The Red Keep was a maze of stone corridors, tapestries, and bustling servants who all stopped to stare at me as I passed.
I was getting used to the looks—between my orange hair, strange clothes, and the massive sword on my back, I might as well have been carrying a neon sign reading "NOT FROM AROUND HERE."
Princess Rhaenyra led our small procession, her head held high, ignoring the whispers that followed in our wake. Lady Rhaenys walked beside me, her sharp eyes occasionally flicking to Zangetsu with undisguised curiosity. The gold cloaks maintained a respectful distance behind us, their hands never straying far from their weapons.
"So," I said, breaking the silence as we climbed yet another staircase, "is there some kind of protocol I should know about? Where I'm from, we don't exactly have kings."
Rhaenyra glanced back, a hint of amusement in her violet eyes. "Kneel when presented, address him as 'Your Grace,' and speak only when spoken to."
"That's it?" I asked. "Sounds simple enough."
"Oh, and don't turn your back on him, don't sit unless invited, keep your weapon sheathed, and refrain from mentioning his brother unless he does so first," Rhaenys added with a wry smile.
"Right. Simple." I rolled my eyes. "Anything else? Maybe I should do a little dance while I'm at it?"
A nearby servant gasped at my irreverence, but Rhaenyra actually laughed—a quick, surprised sound she immediately tried to suppress.
"I think my father will find you... refreshing, Ichigo Kurosaki," she said. "Just mind the Hand. He's less appreciative of... directness."
"The Hand?"
"Otto Hightower, Hand of the King," Rhaenys explained. "The second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms, at least in his own estimation."
"And my future goodfather," Rhaenyra added, her tone suddenly cooler.
Before I could ask what that meant, we arrived at a set of massive wooden doors carved with the Targaryen sigil—a three-headed dragon breathing fire. Four men in elaborate armor stood guard, each wearing white cloaks over their plate.
"The Kingsguard," Rhaenys murmured. "The finest knights in the realm, sworn to protect the king and royal family."
They reminded me a little of the Stealth Force, though considerably more conspicuous in their bright white cloaks. The guards opened the doors without a word, and we stepped into the throne room of the Red Keep.
I'd seen impressive spaces before—Soul Society had its share of grandiose architecture—but this was something else entirely. The cavernous hall stretched longer than a football field, with towering columns rising to a vaulted ceiling. Massive windows of colored glass filtered the sunlight, casting rainbow patterns across the stone floor. Skulls of dragons in varying sizes adorned the walls, their empty eye sockets seeming to follow our movement.
And at the far end, atop a dais of stone steps, sat the most uncomfortable-looking chair I'd ever seen—a twisted, asymmetrical monstrosity of melted swords forged together, with jagged points and edges everywhere.
The Iron Throne. Had to be.
The man sitting on it hardly seemed to match its menacing appearance. King Viserys Targaryen was middle-aged, with silver-gold hair and a neatly trimmed beard streaked with gray. He wore a crown of Valyrian steel set with rubies, but otherwise his attire was surprisingly understated compared to the nobles gathered around him. There was a certain weariness in his face, though his eyes remained sharp and alert.
To the king's right stood a tall, austere man with graying hair and a pinched expression, wearing a gold pin in the shape of a hand on his dark doublet. Otto Hightower, presumably. His gaze fixed on me with immediate suspicion.
"Your Grace," Rhaenyra called out, her voice carrying effortlessly across the hall. "May I present Ichigo Kurosaki, who comes to us from lands beyond the Smoking Sea, riding the wild dragon known as the Cannibal."
A murmur ran through the assembled courtiers. I could practically feel the wave of stares intensify. Whispers of "Cannibal" and "wild dragon" echoed through the chamber.
Rhaenyra guided me to the foot of the dais, where she sank into a graceful curtsy. Remembering her instructions, I dropped to one knee, though it felt weird as hell. I'd never knelt to anyone before.
"Rise," the king said after a moment. His voice was steady and measured, the voice of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
I got to my feet, meeting his gaze directly. Up close, I could see the shadows under his eyes, the slight bloating of his face. This was a man under strain, though he hid it well.
"So you are the dragon rider who caused such commotion in my city this morning," Viserys said, studying me with open curiosity. "You have Valyrian steel on your back, yet you are clearly no Valyrian."
"It's not Valyrian steel, Your Grace," I answered. "It's called Zangetsu. It's... from my homeland."
"And where precisely is this homeland?" Otto Hightower interjected before the king could respond. "Beyond the Smoking Sea, the princess says, yet few who venture there return to tell the tale."
I shrugged. "It's complicated. I'm from a place called Karakura Town, but it's... very far from here. Further than Asshai or Yi Ti."
"Further than the known world, you mean to say?" Hightower's tone dripped with skepticism. "And yet you speak the Common Tongue flawlessly."
"That's a recent development," I admitted. "I think it has something to do with my connection to the Cannibal."
"Ah yes, the infamous wild dragon of Dragonstone," Viserys leaned forward slightly. "A beast that has resisted riders for generations, known to devour other dragons and their eggs. Yet he submits to you, a stranger from beyond our known maps. You can understand our curiosity... and our concern."
"I didn't exactly plan it this way," I said, fighting to keep my tone respectful. "I was caught in an... accident that sent me to the ruins of Old Valyria. The Cannibal found me there. We formed a connection, and he brought me here because I'm looking for a way home."
"Old Valyria?" a new voice joined the conversation—a chubby man with a chain of various metals around his neck. "You survived in the Doom?"
"Grand Maester Mellos," Rhaenyra murmured to me. "The king's chief advisor in matters of learning and medicine."
"For a few days, yes," I replied. "It wasn't a place I'd recommend visiting."
"Few who venture there return," the Grand Maester noted. "What did you observe of the ruins?"
I thought of the twisted landscape, the Fire Wyrms, the grotesque creatures that had once been human. "Death. Destruction. Strange creatures. The ruins of what must have been an incredible civilization."
"And what do you seek in King's Landing that could possibly help you return to this... Karakura Town?" Otto Hightower asked, his eyes never leaving mine.
I chose my words carefully. "Knowledge. I believe the Targaryens might have preserved texts or artifacts from Old Valyria that could help me understand how I got here and how I might get back."
"The Citadel has the greatest collection of knowledge in the known world," the Grand Maester interjected, "not the Red Keep."
"With all due respect," I countered, "I was told the Targaryens kept certain Valyrian knowledge... private. Especially regarding dragons and more esoteric arts."
Another murmur ran through the court. Viserys's expression remained neutral, but something flickered in his eyes.
"You seem remarkably well-informed for a stranger to our shores," Otto Hightower observed coldly. "Who, precisely, has been sharing these supposed secrets of House Targaryen with you?"
"No one's been sharing secrets," I said, my patience beginning to fray. "Just general knowledge I picked up along the way. Look, I'm not here to cause trouble. I just want to find a way home."
"And yet trouble seems to have followed you," Hightower pressed. "A wild dragon, previously untameable, now circling the capital. Strange weapons and stranger tales." His eyes narrowed. "In the absence of Prince Daemon's... disruptions, we had hoped for a period of peace and stability."
Ah, so that was an opening. "Prince Daemon? Where is he, if you don't mind me asking?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Viserys's face hardened, and Otto Hightower's expression became even more pinched, if that were possible.
"My brother," Viserys said carefully, "is currently occupied in the Stepstones, waging war against the Triarchy alongside Lord Corlys Velaryon."
"A war he began without royal sanction," Hightower added pointedly.
"A war he and the Sea Snake are losing," muttered the young knight with the dark curly hair.
"Ser Criston Cole," Rhaenyra whispered to me. "My sworn shield and one of my father's Kingsguard."
So Prince Daemon—the king's brother and, from what Darro had told me, a claimant to the throne—was off fighting a war with someone called the Sea Snake, and apparently not doing great. I filed that information away for later.
"Your Grace," I said, addressing the king directly, "I understand your… caution. I'm a stranger with a dangerous dragon and a weird sword. But I'm not here to interfere with anything or cause problems. I'm just trying to get home, and I think the knowledge your family has preserved might help me do that."
Viserys studied me for a long moment, his fingers tapping thoughtfully on the arm of the Iron Throne.
"What exactly is the nature of your bond with this dragon?" he asked suddenly. "The Cannibal has been known to us for generations. He has killed every rider who attempted to claim him."
This seemed like a strange question. I'd assumed all dragon riders could communicate with their mounts—wasn't that the whole point? Otherwise, they'd just be glorified animal trainers.
"The same as yours with your dragons, I imagine," I said with a shrug. "We communicate. You know, thoughts, images, intentions—the basics."
The throne room fell utterly silent. I suddenly realized everyone was staring at me with expressions ranging from shock to outright disbelief.
"Wait..." I said slowly, looking from face to face. "Isn't that... normal? For dragon riders?"
Isn't that the reason why they get chosen to be the rider? The Cannibal said 'only few hear' dragons. Surely, he meant it was the Targaryens to be the ones who do, right? They're the Dragonlords…
"Communicate?" the Grand Maester repeated, his tone somewhere between fascination and disbelief. "You claim to share thoughts with the beast?"
Now I was confused. "Yes? Don't all dragon riders? How else would you control something with the intelligence and will of a dragon?"
"Dragons respond to commands, to Valyrian phrases passed down through generations, to bonds formed from hatchling stage," Otto Hightower said stiffly. "What you describe—direct mind-to-mind communication—is the stuff of children's tales. Even the dragonlords of Old Valyria made no such claims."
"How convenient," said a rotund man dressed in elaborate green and gold finery. "An unverifiable claim from a mysterious stranger."
"Master of Coin, Lord Lyman Beesbury," Rhaenyra whispered quickly.
I'm thankful that the Princess was still being my little helper, but I was still trying to process this.
The Targaryens, famous dragonriders for over a century, couldn't actually talk to their dragons? That explained a lot about why the Cannibal considered them inferior.
"Wait, so you're telling me you all just... sit on them and hope they go where you want?" I asked incredulously. "That's like trying to drive a car without a steering wheel."
Several courtiers looked utterly baffled by my comparison, but the disbelief in the room was palpable.
"Right now, the Cannibal is hunting over the bay," I continued, deciding to demonstrate. "He's annoyed by the smaller dragons around the city, but he's promised not to eat them unless they attack first. He thinks your dragons are—" I paused, not wanting to repeat the Cannibal's exact unflattering thoughts, "—less impressive than dragons from Old Valyria."
"And how exactly would you know what the beast is thinking at this very moment?" asked a council member, his tone dripping with skepticism.
"Because we're connected," I replied simply. "Always. I can reach out to him anytime, and he to me. It's not like speaking with words exactly, but... it's clear communication."
The courtiers erupted in another wave of murmurs, disbelief, and mockery. I caught whispers of "charlatan" and "madman" from various corners of the hall.
"Silence," Viserys commanded, and the room immediately quieted. He studied me with new intensity, something unreadable in his eyes. "A most... extraordinary claim, Master Kurosaki. One that will require extraordinary proof."
I still couldn't believe this was unusual. How had they managed to tame dragons at all without communication? It would be like trying to get Kenpachi to follow orders by yanking on his hair.
"I understand," I replied evenly. "I'm willing to prove it whenever you want. Though I'm surprised this isn't common. Honestly, I thought that's what being a dragonrider meant."
As the whispers of disbelief continued, I noticed varied reactions among the court. Some looked outright dismissive, others fearful. The Grand Maester appeared intellectually fascinated despite his skepticism. Otto Hightower's face had turned to stone, clearly seeing my claim as further evidence of danger. Only Rhaenyra and, curiously, King Viserys himself seemed to be considering the possibility seriously.
"If what you claim is true," said a stern-faced man in naval attire, "it would represent an unprecedented connection between dragon and rider. One not seen since... perhaps ever."
"Lord Corlys's cousin, Ser Vaemond Velaryon," murmured Rhaenyra, identifying him for me.
"It's true whether you believe it or not," I replied with a shrug. I wasn't about to beg them to believe me.
Viserys raised a hand, silencing the renewed whispers. "True or not, the dragon may remain where it is, provided it causes no harm to our people or their property." He fixed me with a stern look. "You will be held responsible for its behavior, Ichigo Kurosaki."
"Understood, Your Grace." Just what I needed—being accountable for a dragon with impulse control issues and a superiority complex.
"The Small Council will convene at midday tomorrow to discuss this matter further," Viserys declared, rising from the throne with a slight wince that he quickly masked. "Until then, rest and recover from your journey."
"Ser Harrold," he continued, addressing the older knight in Kingsguard armor who stood near the throne, "assign suitable quarters for our guest. Princess Rhaenyra, Princess Rhaenys—my thanks for your escort. Grand Maester, perhaps you might speak further with our visitor about his experiences in the Doom; such firsthand accounts are rare indeed."
"And his dragon, Your Grace?" Otto Hightower asked. "The beast must be contained."
I tensed at that. "The Cannibal doesn't do 'contained' very well. He's agreed to stay beyond the city walls, hunting in the bay. Trying to cage him would be... unwise." I wanted to say 'stupid' but let's be smart here.
With that, the audience was clearly over. The king descended from the dais, followed closely by Otto Hightower and several other officials I assumed were council members. As they passed, Hightower gave me one final, measuring look—the kind that promised this wasn't over by a long shot.
Ser Harrold Westerling, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, approached with the steady gait of a lifelong warrior. "This way," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "I'll show you to your chambers."
As I followed Ser Harrold out of the throne room, I caught Rhaenyra's eye. She gave me a small, enigmatic smile before turning to speak with Princess Rhaenys.
"They think I'm either a liar or a lunatic," I grunted under my breath as we walked down a corridor lined with tapestries depicting dragons in battle. "I still can't believe no one else can talk to their dragons. What's the point of riding one if you can't communicate?"
"They've never seen anyone like you before," Ser Harrold replied unexpectedly. His voice was low, meant only for my ears. "I've guarded two kings in my lifetime, boy, and I've never heard such a claim. Dragonriders use whips, spurs, and Valyrian commands. They form bonds, yes, but not as you describe. If you're lying, you'll be found out soon enough. If you're telling the truth..." He shook his head. "Then the world is stranger than even I thought."
I glanced at the old knight. His eyes held the weariness of someone who'd seen too much to be easily surprised anymore, but also a glimmer of something else—curiosity, maybe even hope.
"I guess I'll just have to prove it," I said.
"I guess you will." He stopped before an ornate door. "Your chambers. Someone will bring you food and fresh clothing. Do not attempt to leave without an escort."
As he turned to go, I called after him. "Hey, Ser Harrold. Thanks."
He paused, looking back with raised eyebrows. "For what?"
"For not immediately assuming I'm crazy."
A ghost of a smile touched his weathered face. "Oh, I didn't say that." And with that, he strode away, white cloak billowing behind him.
I closed the door and collapsed onto a chair by the window, gazing out at the city below. In the distance, I could just make out the dark shape of the Cannibal circling over Blackwater Bay.
"Having fun making me sound like a crazy person?" I sent the thought his way. "Why didn't you tell me that other riders can't communicate with their dragons? I looked like a complete idiot in there."
The dragon's amused response tickled the back of my mind. "YOUR IGNORANCE OF THIS WORLD IS ENTERTAINING. DID YOU TRULY BELIEVE THESE WEAK DESCENDANTS OF VALYRIA POSSESSED THE TRUE BOND? THEY ARE MERE PASSENGERS ON BEASTS THEY PRETEND TO CONTROL. THEY HAVE FORGOTTEN—OR PERHAPS NEVER KNEW—WHAT REAL DRAGONRIDERS ONCE WERE."
"Well, we're going to have to prove it to them," I replied. "Think you can behave long enough to make me look sane?"
His mental laughter rumbled like distant thunder. "PERHAPS. IT MIGHT BE... ENTERTAINING."
Great. A dragon with a messed up sense of humor.
No problem. Piece of cake. Just another day in the increasingly weird life of Ichigo Kurosaki.