Chapter 143 – Crowned King
Under the blazing, merciless sun, waves of heat shimmered above the ruins of the city.
From above, the former capital beside Blackwater Bay looked like a blackened scar upon the earth—collapsed buildings, fractured stone, scorched streets. Everywhere bore the marks of wildfire's devastation.
And yet, if one looked closely, beneath that pitted and broken exterior, life stirred.
Faint at first. Then growing.
Men, women, children, and the elderly—dressed in patched and threadbare clothes—moved through the city's outskirts, bending low among the ruins. From a distance, they resembled swarming ants spreading in every direction.
They were scavenging.
Though King's Landing had been consumed by wildfire, not everything had burned. Metal survived. Coins survived. And so did opportunity.
Occasionally, a triumphant shout rang out when someone uncovered something valuable. Whether they traded it at once or kept it for themselves depended entirely on circumstance and desire.
Under the supervision of the Sparrows, order—of a kind—prevailed. The city was vast, its survivors comparatively few. There were countless hidden corners to search; no one needed to fight over scraps.
Trading gathered primarily at Cobbler's Square, near an intact military encampment. Before the destruction, it had been a bustling commercial district. Its flat black stone paving had resisted much of the wildfire's fury, making it one of the few places that required little effort to reclaim.
A better location might have been the plaza before the ruins of the Great Sept of Baelor, centrally located and accessible from all directions. But that area was firmly under the control of the Faith Militant. Wandering there freely was not permitted.
It seemed domineering.
Yet no one resented them.
Without the Faith's armed forces, chaos would have consumed the ruins long ago.
The Faith Militant was divided into the Warrior's Sons and the Poor Fellows. Under the direction of the Sparrows, they had assumed roles once held by knights and city guards, administering the shattered capital much as the nobles once had.
But there was one crucial difference.
There was no exploitation.
The Faith protected the ruins and welcomed refugees displaced by war. In return, it demanded strict adherence to the Seven-Pointed Star. The rules were rigid. Violations were punished without hesitation.
But compared to the excesses and abuses of former lords, such rules seemed a small price.
And with rumors spreading that King's Landing was now a hidden "treasure ground," many war-torn peasants flocked to it in hope.
Under careful organization from the Faith's higher clergy, roles were assigned clearly. The elderly and children were free to scavenge. Able-bodied men were required either to assist in reconstruction or to train with the Poor Fellows in defense of the city.
Through these measures, a fragile vitality had returned.
Scavenging. Rebuilding. Clearing streets.
And then—
From the plaza of the Great Sept came the sound of bells.
Clear. Resonant. Unmistakable.
Conversations halted. Hands stilled. Merchants paused mid-transaction. Every face turned toward the sound.
"What's happening?"
"No idea."
"I heard the King of Dragonstone is being crowned."
"Didn't he already get crowned? Before the wildfire? Why again?"
"Who knows."
"A king? I hate kings…"
Despite their murmuring, people began drifting toward the source of the bells.
---
Within the Red Keep—painstakingly cleared by soldiers over many weeks—a small portion had been restored sufficiently for royal residence.
Inside Maegor's Holdfast, on the second floor of what had once been the king's private chambers, Stannis Baratheon stood before a tall mirror recently delivered by a Myrish merchant.
He adjusted his attire carefully.
The crowned stag of House Baratheon gleamed upon his chest. Gold-threaded velvet robes fell heavily about his frame. His thinning hair had been combed back with stern precision.
Gazing at his reflection, Stannis spoke in a low voice.
"If I remember correctly, I stood here not long ago. Beside me were Bryen Farring and Parmen Crane. And of course—my loud-eared wife."
He glanced sideways at the bearded knight attending him.
"Now only you remain."
Davos Seaworth offered him a belt. "Your Grace, Her Ladyship was merely misguided."
"Misguided?" Stannis tightened the belt with a sharp pull. "She has never been clear-headed. To encourage my bannermen to abandon me—!"
"And that Melisandre. A religious fanatic dripping lies."
"Burning the statues of the Seven? Sacrificing men to flames? I would sooner stand with the Sparrows than rule as a mad king!"
"The Seven will bless Your Grace," Davos said quietly.
"Seven…" Stannis muttered.
For reasons he could not quite articulate, a certain figure came to mind—someone who had altered the balance of power in Westeros in ways none had foreseen.
He snorted.
"The Seven may be great, but Their judgment is not always flawless. Still… today is a joyous day."
A rare smile—hard and fleeting—touched his stony features.
"The High Sparrow's submission is thanks in part to you," he said, looking at Davos with genuine approval.
"I merely delivered messages," Davos replied humbly. "The Sparrows see clearly. Your justice and discipline make you the rightful king. All men know this."
"All men?" Stannis' smile faded. "I hope you are right."
With that, he adjusted his collar one final time and strode from the chamber—toward his second coronation.
The bells continued to toll.
Davos followed close behind. Once outside the chamber, a squad of guards quickly assembled around them.
By the time Stannis reached the first-floor hall, a gathering of well-dressed nobles and lords had already been waiting. Upon seeing him, they bowed deeply, then fell in behind him as the procession moved toward Baelor's Square outside the Red Keep.
There were far fewer of them than before—at least half gone.
After Stannis' falling-out with the Red Woman, many of his former supporters had followed her departure. The so-called "queen's men" had abandoned him without hesitation.
For a time, his position had seemed precarious—almost bleak.
But the Faith's allegiance had stabilized his faltering power.
And now, under the witness of the Faith, he would be crowned king—truly crowned.
Davos' earlier words echoed faintly in his mind:
"The Faith's influence runs deep. With their support, the suspicion surrounding the wildfire will be erased. You will become the sole legitimate king of Westeros."
Stannis quickened his pace.
Mounted and riding forward, buildings slipped past on either side. Exiting the Red Keep, they passed beneath the shadow of Aegon's High Hill and continued straight toward the square. The distance was not great; within a quarter hour, they arrived.
The scars of wildfire were still visible in Baelor's Square. No matter how many times workers had scrubbed the stone with water, streaks and discolorations remained—permanent, irremovable reminders of catastrophe.
But the square's new purpose eclipsed its wounds.
At its far end, beneath the ruins of the Great Sept of Baelor, a raised platform had been constructed. It would serve as Stannis' coronation dais.
The bells rang continuously.
Ascending the steps toward the platform, Stannis found a group of septons already waiting. They bowed deeply as he approached.
He accepted their reverence without comment—though clearly pleased—then turned to look upon the gathering crowd below.
Under the clear peal of bells, the people of King's Landing converged from every direction. From sparse clusters to dense masses, they flowed like tributaries into a widening lake of humanity, murmurs swelling into a restless roar.
It was, admittedly, a humble stage for a king.
A platform in a half-ruined square, backed by the skeletal remains of a once-grand cathedral.
But the city had few intact venues.
And more importantly—this had been the High Sparrow's condition.
A truly righteous king, he had insisted, should don his crown before all his people—not hide behind castle walls feasting with lords.
Stannis agreed.
Thus the coronation would take place here.
As if blessed by the gods themselves, the sky was cloudless. Sunlight poured down unhindered, bathing Baelor's Square in brilliant clarity. Spirits lifted with the warmth.
The crowd thickened.
The newly formed Poor Fellows maintained order. Soldiers loyal to Stannis assisted.
Around the platform stood groups of young men clad in simple black robes. Upon their foreheads burned the black sigil of a seven-pointed star. Heavy black iron chains wrapped their bodies. Their expressions were stern and unyielding.
Though poorly dressed, they fought with fearless discipline. Several times already they had driven back opportunistic nobles who sought to seize the city during its vulnerable days.
Stannis had considered how best to use these men once he secured the throne—but the Faith's influence complicated matters.
After the coronation, he told himself.
Taking a steady breath, he knelt at the High Sparrow's gesture before a statue of the Seven set upon the platform.
"Today, before the Eternal Gods…"
The High Sparrow stood beside him. After a brief invocation, he raised his voice.
"Stannis Baratheon, do you solemnly promise to govern the peoples of these realms and your dominions, to rule their lands, and to respect their laws and customs?"
"I do."
"Will you, with mercy in your heart, uphold justice and the laws of the realm to the best of your ability?"
"I do."
"And will you—"
The ceremony progressed in solemn quiet.
Finally, the High Sparrow declared:
"The gods shall grant you authority over all the people, and you shall act as Their earthly representative—exercising the power They bestow and defending your kingdom and subjects."
There was no anointing with holy oils. No kneeling nobles swearing fealty.
Instead, the High Sparrow lifted a seven-hued crown from a silver platter.
"Under the witness of the Seven Above, Stannis of House Baratheon shall now be crowned king."
He raised the crown.
But before it could descend upon Stannis' bare head, it halted midair.
The High Sparrow's voice cut sharply through the air.
"Before that—do you acknowledge and repent your imprisonment of the God's emissary, Charles Cranston?"
The words struck like a thunderclap.
The crowd froze.
Stannis' eyes widened in disbelief as he looked up at the grey-robed elder.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then nobles erupted in protest—
"This is outrageous!"
"Your Grace need not answer—!"
They surged forward, only to be blocked by the Warrior's Sons.
The square descended into chaos.
But the people—oh, the people—
They began to shout.
"Confess!"
"Confess!"
"Even a king must answer for offending the God's emissary!"
"Confess!"
The High Sparrow did not raise his voice. He simply spoke again:
"Scripture teaches that all sins may be forgiven—but first they must be confessed. Your punishment is to admit your wrongdoing before all."
"Stannis Baratheon—do you acknowledge and repent your imprisonment of the God's emissary Charles Cranston? Before the Seven Above and before your people?"
"You are playing with fire," Stannis hissed.
"A true servant of the gods fears no fire," the High Sparrow replied calmly.
"We can discuss this privately," Stannis muttered through clenched teeth.
The High Sparrow shook his head.
"Do you acknowledge and repent your imprisonment of Charles Cranston?"
The crowd roared again.
Stannis trembled with fury.
He could draw his sword—kill this meddlesome fanatic where he stood.
But he did not.
Instead, he forced himself to think.
Conflict now would shatter everything.
But humiliation…
Humiliation would cost him pride—but gain legitimacy. The Faith's support would clear him of wildfire accusations. The Faith Militant would stand behind him. He would be recognized as the sole rightful king.
The price?
An apology—to a god's emissary not even present.
After a long silence, Stannis lowered his head slightly.
"Before the Seven Above, I acknowledge and repent the imprisonment of the God's emissary Charles Cranston."
"I admit it was a grave error. I committed an unforgivable wrong. May the gods grant forgiveness, and may the emissary Cranston show mercy."
He finished through clenched teeth and cast the High Sparrow a look of silent warning.
The elder merely nodded.
"The people honor their lords. Lords honor their king. And king and queen must honor the Seven Who Are One. In the name of the Seven, I grant Stannis of House Baratheon the authority of kingship, and—"
He stopped.
The crown in his hands began to tremble.
Before anyone could react, the seven-pointed crown burst into radiant, prismatic light.
Gasps rippled through the square.
The nobles. The smallfolk. The septons. Even the High Sparrow himself.
Stannis, still kneeling, stared upward at the blazing crown in disbelief.
Then his heart sank.
Before him, where the statue of the Seven should have stood—
A hazy yet unmistakably familiar figure began to manifest in shimmering light.
Replacing the gods.
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