clearly unconvinced by the explanation. The High Septon's death, coinciding with Caesar's visit to the Great Sept, seemed too convenient to be mere coincidence.
"The High Septon committed sacrilege," another voice interjected.
Bruce turned to see a stern-faced man wearing a golden hand-shaped badge and the crest of a huntsman—a clear indication that this was Lord Randyll Tarly, the Hand of the King.
"He was struck down by divine retribution," Randyll continued, his tone unyielding. "The Seven themselves burned him for his sins."
The surrounding nobles nodded in agreement.
"Indeed. He cried, 'I have sinned,' moments before his death."
"He dared challenge His Majesty. His death was deserved."
Bruce noted how casually the nobles dismissed the High Septon's demise—a stark contrast to the traditional reverence afforded to the church. Ordinarily, the High Septon would have commanded more respect than the king himself.
Yet Caesar seemed to stand apart from such conventions.
The nobles' loyalty had clearly shifted. Some even voiced more extreme sentiments:
"His Majesty is the true voice of the Seven—a divine manifestation in the mortal world."
Not everyone agreed.
"Blasphemy!"
A shrill voice erupted from the gathered crowd.
"It was Caesar who used vile sorcery to kill the High Septon! He is the true heretic! The Seven will not tolerate such actions!"
The accusation was like a stone thrown into still waters, causing immediate ripples of unrest.
Voices rose in chaos—some defending Caesar, others calling for justice for the High Septon. Many, however, were simply confused and afraid.
Perhaps it was because Caesar's god-like appearance just now left a deep impression in everyone's mind, and the voices defending the king clearly prevailed.
Among the crowd, a group of people dressed in coarse robes and marked with red seven-pointed stars grew increasingly agitated. They seemed ready to clash with the gold-cloaked guards maintaining order.
Bruce watched as Randyll Tarly summoned a knight and whispered instructions. Moments later, the knight led a squad of City Watch guards into the crowd.
(End of Chapter)