Incest Pendragon

Londinium

"Argh...! Help...! Mercy...!" The cries of the Saxons filled the air, mingling with the crackle of flames and the clash of steel.

Londinium, once a city under Saxon rule, had transformed into a bloody battlefield as King Uther's forces unleashed their fury.

For the men of Camelot, this was not just a victory—it was a reckoning.

Years of resentment, humiliation, and oppression boiled over into an unrelenting wave of violence.

The Saxons had occupied their lands, stolen their wealth, and reduced their women to spoils of war.

Now, the tables had turned, and the Celts—proudly calling themselves the Men of Camelot—sought to reclaim what was taken and exact vengeance.

For Uther's knights, this wasn't just war; it was justice, paid in blood.

There was no mercy in their eyes, only the cold efficiency of slaughter.

Those who weren't killed were dragged away to serve as prisoners, forced labor, or anything that could further King Uther's ambitions for his burgeoning empire.

"Father, is this necessary?" Artoria winced at the sight of the carnage.

The streets ran red, and the air reeked of death. The brutality felt excessive, a cruelty that turned her stomach.

Uther's forces had already defeated the Irish, Saxons, and remnants of Rome.

After crushing Vortigern, Emperor Lucius, and their allies, they marched on Londinium, the Saxon capital.

The city fell swiftly, and Uther's men spread across Britannia like a storm, seizing every inch of Saxon territory.

The Irish coalition had been dismantled—Vortigern had perished from exhaustion, Emperor Lucius was struck down by Artoria herself, and Morgan and Baobhan Sith had captured Melusine.

Among the Irish Coalition, only Queen Medb still drew breath—but Uther would never allow her to return to her homeland and rally as a threat. She was imprisoned in Camelot, heavily guarded under Morgan's supervision.

Kill the men. Capture the women. It was a simple, brutal decree. Every degenerate soul understands the meaning of the paragraph when they see one.

Artoria dismounted her horse, her unease growing as she witnessed the atrocities unfolding before her.

"Unnecessarily cruel," she muttered, struggling to reconcile the destruction with the ideals she had been taught.

Uther, watching the flames devour the Saxon capital, merely chuckled.

"Unnecessarily cruel? Perhaps, from your perspective, my dear daughter." His voice was cold, devoid of remorse. "I will not stop them. But you, Artoria—if you believe this is wrong—have my full authority to intervene. Stop them if you wish. See for yourself what happens when you try."

Determined, Artoria strode forward, her hand resting on her sword.

She intercepted a knight about to strike down a defenseless Saxon.

"What do you think you're doing, Princess?" the knight demanded, his voice sharp with anger.

"They are unarmed, and you have broken your vow as a knight by attacking defenseless women and men," Artoria said calmly, her gaze steady as she sought to reason with him.

The knight laughed bitterly, his tone dripping with contempt.

"Unarmed? Women? You jest, Princess. These so-called 'women' wore our dresses, lived on our land, and reduced us to nothing. They claimed Britannia as their own, trampling over everything we hold dear. And now you ask us to show mercy to such monsters?"

He spat on the ground and mounted his horse, unwilling to listen further. "Do as you will, Princess. But you'll get no respect from us for this."

With that, he rode off, his disdain palpable.

Artoria turned to the Saxons she had just defended.

"Are you all right?" she asked softly, her voice gentle despite the chaos around her.

One of them spat at her feet, his eyes burning with hatred.

"Whore," he snarled before walking away, leaving Artoria frozen in shock.

Her gaze shifted back to her father, who observed the scene with a knowing smirk.

"I told you, didn't I, my dear daughter?" Uther said with a shrug, his voice as casual as if they were discussing the weather. "That's why I didn't stop them."

Artoria clenched her fists, her heart heavy with doubt.

"Again, I will not stop you if you try again," her father said, his tone cold and dismissive, as if the weight of her actions barely mattered to him.

"However, you will also lose the respect of our people. Even the Saxons will not be grateful for your rescue. If you truly want to save everyone and do what you believe is right, earn their respect first. Or," he added with a sharp edge in his voice, "you can choose to become a tyrant and do whatever you please without caring for the opinions of others. Pick your path, my dear daughter."

After delivering his judgment, Uther wasted no time.

He turned away from her, his cape fluttering in the wind, and rode his horse forward without looking back.

His figure grew smaller in the distance as he disappeared into the chaos of Londinium, where the streets were filled with a macabre symphony of screams, blood, and corpses.

Camelot's forces had unleashed their most brutal revenge, and the city bore the scars of their wrath.

Artoria stood frozen, her eyes fixed on her father's retreating back.

Her expression was a mix of confusion and despair, as if the ground beneath her had crumbled away, leaving her adrift in uncertainty.

She gazed out at the distance with an empty stare, the horrifying reality of the world she sought to save weighing down on her.

Is this the price for uniting Britannia? Is this the cost of saving them?

The questions echoed in her mind, unanswered and relentless, as the screams of the dying filled the air around her.