Chapter 12: The Conqueror on the Iron Throne

The stench of burnt timber and death still clung to the air of King's Landing, a macabre perfume celebrating Loki Bloodaxe's dominion. The wails of the fallen and the panicked screams of the populace had long since subsided, replaced by the grim, rhythmic sounds of a city being remade: the dull thud of hammers demolishing old structures, the shouts of Skardheim warriors overseeing forced labor, and the occasional, sharp cry of defiance swiftly silenced. The Red Keep, once a symbol of royal might, now loomed, a stark, terrifying monument to the Serpent in the Rivers.

Loki sat upon the mangled Iron Throne. Its twisted blades, once cold and imposing, now seemed merely crude and uncomfortable beneath him, a relic of a lesser age. He had not bothered to repair the section he'd cleaved with Stormbreaker; the gaping wound in its side was a more fitting symbol of his contempt for Westerosi kingship. The mighty axe rested across his lap, its Valyrian steel humming with a low, predatory energy, reflecting the faint light from the shattered windows. Around him, his Jarls moved with a quiet, efficient brutality, their faces etched with grim satisfaction.

"The city is secured, Jarl," Hakon the Ruthless reported, his voice a gravelly rumble. He wore a newly forged Gorget made from melted down Gold Cloak armor, its crude craftsmanship a stark contrast to the finer Westerosi steel. "The last pockets of defiance have been extinguished. What remains of the royal treasury has been gathered and stored, awaiting your command."

Loki's gaze was distant, as if already spanning the ravaged lands beyond the city walls. "Good. Begin the cleansing. Every symbol of their false gods, every statue, every holy book, burn it. Let their faith turn to ash as their kingdom has."

The order was carried out with chilling efficiency. The Great Sept of Baelor, a towering edifice of the Faith of the Seven, became the first casualty. Its crystal shards crunched under the heavy boots of Skardheimers, its intricate idols were systematically smashed, and its holy texts tossed into roaring bonfires that painted the sky a malevolent orange. Smaller septs across the city met the same fiery fate. In their stead, crude but imposing totems of Odin, Thor, and Freya began to rise, their weathered faces carved from salvaged timber, gazing down with stern, unforgiving eyes upon a populace forced to kneel before new, alien gods. The air thickened with the scent of burning incense and the metallic tang of blood from forced sacrifices, a morbid blend that now defined the city's new reality.

The systematic eradication of the old faith extended beyond mere destruction. Former septons and septas were rounded up, given a choice: recant their faith and pledge fealty to the Aesir, or face the executioner's axe. Many chose martyrdom, their screams adding to the grim tapestry of the city's transformation. Those who recanted were publicly humiliated, forced to perform demeaning acts of worship to the Nordic gods, their faces contorted in agony and shame. This was not just about control; it was about breaking the spirit of a people, erasing their history, and replacing it with Loki's grim vision.

"Their tongue will be purged as well," Loki declared, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. He decreed that the Common Tongue, spoken by all of Westeros, would slowly be replaced by the Old Tongue of Skardheim. Children were rounded up, often torn from their weeping mothers, and forced into rudimentary schools under the watchful eyes of berserkers, compelled to learn the new, guttural language. The lessons were brutal, punctuated by the sharp crack of a switch against a slow learner's hand or the terrified whimper of a child struggling to pronounce alien sounds. Those who resisted, or whose parents showed defiance, faced swift and brutal penalties. Entire families vanished, their homes boarded up, serving as grim warnings. It was a systematic dismantling of Westerosi identity, brick by cultural brick, ensuring that the new generation would speak and think as conquerors, not as the conquered.

The city's infrastructure, though damaged, was repurposed. The Iron Throne, as Loki had demonstrated, was a symbol to be desecrated, not revered. Guildhalls were seized, their leadership either executed or forced into servitude. Merchants found their warehouses looted, their goods confiscated, and their trade routes controlled by the Skardheimers. A new currency, crudely minted coins bearing Loki's stylized axe, began to circulate, devaluing all previous Westerosi coinage. The city's once-bustling markets were now desolate, save for the grim exchanges for basic necessities, overseen by armed guards. Famine loomed, a constant companion to the fear that gripped every heart.

Cersei's Cage: A Queen Undone

The Red Keep, now Loki's grim citadel, became Cersei Lannister's gilded cage. She was confined to a suite of rooms in Maegor's Holdfast, sumptuously appointed but utterly inescapable. The initial hysterical grief and primal screams, which had accompanied the slaughter of her children, had given way to a terrifying, silent despair. Her eyes, once sharp and cunning, were now vacant, haunted by the specters of Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen. Her once-proud golden hair lay unkempt, matted, often clinging to a face sallow with anguish. Her lavish gowns, symbols of her former power and vanity, had been replaced by simple, coarse linen provided by her captors, each thread a reminder of her reduced status.

Loki rarely visited her in person. When he did, his visits were not for comfort, nor for passion, but for a chilling, calculated purpose: to remind her of her utter subjugation. He would stand before her, his imposing figure filling the room, Stormbreaker often resting casually against a wall, its very presence a silent, menacing threat.

He spoke little during these visits, his words more impactful for their brevity and the chilling lack of emotion behind them. "Your father wages war, Queen," he might say, his voice devoid of any warmth. "He still believes he can save you. He believes he can restore your honor." Each word was a twisted knife, designed to plunge deeper into her despair. He knew that the very thought of being "saved" by Tywin was, in her current state, another form of torment. Her family's pride, her personal ambition, all were now tools for his psychological warfare.

There were times when Loki would approach her, not with violence, but with a deliberate, cold intimacy that was far more terrifying than any physical blow. He never laid a hand on her in anger, never struck her. Instead, his touches were designed to humiliate, to strip away any last shred of her dignity. He might run a finger along her jawline, a single, feather-light touch on her cheek, or brush a strand of hair from her face. touches that spoke not of desire, but of ownership, of a predator asserting absolute control over its prey. The feeling of his rough, calloused fingers on her skin, combined with the chilling emptiness in his eyes, was a violation that went far beyond the physical. It was a complete obliteration of her will, a constant reminder that she was utterly at his mercy, a trophy to be displayed for his amusement and as a searing message to her powerful father.

Sometimes, he would simply watch her, his gaze unwavering, for long, silent minutes, forcing her to acknowledge her powerlessness. Her body would tremble, not from fear of physical harm, but from the unbearable weight of his disdain and her own profound humiliation. She was Queen no more; she was nothing but a broken doll, a pawn in Loki's brutal game against Tywin Lannister. Every moment she spent in his presence, every breath she took under his gaze, was a vivid, agonizing tableau of her utter defeat.

The berserkers assigned to guard her never left their posts outside her doors. They were silent, unyielding, their massive forms a constant reminder of her imprisonment. They understood Loki's intent perfectly. Their gazes, though empty of malice, held the grim satisfaction of warriors who had broken a proud enemy. They would bring her meager meals, watch her eat, and observe her slow, agonizing descent into madness. They were not there to offer comfort, but to ensure her continued existence as a symbol of Loki's triumph.She was a ghost in her own castle, living a nightmare that surpassed anything any rival had ever inflicted upon her.

One evening, Loki returned to Cersei's chambers. She was huddled on the floor, wrapped in a threadbare cloak, staring blankly at the wall. The flickering torchlight cast long, dancing shadows, distorting the familiar room into something monstrous. He stood in the doorway for a long moment, observing her, a flicker of something almost akin to curiosity in his normally impassive eyes. He was not interested in her as a woman, but as a mechanism of pain for her father, and perhaps, as a testament to the fragility of Westerosi pride.

He walked slowly towards her, his heavy boots echoing on the stone floor. Cersei flinched, not looking up, but shrinking away. The mere sound of his approach sent shivers of terror through her. Loki knelt, bringing his face level with hers. He did not touch her, but his proximity, his cold, unsettling presence, was a violation in itself.

"Your father sends more men," he stated, his voice a low, gravelly hum. "He bleeds for you, little Queen. He bleeds for his pride."

Cersei remained silent, her eyes still vacant. Loki reached out, not to touch her, but to retrieve a stray strand of her golden hair that had fallen across her face. He held it between his fingers, then let it fall. It was a gesture of utter indifference, more crushing than any blow.

"He does not understand," Loki continued, his words slow and deliberate, each one a hammer blow to her already shattered spirit. "He seeks to reclaim what is lost. But what is lost, stays lost. You are mine now. His pride, his power, his very lineage. All are now mine."

He stood, towering over her once more. "Sleep, little Queen. Dream of golden lions. They will not save you." He turned and left, leaving her alone in the darkness, the lingering scent of his leather and furs, and the chilling silence of her own despair. Her body shook with silent sobs, not for her children, but for the utter annihilation of her being. She was stripped bare, not just of her clothes, but of her identity, her will, and her very essence.

Days bled into weeks. Cersei began to lose track of time. Her meals were brought, eaten without taste. Her mind drifted, lost in a fog of grief and humiliation. Sometimes, she would look at her reflection in a polished piece of metal, a grotesque caricature of her former self, and not recognize the hollow eyes, the gaunt face. It was another woman entirely, a stranger twisted by unseen horrors. The Skardheimers never spoke to her, never acknowledged her presence beyond their duty. Their silence was a torment, a constant reminder of her insignificance in their brutal new world.

One afternoon, Loki ordered her brought to the main hall, where he met with his Jarls. She was dressed in the simple linen, her hair still disheveled, her bare feet cold on the stone floor. She was made to stand in a corner, out of the way, but visible to all. Her presence served as a grim backdrop to Loki's discussions of strategy and conquest. She was a living trophy, a constant, silent message to any Westerosi noble who might contemplate resistance. Her very existence was an act of dominance. She was forced to listen as they discussed the brutal subjugation of her former kingdom, the burning of her cities, the massacres of her people. Each word was a dagger twisting in her heart, yet she could not scream, could not cry, could not escape. The silence of her despair was her only companion.

Another day, Loki entered her chamber, his presence filling the space with cold, oppressive power. Cersei, startled, scrambled back into a corner like a frightened animal. He did not speak, but simply walked to her small, crudely made bed, a stark contrast to the luxurious canopy beds she had once known. He sat on the edge of it, slowly, deliberately. The simple act of him occupying her space, of asserting his physical presence in her last private sanctuary, was a profound invasion. His eyes, devoid of any discernible emotion, simply observed her. It was a gaze that stripped her bare, not of clothes, but of soul. She felt utterly exposed, vulnerable to his every whim. The air grew thick with unspoken dominance, a suffocating weight that pressed down on her. She could feel her heart hammering against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. He remained there for what felt like an eternity, his silent vigil a torment. Finally, he rose and left, the brief, unsettling interaction leaving her trembling and utterly exhausted, another layer of her spirit chipped away.

New Order in the Ruined City

Beneath the Iron Throne, Loki's Jarls began the grim work of governance, transforming the conquered capital into a functional, if brutal, outpost of Skardheim. This was not a mere occupation; it was a fundamental restructuring of society.

Hakon the Ruthless, his face often adorned with the blood of fresh sacrifices, was named Governor of King's Landing. His first act was to impose martial law with an iron fist. Public executions became a daily occurrence, often held in the city square or on the very steps of the Great Sept where people once prayed. Any form of looting, resistance, or defiance, no matter how small, was met with swift, brutal, and highly visible punishment. A man caught stealing a loaf of bread might have his hands cut off, while a woman caught speaking ill of Loki's reign might be publicly flayed. The city, though starving and terrified, quickly learned the excruciating price of disobedience. Fear, raw and visceral, was the true currency of the new regime.

Under Hakon's command, a new system of taxation was immediately implemented. All remaining wealth, whether gold from merchants' coffers, jewels from noble homes, or precious artifacts from the Red Keep and other castles, was systematically confiscated and redirected to Loki's burgeoning war chest. Crops from the surrounding farmlands, once destined for the city's markets, were now rerouted directly to Skardheim supply lines, ensuring Loki's armies remained well-fed while the populace starved. The once-bustling markets were now desolate, save for grim exchanges for basic necessities, overseen by heavily armed guards. Famine loomed, a constant companion to the pervasive fear that gripped every heart.

The city's infrastructure, though damaged from the siege, was repurposed. The Iron Throne, as Loki had demonstrated, was a symbol to be desecrated, not revered. Guildhalls were seized, their leadership either executed for past allegiances or forced into servitude. Skilled craftsmen were immediately conscripted into Loki's service, forced to forge new weapons, build new ships, or repair fortifications. The common folk, particularly the able-bodied men and women, were forced into brutal labor gangs, clearing rubble, constructing new barracks, and rebuilding the city in the Nordic style. They worked from dawn till dusk, fueled by meager rations, under the constant threat of the whip or the axe. The narrow, winding streets of Flea Bottom, once a labyrinth of poverty and petty crime, were forcibly widened, creating clear lines of sight for patrols and making it easier to suppress any uprising. The old, familiar landmarks of King's Landing began to disappear, replaced by the stark, imposing architecture of the Skardheimers.

Jarl Kael the Silent was tasked with crushing any remaining resistance in the Riverlands. He was a force of nature, moving with the brutal efficiency of a blizzard. He led relentless patrols along the rivers, his drakkars burning any village that harbored rebels or refused to pay tribute. He left a trail of desolation, ensuring that the Riverlands would remain a broken, bleeding land, incapable of supporting any Westerosi army against Loki. Small groups of Riverlords, like desperate remnants of House Tully, fought futile skirmishes from hidden enclaves, but their efforts were swiftly met with overwhelming force and savage reprisals. Kael's reputation for silent, merciless destruction grew with each burned village, each executed rebel, turning vast swathes of the Riverlands into a desolate wasteland. Any resistance was quickly crushed, and the survivors were often enslaved and sent north to help build Loki's new empire.

Jarl Astrid, ever the strategist and scout, took command of Loki's rapidly expanding intelligence network. She used her keen intellect and ruthless efficiency to uncover hidden caches of wealth, identify potential loyalists to the old regime, and expand Loki's eyes and ears throughout the newly conquered territories. Her network of spies, a combination of terrified Westerosi informants and cunning Skardheim infiltrators, began subtly collecting crucial information on the other Great Houses. their strengths, their weaknesses, their internal discontent, and their troop movements. This intelligence, fed directly to Loki, gave him an unprecedented overview of the fractured realm, allowing him to anticipate threats and plan his next moves with chilling precision. Astrid also began to study Westerosi maps, identifying strategic choke points, fertile lands, and potential routes for future campaigns, all compiled into detailed reports for Loki.

The systematic change was not just limited to King's Landing. Throughout the Riverlands, any castle that had offered significant resistance was razed to the ground, its lords executed, its lands given to loyal Skardheim warriors. Those few lords who had surrendered quickly were allowed to live, but only as vassals, forced to pay heavy tributes, send their sons as hostages to King's Landing, and publicly renounce their old gods. Their lands were stripped of resources, their people conscripted, and their pride systematically broken. Loki's new realm was one built on fear and total obedience.

One morning, Loki summoned Astrid and Hakon to his private chambers, a vast, formerly royal audience room now stripped bare of its ornate tapestries and replaced with maps and battle plans. "The Riverlands are quiet, Jarl Astrid," Loki stated, his eyes scanning a map laid out on a rough-hewn table. "But silence does not mean peace. What do your whispers tell you of the Westernlands? Of the Lion?"

Astrid unrolled a smaller, more detailed map. "Lord Tywin Lannister has called his banners, Jarl. Ravens confirm massive musters at Casterly Rock and Lannisport. He moves with a purpose we have not seen since the last rebellion. His gold, though vast, is being spent rapidly on mercenaries and supplies. He is not preparing for a skirmish; he prepares for war."

Hakon scoffed. "Let him come. The Lions are fat and soft. My berserkers will feast on their pride."

Loki raised a hand, silencing Hakon. "Pride is a powerful motivator, Hakon. Especially for Tywin Lannister. And I have given him ample reason for it. His daughter's continued 'residence' here has been... instructive." Loki's lips curved into a faint, predatory smile. "He will come. And he will bring his full might. He has always valued his family above all else. To see Cersei in her current state, to know his bloodline has been extinguished here... it will drive him to madness. A predictable madness."

"And the Stag, Jarl?" Astrid continued, gesturing to Dragonstone on the map. "Stannis Baratheon has proclaimed himself King. He gathers what remains of the royal fleet and rallies the Stormlands. He is a stubborn man, driven by law and duty, even when others would yield."

"A fool," Hakon grunted. "His ships will break against our drakkars."

"Perhaps," Loki mused, his gaze drifting towards a window overlooking the Blackwater. "But a determined fool can still be a sharp thorn. Stannis is no Robert Baratheon. He is methodical, relentless. He believes in his cause, however misguided." He turned back to his Jarls. "We will let the Lion come. His armies will meet us on ground of our choosing. And the Stag... he will find that the seas are not as welcoming as he imagines."

He paused, then added, "Continue to observe the other regions. The Reach, the Vale, Dorne. They watch and wait. Their silence is a testament to their fear, but fear can turn to opportunity. We must be ready for all of them."

The Jarls nodded, understanding the vastness of the task before them. Loki had seized the heart of Westeros, but the limbs of the great beast still thrashed, and their master intended to break each one, systematically, until only his will remained.

The Murmurings Beyond the Walls

Beyond the smoking ruins of King's Landing, the news of its fall, and the horrifying details of the royal family's demise, spread like wildfire across Westeros. Ravens carried the grim tidings to every castle, every keep, every distant lord. The reaction was a potent mixture of profound shock, paralyzing terror, and a simmering, vengeful rage that threatened to consume the realm from within. The brutal efficiency of Loki's conquest, the public desecration of their faith, and the chilling fate of the royal children sent a cold dread through the hearts of even the most hardened lords.

The execution of the remaining Small Council members further solidified Loki's reputation for merciless brutality. Grand Maester Pycelle, found cowering in his chambers, was quickly dispatched by a berserker, his pleas for mercy unheard. The Master of Ships, the Master of Laws, and the Lord Commander of the City Watch, Janos Slynt, who had tried to plead for his life by offering to serve Loki, faced similar, gruesome fates. Their heads, some still bearing their council chains, were impaled on spikes along the main road leading into King's Landing, a grotesque display for all to see, a stark warning of Loki's absolute and unforgiving authority. The sight of these once-powerful figures reduced to gruesome trophies sent a shiver down the spines of even the most ambitious nobles.

This news, though horrific, did not unite Westeros. Instead, it exposed and exacerbated the deep-seated divisions that had always plagued the Seven Kingdoms. Each Great House, reeling from the shock, began to assess its own position, its own strengths, and its own survival.

Rumors, wild and terrifying, spread like plague. Some whispered of Loki's dark magic, claiming he was a demon summoned from the depths of hell. Others spoke of Stormbreaker, the axe that cleaved stone and flesh with equal ease, a weapon beyond mortal forging. Tales of his berserkers, men who felt no pain and knew no fear, became fodder for nightmares. The common folk, already suffering from famine and forced labor, prayed to their old gods, their pleas echoing unheard in the new, oppressive silence that settled over the land.

The nobility, however, reacted with a mix of fury and fear. Some lords, particularly those whose lands bordered the newly conquered Riverlands, began to fortify their castles, calling their banners, preparing for the inevitable wave of Skardheim conquest. Others, paralyzed by terror, huddled behind their walls, hoping to be overlooked. The long-standing feuds and rivalries between the Great Houses, far from being set aside, seemed to intensify. Each house viewed its neighbors with suspicion, fearing betrayal as much as they feared the foreign invader.

The ancient allegiances to the Crown, already weakened by Robert's neglect and the chaos of his defeat, dissolved entirely. The Iron Throne, the very symbol of unity, was now a desecrated mockery, a grim reminder of a fallen era. The realm was no longer a single kingdom, but a collection of disparate, terrified, and enraged fiefdoms, each looking to its own survival, each contemplating its next move in a game of thrones that had suddenly turned deadly beyond measure.

The North, under Eddard Stark, remained withdrawn, its gaze fixed on the Neck, preparing for a long, brutal winter. The Reach, rich and fertile under House Tyrell, cautiously began to fortify its borders, their vast armies mobilized, but their intentions unclear. Dorne, distant and proud, watched with a quiet, dangerous intensity, their spears ready, their long memory filled with grudges against any foreign conqueror. The Vale, protected by its mountains, remained isolated, its young Lord Robert Arryn under the sway of a manipulative regent. Each region, each powerful House, began to chart its own course, convinced that the survival of Westeros lay solely in their hands.

Loki had shattered the symbols of Westeros, but in doing so, he had also ignited a furious, vengeful fire in the hearts of its remaining Great Houses. The serpent had coiled around the heart, but the other limbs of the beast were beginning to stir, not in fear, but in a burning, desperate desire for retribution. The game of thrones had merely entered a new, far more brutal, and utterly unforgiving phase. The peace that had briefly existed under Robert Baratheon was a distant memory, replaced by an era of ceaseless conflict, a brutal symphony of clashing steel and desperate cries, all orchestrated by the cold, calculating mind of Loki Bloodaxe. The realm was bleeding, and Loki was just getting started.