King's Landing
Visenya's Hill
The Great Sept of Baelor
This was the heart of the Faith of the Seven and the seat of the High Septon, named after the monk-king who built it, the "Blessed" Baelor. It was surrounded by a white marble plaza, with a massive statue of Baelor the First towering in the center, standing calmly on its pedestal with a look of compassion.
The king's coronation and wedding would both take place here.
Today was that big day.
...
The air in King's Landing felt like a thick, sticky stew—hot, humid, and filthy, mixed with the stench of muddy puddles, the sour sweat of crowded bodies, and the cloying, cheap smell of bad wine.
The narrow streets were packed solid with people: soldiers, common folk, beggars, and flashy prostitutes all shoving together. Every face showed restlessness and excitement, everyone eager to catch a glimpse of the new king who'd ended the Targaryen dynasty.
"Long live Robert! Long live Robert!" The chants rolled like waves, each one louder than the last. They genuinely loved this new king.
After King's Landing fell into chaos and famine, it was Robert's Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, who brought in the life-saving food supplies, saving countless from starvation. And Jon humbly credited it all to Robert's kindness.
In the middle of the crowd, young Robert Baratheon sat tall on his massive warhorse, dressed in a red robe embroidered with a golden stag. He looked like a walking fortress. His black hair gleamed in the sunlight, his blue eyes clear as a sky after rain. His face was clean-shaven, with a strong jawline. Even the heavy royal robe couldn't hide his bulging muscles and broad shoulders—that raw, bursting power made him the perfect mix of a warrior's might and a king's dignity. Handsome and dashing, no doubt about it.
Right now, he was all smiles, that grin wide and infectious, with a touch of a victor's swagger.
Robert kept waving to the surging crowds on both sides of the street, soaking up the adoration. Ser Barristan Selmy, the "Bold," guarded his left with a serious expression, while the golden-haired Jaime Lannister followed on his right, his face a mix of emotions. They made their way slowly through the noisy, bustling Street of the Sisters, turning the whole thing into a massive party.
The Gold Cloaks held spears, struggling to keep a thin path open through the pushing mob.
Their golden cloaks fluttered in the muggy wind, but they couldn't fully cover the dents and scratches on their armor underneath, or the stubborn black-red bloodstains that hadn't been fully scrubbed off—silent reminders of the Battle of the Trident and the Sack of King's Landing, telling of the city's recent wounds and pain.
In front of the grand Great Sept of Baelor, the High Septon waited solemnly for the king's arrival.
He was a very fat man, wrapped in layers of fancy robes that made his bulky body look even bigger. Years as High Septon had given him an air of authority in his slightly raised chin and half-closed eyes.
Inside the sept, a solemn atmosphere mixed oddly with a restless buzz you could almost hear.
Under the high vaulted ceiling, rainbow light streamed through massive crystal windows showing scenes from the Seven, casting shifting, colorful spots on the deep purple velvet floor like a dreamy illusion.
Thick incense filled the air, trying hard to cover up the faint, lingering smell of blood seeping in from the streets and cracks in the stones—blood that hadn't been fully cleaned from the city's recent horrors.
Holiness and filth, order and chaos, balanced uneasily in the Great Sept right then.
The statues of the Seven looked down sternly.
Jon Arryn (Warden of the East), Eddard Stark (Warden of the North), Hoster Tully (Warden of the Trident), Tywin Lannister (Warden of the West), Quellon Greyjoy (King of the Iron Islands), Mace Tyrell (Warden of the South), and Oberyn Nymeros Martell (Prince of Dorne) all stood in their family finery at the front by the long pillars on either side.
Other nobles lined up according to their lands and status, forming two walls of silk, velvet, and sparkling jewels. Euron was in the crowd too, watching Robert's shining moment.
Robert's eyes scanned the group, spotting Cersei Lannister (his fiancée, future queen) in the corner, dressed in white, her eyes showing a mix of nerves and anticipation.
Robert walked to the center of the sept, to the altar of the Seven, and knelt down.
The High Septon stood under the grandest statue of the Father, his heavy robe embroidered with crystals almost crushing his fat frame.
He held a vial of holy oil, anointing Robert's forehead, chest, palms, and soles while chanting: "King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, may the Seven grant you strength to protect your people and uphold justice and peace."
Robert closed his eyes, feeling the cool oil, thinking to himself: "I'll be a good king."
After the anointing, Robert stood and took the Seven-Pointed Star from the High Septon. He looked up at the carvings of the Seven on the ceiling, swallowed hard, and recited the king's oath in a deep, strong voice:
"Before the Seven, I, Robert Baratheon, swear today in the name of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men—This crown I wear today is not for glory, but for protection. I swear to be the shield of the Seven Kingdoms: the ice and snow of the North, the wheat fields of the South, the grapes of the Riverlands, the steel of the West, the sands of Dorne, the storms of the Iron Islands, the lights of King's Landing—whatever homes my people have, I'll defend them with my life. I swear to be the measure of justice: noble or common, all equal before the law. I'll listen to the wolves' howls in the North and value the roses of the Reach; I'll punish those who bully the weak and protect every hardworking soul. I swear to end wars: The Targaryen flames are out, but new threats lurk in the shadows. I won't start fights, but if enemies cross my borders or harm my people, my warhammer will thunder again—for protection! Finally, I swear by the fires of the First Men, the swords of the Andals, and the light of the Seven: If I break this oath, may the Seven punish me, tormenting me even after death on the Iron Throne; if I keep it, may my name and the Baratheon stag be etched forever in Westeros's monuments!"
With the oath done, the High Septon announced loudly: "Robert Baratheon the First, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, is crowned!"
Thunderous applause filled the sept, and the nobles bowed in respect.
Two squires brought forward a velvet-cushioned tray holding a stunning golden crown.
This wasn't the old Targaryen crown from ancient Valyria—it was a brand-new symbol of power.
Made of shining gold shaped like stag antlers, studded with blood-red rubies and night-black diamonds, it sparkled under the rainbow light, announcing a new era for House Baratheon.
The High Septon lifted the heavy crown with both hands and placed it solemnly on Robert's thick black curls.
As the crown—symbol of ultimate power and heavy chains—settled on his head, Robert took a deep breath, turned slowly, facing all the nobles and representatives inside, and the boiling crowd visible through the open doors.
"Long live King Robert!"
"Long live House Baratheon!"
The deafening cheers exploded like thunder and waves, nearly shaking the sept's roof, every shout full of hope and frenzy for the new age. Robert managed only a brief smile, not pure joy, but more like suppressed deep pain.
In the moment that stag crown with its rubies and diamonds was placed, the carefree, wild warrior "Robert" died for good. From now on, living in that mighty body would be a king tormented day and night by kingdom duties, debts, lost love, and lost freedom: Robert Baratheon.
The coronation ended in that seemingly endless cheer.
But everyone knew deep down, for this new king and his realm, the game of thrones was just getting started.
The echoes of the coronation hadn't fully faded under the sept's dome when the lingering cheers shifted quickly to new excitement—the wedding was next.
A side door opened slowly, and Cersei Lannister appeared.
Her wedding gown had an outer layer of pure white linen like fresh snow, symbolizing a maiden's purity and nobility; the inner lining was seven layers of heavy red velvet, making the skirt full and elegant. Gold thread embroidered intricate patterns, the long train dragging on the polished black-and-white marble floor like a flowing, ambitious golden flame.
She walked steadily and slowly, the hidden designs on the thick velvet appearing and vanishing with each step, sometimes outlining the griffin badge—a mix of Lannister lion and Highgarden eagle—symbolizing her status. Without a word, the crowd parted like an invisible force was at work, clearing her path to the front.
She held her father Lord Tywin's arm, stepping toward Robert under the statues of the Seven, his new crown gleaming. Tywin's face was stone-cold, while Cersei held her perfect head high.
She was already breathtakingly beautiful, but today, with the queen's aura, she was stunning beyond words. Under long golden lashes, her eyes were bright green like wild emeralds, her red lips curved just right—dignified yet alluring. The moment she appeared, she became the undeniable center of attention.
She met every gaze without flinching, finally locking her sharp, clear eyes on her new husband—Robert Baratheon. She fit this scene perfectly, like she was born to stand in the spotlight, bathed in awe, jealousy, and submission.
A faint, satisfied glint flashed deep in her eyes.
Just like that old prophecy said—this crown of the Seven Kingdoms was finally hers.
But...
She'd dreamed this scene countless times—but the one crowning her wasn't this man.
It was the true dragon's heir, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. With his poetic grace, deep violet eyes full of melancholy, refined manners, and heartbreakingly handsome face... She'd been so sure her destined husband, her future king, could only be Rhaegar. Even after he married Elia of Dorne, that stubborn fantasy never really died.
But fate had other plans.
Now, under the Seven, waiting with the crown wasn't her beloved silver-haired prince, but this black-haired, blue-eyed usurper famous for his warhammer. Luckily... a cold rationality reminded her—no matter what, she was still queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
That crown was what mattered most. She told herself only this role matched her status and beauty.
On the other side, Robert watched Cersei approach slowly.
She was beautiful, no question.
Golden hair, green eyes, radiant—a face that could make any man weak.
Cersei might be great, but...
But...
She wasn't Lyanna!
Not that Northern girl with the "wolf's blood."
Wild and untamed, her smile full of free spirit, eyes lively like a forest stream, with a fresh, vibrant energy he'd never seen in other ladies. Not the polished beauty of the woman before him, but a raw appeal that made Robert want to conquer her.
The two, under the sept's glow and everyone's eyes, walked toward a future tangled together but never in sync, each carrying regrets.
Robert took the heavy cloak from a squire—a deep red garment woven with gold thread, shoulders inlaid with black obsidian forming the Baratheon crowned stag. With a flourish, he draped it solemnly over Cersei's shoulders, the golden fabric falling heavy and covering the lion symbols on her gown. This ritual meant Cersei left her family and joined House Baratheon.
The couple knelt together at the altar of the Seven, pressing their hands on the open ancient cover of the Seven-Pointed Star. The High Septon's deep voice echoed again:
"In the name of the Seven, in the heritage of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, in this holy place, Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister are joined in marriage, to rule the Seven Kingdoms as one..."
Robert stared at the Father's statue, his voice strong and firm:
"In the name of the Father, I promise you justice; in the name of the Warrior, I give you fearless courage; in the name of the Mother, I pray for your eternal protection;" He paused slightly, glancing at Cersei, then out into the void, like declaring to the whole kingdom, "In the name of the Iron Throne and House Baratheon, I swear: You'll share my power, bear my heirs, your blood will join the stag forever ruling Westeros."
Cersei bowed her head slightly, her voice clear and calm, every word precise:
"In the name of the Maiden, I offer my pure body; in the name of the Mother, I promise to bear your children; in the name of the Crone, I offer wise counsel;" She lifted her eyes, a subtle edge flashing in the green, "In the honor of Lannister gold and Casterly Rock, I swear: My loyalty is forever to the Iron Throne, my children will carry on Baratheon glory."
"The rite is complete—"
With the High Septon's announcement, Robert stood, pulling Cersei up by the hand.
They turned, facing the nobles inside and the crowd outside. All the lords followed the new king and queen out of the Great Sept like a wave of power.
When they stepped into the sunlight, Robert and Cersei raised their joined hands high.
"Long live the king! Long live the queen!"
The roaring cheers swept the hill and streets like a tsunami, thousands of voices welcoming the couple who marked the new dynasty's start. Sunlight gleamed on the golden cloak and Cersei's hair, shining bright, as if foretelling how Lannister gold had fused tight with the Baratheon stag.