Chapter 4
King’s Landing is massive. Larger than any city Hiccup has ever seen, stretching for miles, its towers and walls slicing into the sky like jagged teeth. He stands on the hill outside the city, still and silent, as the early morning sun rises over Blackwater Bay, casting the Red Keep in brilliant hues of gold and orange. For a fleeting moment, it’s beautiful. The waves shimmer beneath a sky streaked with firelight. Rooftops catch the dawn and glow like embers.
If he didn’t know better, he might have believed it was something to admire.
But beauty, he’s learned, often wears armor. What lies beneath is what matters. And beneath this, the wealth, the size, the spectacle, is something bloated and festering. The city sprawls like a beast that’s eaten too much, a swollen belly devouring the land around it. The walls don’t guard, they trap. High, thick, unyielding. Not meant to keep enemies out, but to cage those already within.
He exhales sharply and turns away from the sunrise, its warmth doing nothing to ease the cold building in his gut.
Behind him, Toothless stirs beside the low-burning campfire, curled in loose coils, tail twitching as he lifts his head. One green eye cracks open, blinking sleepily. At the sound of Hiccup’s approach, the dragon shifts and makes room for him to sit. Hiccup settles at the edge of the fire, absently stirring the embers back to life, letting the warmth creep into his hands.
He’s not ready to go in yet. Not without preparing.
He eats quickly, sharing bites of dried meat with Toothless between mouthfuls of flatbread. His thoughts churn while his fingers move in habit, checking his boots, his cloak, adjusting the blades strapped beneath the folds of fabric. His armor stays behind. He dons a simple tunic over his undershirt, embroidered, but not lavish, and dark trousers that match the city’s grime. No sigils, no metal. Just enough to blend in.
When he stands, Toothless is already there, wings stretching, tail swishing hopefully.
Hiccup sighs. “You know you can’t come with me, bud.”
Toothless lets out a long, dramatic groan, flopping back onto the ground with a thud.
“I know,” he says gently, rubbing the dragon’s snout. “It’s only for a few hours. And you’re backup. No one stands a chance against the big, strong alpha dragon, right?”
At that, Toothless puffs his chest and struts around camp, wings flaring like a peacock. Hiccup snorts, playing along until it’s time to go. He tightens his cloak, slings his satchel over his shoulder, and gives one last look to his dragon, who watches him with quiet understanding.
As he steps onto the Kingsroad, the city looming closer with each footfall, a deep unease settles into his bones.
It hits him well before the walls, the smell.
It slams into him like a physical blow, thick and suffocating. It clings to the back of his throat, coats his tongue like oil gone rancid. His stomach twists violently, and he staggers, bracing a hand against a tree as he retches bile into the grass.
Rot. Waste. Decay. He’s smelled death before,battlefields, dragon dung, scorched corpses, but this? This is something else. Something slow and human. A sickness that’s settled into the very lungs of the city.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and keeps walking.
The gates are clogged with people, smallfolk lining up like livestock, their heads bowed, shoulders slumped. When Hiccup moves to join the queue, an armored arm slams across his chest.
“And where do you think you’re going, lad?”
The guard sneers, giving him a once-over. “Don’t recognize you. And I’d remember a scarecrow your height.”
Hiccup straightens slightly, gaze level. His height’s never bothered him, not really, but the mockery grates now, especially when it’s paired with authority used like a club.
“And what does my height have to do with anything?”
The edge in his voice is subtle, but the guard flinches, caught off-guard.
“W-well… Every smallfolk pays a toll. Even you Northerners.”
The crowd doesn’t react. They’re used to this. That makes Hiccup angrier than the insult.
“On whose command?” he asks, though he already knows.
The man’s grin widens. “The Crown’s.”
He clenches his jaw. It’s extortion. Nothing more. The kingdom feeding off its own.
Wordless, Hiccup reaches into his pouch and drops a gold coin into the guard’s palm. The man bites it theatrically, then shrugs.
“Seems real. But I think I’ll need two more—for the trouble.”
The gall of it. Hiccup says nothing. Just slaps two more coins into his hand and walks through the gates.
He regrets it immediately.
The stench is unbearable inside the city walls. The streets are cramped, the air thick with sweat, piss, and filth. Every step is a new assault on his senses. But he perseveres, pushing forward with determined strides. Despite the overwhelming assault on his senses, his eyes roam over the towering buildings and the sheer number of people moving through the streets.
King's Landing is far larger than White Harbor, and despite the filth, there is a strange, rugged beauty to this part of the city.
As he walks down the long road, he passes a large building with armored men stationed outside, their tabards bearing the black and yellow sigil of the city watch. The same colors as the guard at the gate. So these must be the city’s guards, some form of militia.
He notes the detail, then turns away and keeps walking.
The street stretches long ahead of him but soon opens into a sprawling square, bustling with merchants hawking their wares from tightly packed stalls. The air is thick with the scent of spiced meats, freshly baked bread, and something distinctly sour.
His curiosity leads him to a small stand where a vendor is selling maps of King’s Landing. After a quick exchange of coin, he unrolls the parchment, eyes widening as he takes in the sheer size of the city.
His finger trails over the inked streets, tracing his path from the Gate of the Gods, an ironic name, given the shady men guarding it. He follows the lines of the city, noting the grand structure of the Red Keep perched atop a steep hill at the far end. The castle is a long walk from where he stands, likely a three-hour trek at best.
Hiccup studies the map for a long moment before making a decision. Instead of heading straight for the keep, he opts to explore, getting a sense of the city’s layout while gradually making his way toward the Targaryens.
They can wait.
Rather than continuing down the Street of Seeds, he veers east onto the Street of Flour, drawn toward a massive dome-shaped structure sitting atop a hill in the distance. His height grants him the advantage of navigating the crowd without getting completely lost in its pull. He skirts around carts, sidesteps rushing merchants, and dodges street children darting between legs.
And, more concerningly, he avoids the numerous piles of shit littering the road.
After an hour of weaving through the city's maze of streets, he grows accustomed to the ever-present stink, the foul mixture of sweat, rot, and waste dulling into the background. There’s no order here, he notes, only chaos managed by habit.
As the roads narrow, he passes a sprawling alley that draws his attention, not for its layout, but for the eyes watching him. Hidden in the dark, just beyond the edge of the stalls, he sees children. Half a dozen of them. Small, hollow-eyed, dirt-streaked. Their limbs are stick-thin, their clothes nothing more than scraps. They watch him from the shadows, flinching whenever he looks directly at them, ducking behind crates or barrels.
They don’t beg. They don’t dare.
That, more than anything, makes his chest ache.
He slows his pace and slips a hand into his satchel, drawing out a wrapped bundle of dried meat and the remainder of his flatbread. He crouches low near the wall and carefully sets the food down—then steps back.
The silence holds for a breath.
Then, like deer testing the wind, the children creep forward. The oldest, maybe nine, with a mop of tangled black curls, snatches the bundle and darts away, followed by the others. They vanish like ghosts, swallowed by the alley’s gloom.
Hiccup doesn’t follow. He just watches. Eyes soft. Heart heavy.
And then he keeps walking.
The street grows narrower, dirtier. The square opens around him, packed with merchants and pickpockets and guards leaning lazily against posts. He buys a map, studies the streets, takes note of landmarks. The Red Keep looms in the distance, perched atop its hill like a crown on a corpse. He could go there now. But his gut says wait. So he drifts—east, then south.
The farther he goes, the more the city changes.
Nobles disappear. Stalls shrink. Homes sag inward. The light fades behind soot-caked windows and roofs patched with straw and tar. He soon reaches his second fork in the road, and the smell worsens. Thickens.
He slows his pace, pulling the collar of his undershirt over his nose.
It’s not just bad air.
But it’s the people.
Thin. Hollow. Covered in grime. They move like ghosts, slipping between carts and hovels, heads low, eyes dull. He’s seen hunger before, but never like this. Never this empty.
The deeper he goes, the worse it gets. The buildings crumble, gaping holes in their walls revealing dark, hollow interiors. Trash litters the streets. Piles of shit and piss are tossed from windows above without a second thought.
A deep, gnawing unease coils in his stomach.
Then he trips.
His hands catch a wall before he falls, and he turns, only to freeze.
A boy.
Lying there.
He’s seen death before. A Viking’s wrath knows no bounds, and war has never been a stranger to him. He’s walked through the aftermath of raids, past bodies of fallen warriors and slain enemies alike, men who had fought and died with steel in their hands. Even in brutality, there was still a measure of honor.
But this is different.
This—this isn’t war. There is no battle. No enemy. No purpose. Just a boy, too small, too thin, discarded like waste.
Hiccup’s breathing is shallow as he stares at the corpse. The boy can’t be more than ten or eleven, his body small, starved, his limbs twisted unnaturally where he fell. His throat has been slashed deep, too deep, the blood still seeping sluggishly into the cracks of the stone beneath him. A knife is buried in his stomach, as if the first wound wasn’t enough.
Even in his own culture, in the bloodiest of battles, the dead were given respect. Even their enemies were burned or buried, sent off properly to the next life. Not left to rot in the street, nameless and forgotten.
His stomach turns, bile burning the back of his throat.
He turns bracing himself against the wall as he tries to breathe, but the sound of voices closer than usual reach him.
“Yer think this one’ll do? Don’t seem to have much meat on ‘em bones.”
Hiccup stiffens.
Another voice, raspy and unconcerned. “Don’t matter. Meat’s meat.”
His head snaps up.
Two filthy men stand over the boy, one crouching, the other scratching at the stubble on his chin. They aren’t grieving. They aren’t horrified.
They are assessing him.
Like food.
He doesn’t think. He doesn’t have to. His body moves before his mind catches up, before logic can slow him down.
His boots slam against the stone, the distance between them vanishing in a blink. By the time the first man registers what’s happening, Hiccup’s fist is already gripping his tunic, slamming him back against the alley wall.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” His voice is low, deadly.
The man chokes, hands scrambling at Hiccup’s wrist, eyes bulging in panic. “W-wait! L-look, it’s not—”
His companion stumbles back, palms up, shaking his head frantically. “He—it ain’t like that, I swear! We—we ain’t killers, we just—”
Hiccup’s grip tightens. “You just what?”
The older man’s throat bobs as he swallows, eyes darting toward his friend. “The boy—he stole. Stole bread. For his sister. Guards caught ‘im. Cut ‘im down and took the girl.” His words tumble out in a rush, voice trembling. “We—we don’t do the killin’, we just—”
Hiccup lets go.
The man stumbles forward, gasping, clutching his chest.
Hiccup’s hands tremble, rage pulsing under his skin like fire. The guards did this. The guards did this.
All for a piece of bread.
The weight of it settles over him like iron chains. He clenches his jaw, inhaling sharply through his nose before speaking, voice cold and steady.
“Give me a cart.”
The two men exchange wary glances, but one scrambles to obey, vanishing into the alley’s shadows. Hiccup turns, kneeling beside the boy’s body, the heat of his anger simmering into something worse.
Grief.
He lifts the boy carefully, his weight disturbingly light. His arms dangle, limp, small bones pressing against Hiccup’s forearm. He can feel how little he had been eating, how weak his body must have been even before this.
A child.
Starved.
Murdered.
And they were going to butcher him.
His throat is tight as he lays the boy in the cart when it arrives, adjusting him as best he can. The cloak around his shoulders is pulled free, and he drapes it gently over the boy’s frame. It’s the least he can do.
Hiccup turns back to the men, reaching into his coin pouch. He tosses three gold pieces to each of them. They flinch, startled, before hesitantly catching the coins, looking at him like they don’t understand.
“What’s his name?” Hiccup asks quietly, not taking his eyes off the boy.
“Tom.”
Hiccup nods, barely able to look away from the boy’s face. He has dirty blonde hair, a smattering of freckles across his nose. His skin, once sun-kissed, is already taking on the pale, gray hue of death.
“And his sister?”
“Ellie.”
His hands tighten on the cart’s handles.
He doesn’t say another word. Just lifts, steps forward, and pushes the cart out of the alley.
Away from the city.
Away from the filth and the stench and the rot of this wretched place.
Away from the nightmare that calls itself a kingdom.
The boy’s name was Tom.
His sister’s name was Ellie.
Hiccup stands knee-deep in Blackwater Bay, pushing a small boat into the waves. The wrapped body rests on the pyre, flames licking at the edges as the boat drifts out to sea.
He draws his bow.
Breathes.
And lets the arrow fly.
The fire catches. The ship burns.
“To Odin’s great battlefield,” he murmurs, voice low. “May the halls of Valhalla welcome you, and may you never know hunger again.”
Behind him, a twig snaps.
He turns sharply, Inferno igniting in his grip—
And sees the stag.
It stands at the tree line, massive and white as snow, staring directly at him.
A silent understanding passes between them.
And then, in a heartbeat, it turns and disappears into the trees.
Hiccup exhales slowly, Inferno’s hilt solid beneath his fingers.
He fucking hates Westeros.