Disclaimer: Just in case nobody realized I don't own nor do I claim ownership of Game of Thrones, all characters and worlds belong to their real world respective owners. I'm just having some fun, that's all.
The Young Lion
Act 2 Ch 30: Marching to War
Meanwhile, the Kingswood trembled under the weight of thirty thousand men marching through the trees.
Boots turned the damp earth into mud as they marched one by one. Their torches bobbing between the treelines like wisps of orange light, illuminating wet bark and damp, hanging leaves. The smell of smoke, sweat, and horses filled the air.
Above the marching host, crowned stag banners snapped sharply in the wind, and at its head rode their king Stannis Baratheon.
The old stag sat atop his warhorse with his typical stiff bearing, his fur-lined cloak fluttering lightly behind him while rainwater dripped from the edge of his armored fingers. His face looked as if it was carved from the granite beneath Dragonstone; hard and unforgiving.
Around him rode his household guard alongside several stormlords who had once declared for his younger brother before conveniently bending the knee after Renly's death.
Stannis didn't trust any of them—not for a moment.
The men who followed the pretender Robb Stark had marched behind the young wolf because they believed in him. The Northmen had declared him king willingly and followed him even in the face of impossible odds and bitter loss.
Even the men who had followed the incestuous false king Joffrey did so because they genuinely believed him to be Robert's trueborn son.
But these men?
These men had known Renly had no rightful claim and they followed him anyway. They had ignored both duty and the law simply because Renly had been easier to love.
The thought sat in his stomach like a hot coal.
Though Stannis had pardoned them after Renly's death and welcomed their forces, it in no way implied that he had forgiven them. Several of the stormlords had even tried to complain when he had placed Ser Davos Seaworth in command of the fleet.
They had sneered behind closed doors about taking orders from a smuggler and a crabber's son.
It had only taken a few public hangings to remind them of their place in his army. Unsurprisingly, the complaints quickly ceased.
It was a lesson he had found confirmed throughout his life; fear could often solve what respect could not.
Stannis' jaw tightened slightly as the army continued deeper through the Kingswood. Ahead of them somewhere beyond the trees, mud, and hills lay the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, which held the Iron Throne.
His throne.
One third of his forces had already sailed ahead aboard the royal fleet toward Blackwater Bay. His Hand, Ser Davos, commanded the naval assault personally, his years navigating dangerous waters as a smuggler proving too valuable to ignore.
Stannis trusted Davos more than any highborn lord beneath his banners. He was honest and he was loyal. Even when that loyalty came in the appearance of challenging his choices or questioning his judgment. Unlike the lords surrounding him, Davos had earned everything he possessed through hardship rather than birth.
The thought steadied him somewhat but still…a certain unease lingered inside his chest tonight, and a part of him knew why.
His eyes drifted briefly toward the empty place near his side where Melisandre's horse would normally ride, but she wasn't there.
He'd been forced to send her back to Dragonstone along with his wife and his daughter, Princess Shireen.
At first, the decision had simply been practical. Rumors had spread too far through the army. Soldiers whispered openly now that the foreign red priestess was the true power behind the campaign, that she whispered commands into Stannis' ear while he obeyed like some enthralled puppet.
Initially, he had dismissed the talk as meaningless grumbling, but then Joffrey's ravens arrived bringing the labels of kinslayer, blood magic, and foreign witch with them.
The accusations appeared to have spread across the realm like a plague. Villages shut their gates against his soldiers. Farmers hid grain and supplies rather than surrender them willingly. Even Septons denounced him openly during sermons while frightened smallfolk muttered prayers whenever Melisandre passed by.
Stannis had attempted to silence such accusations with hangings, but such acts only seemed to breathe more life into the rumors.
And worst of all, Melisandre herself no longer seemed as certain.
The woman who once spoke of prophecy with unwavering conviction now stared into flames as though searching desperately for answers that refused to come.
The memory of their final conversation lingered heavily in his mind.
[Flashback]
Rain drizzled lightly across the camp as Stannis approached Melisandre's tent.
Two guards stood watch outside beneath flickering torchlight, their shadows dancing against the crimson fabric while distant thunder rolled somewhere over Storm's End.
Stannis paused briefly outside the tent entrance. For the first time in many years, he felt nervous.
Melisandre had been his most devoted supporter from the beginning. She had called him Azor Ahai reborn. The Prince Who Was Promised. The chosen champion destined to stand against the coming darkness.
And yet lately…
Something had changed ever since that fateful night.
The memory returned vividly every time he closed his eyes. The whirlwind of flames exploding inside the great hall. Melisandre being blasted across the room. The smell of burning flesh and blood thick in the air.
Even now he didn't understand what had gone wrong with the spell and she refused to talk about it. She would only say that she had "failed her lord" and been punished because of it.
The tent flap rustled softly as Stannis stepped inside.
Heat immediately washed over him from the large brazier burning near the center of the chamber. Melisandre sat wrapped in a dark red shawl beside the flames.
The firelight illuminated the ugly burn scar stretching from her cheek downward beneath her collarbone. Angry red flesh contrasted sharply against her pale skin while portions of the wound disappeared beneath her robes.
Stannis' eyes instinctively narrowed as they tracked the edge of the scar. He'd seen worse wounds on the battlefield, but there was something singularly jarring about seeing such raw, brutal damage on someone whose beauty had always seemed as potent and untouchable as her magic.
It made her look human, and worst of all, it made her look fallible. It reminded him of Shireen's gray cheek, a disfigurement that offended his sense of order and required a rigid mental shift just to look at her without a trace of pity or disgust.
She slowly turned her head toward him.
"Your Grace."
Her voice remained calm and respectful, but it felt somewhat hollow now.
Stannis slowly approached her.
"My lady," he said quietly. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
"You interrupt nothing."
She turned her gaze back toward the brazier, an awkward silence settled between them while the flames crackled softly and rain tapped against the canvas overhead.
Stannis finally cleared his throat.
"I assume you know why I'm here."
A faint twitch touched her lips.
"I will after you tell me."
The answer irritated him more than it should have. Still, he kept his expression controlled.
"I march for King's Landing once the troops finish consolidating." His voice hardened slightly. "You will accompany my wife and daughter back to Dragonstone."
He expected some resistance or at least an argument. Instead, Melisandre simply nodded faintly.
"If that is your wish, Your Grace."
That was all.
No warnings from her god. No insistence that she must remain by his side. The strange indifference unsettled him far more than defiance would have.
For several long moments he simply stared at her while the firelight flickered across her scarred face, until finally he spoke again.
"I need to know something."
Melisandre slowly turned her eyes toward him.
"When you look into the flames…" He hesitated briefly. "Do you still see my victory?"
The silence afterward stretched uncomfortably long. The red priestess's eyes looked back toward the brazier. The flames reflected within their crimson hues while shadows moved strangely across her face.
"At times," she said quietly, "the flames show many truths."
"That is not an answer."
"No," she admitted softly. "It is not."
Stannis felt irritation beginning to rise inside him again.
"My lady," he said more sternly, "you proclaimed me the Prince Who Was Promised. You claimed the Lord of Light himself chose me."
"And perhaps he did."
"Perhaps?"
That single word struck him harder than expected, while Melisandre remained silent for several moments before finally speaking again.
"My lord has shown me two futures."
Stannis' expression hardened slightly.
"In the first…" Her voice lowered almost to a whisper. "I see you seated upon a bloody throne. Beneath your feet lies a lion's golden pelt while the heads of a wolf and lion cub decorate spikes beside your court."
The old stag felt some tension ease from his shoulders, but then the priestess continued.
"In the second…"
Her tone shifted and her uncertainty became apparent.
"I see a great golden lion standing atop the corpses of your bannermen while an emerald stag kneels before him." Her fingers tightened slightly against her shawl. "With green flames consuming everything around them."
He took a slow breath before asking, "Which future do you believe will come to pass?"
Melisandre didn't answer immediately, her gaze fixed with terrifying intensity on the dancing flames. Stannis found himself staring at the back of her neck where the edges of the burn disappeared beneath her hair, a fresh wave of that deeply rooted discomfort washing over him.
It wasn't pity—Stannis didn't possess pity for weaknesses that were earned—but a cold, structural disappointment that his most reliable tool was cracked and useless when he needed it most.
Melisandre stared into the flames for several more moments before answering.
"Your brother Renly is dead. I cannot see the significance of the second vision."
The answer reassured him slightly, though not entirely.
"Then why would your god show you a future that cannot happen?"
The priestess looked exhausted hearing his question, looking older, somehow.
"I do not pretend to understand my lord's will completely," she admitted softly. "I ask for guidance. He shows me what he wishes."
Stannis stared at her for a moment, but seeing the conversation leading nowhere useful, Stannis stepped back toward the entrance.
"My soldiers will escort you to the harbor once the ships are ready."
Melisandre inclined her head slightly.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
Stannis lingered one final moment before turning and exiting the tent into the cold rain. Behind him, Melisandre slowly turned back toward the flames, her crimson eyes locked onto the fire with desperate intensity.
"My lord…" she whispered softly. "Please guide me. Please show me that my path is true."
The flames crackled and danced in the brazier, but her lord didn't answer her, just as he had refused to do since she tried to kill the false king Joffrey.
For the first time in centuries, Melisandre felt afraid.
Afraid that perhaps she might have been wrong.
[Flashback End]
Stannis rode silently through the Kingswood while torchlight flickered across the wet armor of the marching columns around him. The memory of that conversation lingered unpleasantly inside his head.
Her words and doubt had planted a splinter inside his mind—one that refused to go away, driving him mad.
The old stag tightened his grip upon the reins.
"No," he thought. "I've come too far to turn back now."
He had killed his own brother, and he reclaimed his bannermen. His fleet was sailing for Blackwater Bay at that very moment to liberate the city from the abomination sitting on his throne.
This war needed to end and it would tonight. Ahead, horns suddenly echoed through the forest. The marching pace slowed slightly while riders moved between formations relaying orders beneath the torchlight.
Stannis looked toward the distant orange glow barely visible through the trees ahead. King's Landing.
It was close now.
Very close.
His horse snorted beneath him while rainwater dripped steadily from the edge of his cloak.
"The Iron Throne is mine by right," he thought grimly. "And come dawn…" His jaw hardened."…The rest of the realm will know it too."
But there was another problem that had been plaguing the old stag and his army for days now. The deeper his army marched into the Kingswood, the more the forest itself seemed to turn against them.
For the first two days strange noises had harassed his men relentlessly. It started small, a whistle somewhere in the dark, then the distant cries of horns echoing through the trees, and rustling branches where no wind blew.
It was irritating but manageable.
The soldiers often grumbled around campfires and blamed scouts, hunters, or lurking outlaws. Some even joked and laughed about possible ghosts or phantoms in the woods.
That laughter died quickly by the third night, since not a single man in the army had managed to get any sleep.
Every evening after the camps settled and the fires burned low, the noises would start up again. Long whistles carried through the darkness. Horns sounding from impossible directions. Footsteps crunching leaves just beyond the firelight. Horses whined nervously and pawed at the dirt while sentries jerked their heads toward shadows between the trees.
The worst part was that no one could ever find anything.
Stannis had sent scouting parties into the woods more than once to flush out whatever rats were hiding there. Hardened men-at-arms vanished in the night and none of them had returned.
Not the first group, nor the second, not even the third sent to find the others.
Only when dawn finally broke did the forest return what it had taken.
Their corpses were found lining the roadside nailed to crude wooden crosses. Arms spread wide. Heads hanging limply against bloodied chests. Flies buzzed around the bodies while morning mist curled around their boots. Some had their throats slit, others were missing fingers or ears, one man's jaw had been cut away entirely.
Worst of all, every corpse had been nailed so that it pointed the way toward King's Landing.
The underlying warning was clear: they were marching to their deaths.
The sight spread fear through the army like a damp rot.
Whispers filled the camps after that. Men muttered prayers over their meals. Others refused to leave the torchlight after sunset. Stories spread from tent to tent about demons lurking in the Kingswood or evil spirits hunting the army at night.
Stannis had nearly struck one marcher dead after overhearing him speak of ghosts.
"You are soldiers," he had snarled coldly before the assembled camp, "not frightened children hiding beneath blankets listening to wet nurse tales."
The men lowered their heads and muttered apologies, but even then Stannis could see the fear lingering behind their eyes.
And truthfully…
The constant harassment had begun affecting the army physically as well.
The soldiers barely slept anymore. Dark circles hung beneath their eyes. Men marched slower, their tempers shortening and their discipline weakening. Entire columns had begun lagging behind because the exhausted troops could barely keep pace through the muddy forest roads.
Stannis knew what the enemy was doing, delaying them and weakening their morale. They were trying to wear them down before they ever reached the city.
It was clever. Infuriatingly clever, but more importantly it was dangerous.
His fleet was already sailing toward Blackwater Bay under Ser Davos Seaworth's command. If the main army delayed much longer, the ships would reach King's Landing alone.
So he was forced to push the men harder with longer marches and shorter breaks.
The soldiers groaned and cursed beneath their breath, but they obeyed. What choice did they have? By now the promise of King's Landing was the only thing keeping many of them moving.
The promise of warm food, ale, soft beds, and beautiful women.
They whispered about it constantly while marching through the dark woods. The younger soldiers especially spoke of what they would do once the city fell. Some dreamed of loot, others of glory, while some imagined the feasts they would enjoy once Stannis sat the Iron Throne.
By day's end, they told themselves, the war would finally end.
They would batter down the Mud Gate, and drag Joffrey Baratheon screaming from his throne. Then they would celebrate while the city burned around them.
Those fantasies carried the army onward through exhaustion and fear.
Until suddenly…the whistles stopped.
The change was immediate enough that every soldier noticed. No horns or rustling leaves.
Just utter silence.
A dead silence that still managed to send a chill down the men's spines.
Stannis frowned atop his horse as the army continued marching beneath the trees. The unnatural silence unnerving him just as much as his men.
Even the horses seemed bothered by it.
Several whinnied uneasily while their riders struggled to calm them. Men kept glancing nervously toward the treeline gripping shields and spears tighter with every step.
Then one of the soldiers near the front vanished.
There wasn't a scream or a struggle.
One moment he marched beside his companions and the next he was simply gone. The men around him halted in confusion, turning their heads sharply toward the bushes lining the road.
"Where the fuck did—"
Rustling leaves interrupted him.
One marcher slowly stepped toward the brushline, spear trembling slightly in his grip. Torchlight flickered across his anxious face while the rest of the formation watched in nervous silence.
"H-Hello?" he called uncertainly.
No answer came, and when he moved closer the branches shifted softly. Then suddenly a dark shape exploded from behind him.
Steel flashed.
The thin dagger sliced across the soldier's throat so quickly that for one terrible second he simply stood there confused. Then blood burst from his neck in a hot spray across the dirt while he collapsed choking.
The shadow vanished back into the treeline.
"AMBUSH!"
The cry spread through the convoy instantly.
More dark figures appeared between the trees moving with terrifying speed. They wore strange black garments that blended into the forest itself while cloth masks concealed their faces.
Some darted low beneath shield lines slashing tendons and hamstrings before disappearing again. Others struck isolated soldiers and dragged them screaming into the brush.
Panic spread rapidly through the marching columns.
A soldier screamed as something small and fast swept his legs out from beneath him. Before he could rise, a long dagger punched into his chest repeatedly.
Another marcher turned just in time to see a masked figure sprint past and carve open his friend's throat before vanishing into the darkness.
They didn't move like soldiers or knights.
They moved like shadows came to life, and then came the darts.
Thin black needles suddenly flew from the trees in vicious volleys. Men cried out as the tiny projectiles buried themselves into eyes, cheeks, necks, and exposed flesh. Several collapsed immediately clutching at their faces while others screamed and clawed frantically at the darts lodged in their skin.
"SHIELDS!" one officer roared from horseback. "Shields up, damn you!"
The infantry scrambled into formation raising round shields overhead and outward. Darts rattled against wood while terrified soldiers crouched together trying desperately to protect themselves from enemies they could barely see.
Eventually, the barrage stopped, and the men breathed heavily behind their shields staring into the darkness beyond the torchlight.
The mounted officer wiped sweat from his brow before snarling angrily.
"Archers forward!"
Several bowmen stepped out from the formation and quickly nocked arrows.
"Loose!"
The arrows disappeared blindly into the woods, and the men listened desperately for any screams or movement.
But nothing happened.
Then suddenly another volley of darts slammed into the formation from behind.
Men shrieked in agony as needles pierced the backs of their necks and skulls. Several dropped instantly while others staggered around blindly clutching at bloodied wounds.
The attackers had somehow circled them. Fear finally broke whatever discipline they had left.
"Keep your fucking lines!" the officer screamed desperately while his horse reared beneath him. "Keep your fucking—"
A dart punched directly through his eye. The officer toppled from the saddle, dead before he even hit the ground.
Chaos broke out.
Men ran screaming into the forest trying desperately to escape the unseen attackers. Some shoved their own comrades aside while others abandoned shields entirely just to move faster through the darkness.
And they ran head first into Joffrey's 'surprises'.
One fleeing soldier suddenly vanished into the earth as hidden branches collapsed beneath his weight. His scream echoed through the forest as sharpened wooden stakes punched through his stomach and chest.
The two men beside him froze in horror staring down into the tiger pit while their companion writhed helplessly impaled below.
Another man sprinted through the brush only to trip a concealed wire. A massive spiked log swung down from the trees and crushed him sideways with a wet crunch against a tree.
One fleeing soldier stepped into what looked like solid ground only for his leg to plunge through hidden branches onto sharpened stakes beneath. His screaming filled the woods while nearby soldiers stumbled away in terror.
The Kingswood plunged into complete madness.
Fresh blood soaked into the muddy roads. Torchlight bounced wildly as terrified men crashed through trees and undergrowth.
And still the shadows kept coming, cutting throats and dragging screaming soldiers into darkness.
Stannis sat rigid atop his horse in the center of the convoy absorbing the chaos around him with grim clarity.
This wasn't a random ambush by some bandits. It was too well prepared and too meticulous. That realization hardened his resolve as he turned to one of his lieutenants.
"Set the forest aflame," he ordered coldly.
Several nearby commanders stared at him in shock.
"Your Grace?"
"NOW."
The soldiers obeyed.
Torches flew into dry brush and low-hanging branches while oil was poured across roots and shrubs. Flames spread hungrily through the undergrowth almost immediately, racing between trees in glowing waves of orange and gold.
The heat of the fire slammed into the army like an opened furnace.
Smoke billowed upward, thick and black while entire trees began crackling violently as flames consumed them.
And with the fire came light, and the shadows hiding within the woods were suddenly exposed.
Dozens of masked figures darted between the burning trees wearing strange dark uniforms that blended perfectly with the forest. Some still launched attacks despite being seen, leaping onto isolated soldiers with curved daggers before retreating again.
But now Stannis' men could fight back.
Arrows flew and swords flashed.
Several of the masked assassins fell beneath swords and spears. Others retreated deeper into the burning woods once they realized the trap had sprung.
"FORWARD!" Stannis roared over the chaos.
The cavalry surged ahead first trampling through mud and smoke while infantry rushed desperately after them. Some soldiers even shoved their own comrades beneath the fleeing mass, trying to escape the spreading flames.
The army no longer marched in straight lines, instead it fled desperately toward the city.
High above the chaos, atop a rocky cliff overlooking the burning Kingswood, dozens of masked figures gathered silently watching the Baratheon army escape the inferno below.
One of the younger Royal Daggers stepped beside the tallest among them.
"Commander," he asked quietly, "the old stag escapes. Shall we pursue?"
The man standing at the cliff's edge remained silent for several moments watching the sea of fire spread through the forest beneath them. Orange flames reflected across his dark mask while distant screams echoed upward through the night air.
Finally he answered.
"No."
His voice was calm and controlled.
"Our task was never to destroy them." He continued watching the fleeing army below. "Only to delay and bleed them, making sure they were exhausted before they reached the city."
The others nodded immediately.
"See to the wounded," the commander ordered. "And tally our dead before dawn."
"Yes sir."
The Royal Daggers quickly dispersed afterward, vanishing back into the darkness of the cliffs and trees.
The commander remained alone overlooking the burning forest. Then he reached up and removed his mask, revealing the commander's face who was none other than Bronner Kedge, one of the first to pledge his knife to the king and join his Royal Daggers.
During training the man had proven exceptional at moving unseen. He climbed walls like a cat, slipped through crowds like smoke, and could place a knife through a moving target at impossible distances.
The king himself had eventually elevated him to command the Royal Daggers.
Now Bronner stood silently atop the cliff staring toward the distant orange glow beyond the trees where King's Landing waited.
His chest tightened with unease.
Because despite tonight's success…the real battle had only just begun.
"Your Grace…" he murmured quietly to himself while gripping the mask in his hand. "Please be safe."
o-O-o
The bells of King's Landing continued to ring endlessly.
Their deep thunder rolled across the city in endless waves while frightened citizens rushed through the streets beneath the darkening sky. Merchants slammed shutters closed over their storefronts while mothers dragged crying children indoors by the wrist. Men hurriedly barricaded doors with furniture and timber, muttering prayers beneath their breath as they prepared for the storm they knew was coming.
Everywhere people ran carrying sacks of grain, buckets of water, bundles of blankets. Some shouted for missing family members while others simply hurried home with their heads lowered, trying not to think about the fleet sailing toward them through Blackwater Bay.
Yet while panic swallowed the streets, inside the Dragonpit there was only silence.
More than five thousand Royal Guards knelt in perfect formation beneath the massive ruined dome. Their black armor reflected torchlight in dull waves while row after row of soldiers stretched across the ancient stone floor like statues carved from iron.
Each man held his shield firmly against his left arm. Their helmets rested atop their knees while their spears lay neatly beside them in disciplined lines. Not one soldier shifted or whispered to the man beside him.
They remained completely silent as the servants appeared.
Dressed in plain black robes, they moved slowly between the kneeling lines carrying dark urns against their chests. Inside those urns rested ash. The remains of the first three hundred Royal Guards who had fallen against Robb Stark's army.
One by one, the servants dipped their thumbs into the ash before drawing dark lines down the foreheads of the kneeling soldiers.
"May our brothers give you strength."
"May they shield you from harm."
"May you honor them in battle."
The soldiers remained motionless throughout the ritual.
At the highest platform overlooking the formations stood Ser Jacelyn. The Vice Commander wore his custom Royal Guard armor polished to a dark gleam beneath the torchlight. Gold trimming lined portions of the armor marking his authority among the order, while his black cloak hung heavily from his shoulders.
Beside him stood Tyrion and Podrick Payne.
The pair looked oddly out of place amid the sea of hardened warriors. Tyrion shifted awkwardly beneath his armor while Podrick nervously kept glancing toward the endless formations surrounding them. Neither fully understood why they had been summoned here in the first place.
Then the great doors of the Dragonpit slowly groaned open.
A cold gust of wind swept through the chamber carrying the distant smell of rain and smoke from the city beyond.
Every soldier remained kneeling, but the atmosphere changed instantly as Joffrey entered accompanied by his Kingsguard.
Ser Barristan walked at his right clad in gleaming pearl-white armor while Jaime Lannister followed beside Balon Swann and Preston Greenfield, their white capelets flowing softly behind them as they descended into the chamber.
Yet despite the legendary knights surrounding him, it was the young king who drew every eye.
Joffrey wore custom-forged royal armor made from dark steel, its polished surface shimmering blue-black beneath the torchlight. Gold trimming lined the edges while the crowned stag sigil rested proudly upon his chestplate. Draped across his shoulders hung a heavy crimson shadowcat cloak clasped at his throat by a golden chain.
At his hip rested Fury, and even sheathed, the Valyrian steel blade commanded an unsettling presence.
Joffrey barely acknowledged Tyrion or Podrick as he strode past them toward the edge of the platform beside Jacelyn. His emerald eyes slowly swept over the kneeling formations below him.
Five thousand soldiers, his soldiers.
The servants eventually completed the ritual moving away from the lines.
As one, the Royal Guards lifted their helmets and slid them on. Spears rose from the floor while shields locked firmly into place.
All five thousand men stood together. The thunderous sound rolled through the Dragonpit like an earthquake.
Joffrey slowly descended the stone steps alongside his Kingsguard and Vice Commander. His armored boots echoed sharply against the old stone floor while torchlight danced across the dark steel of his armor.
Once he reached the ground level, Jacelyn stepped forward and bellowed:
"COMMANDER ON THE FLOOR!"
Instantly every soldier snapped straighter. Thousands of spear shafts slammed into the stone floor at once.
BOOM.
The impact shook the chamber.
Joffrey began walking slowly between the lines of soldiers. The Royal Guards remained perfectly still as he passed, hidden eyes staring forward through dark visors while the bells outside continued tolling through the night.
Finally, the young king stopped between the center formation and slowly turned toward his army.
For several moments he simply looked at them in silence. Five thousand men prepared to die for him tonight.
When he finally spoke, his voice carried clearly through the massive chamber.
"Sabers…" The title rolled across the hall. "My brothers of the sword."
He looked across the endless rows of armored men.
"I would rather stand beside you tonight than any army of thousands."
As one, the Royal Guards slammed their spears into the stone floor again.
BOOM.
"Outside these walls marches an army that outnumbers us many times over. They believe that fear alone will break this city." His voice hardened. "They believe that they can butcher our people, burn our homes, and take what belongs to us."
He pointed toward the city beyond the Dragonpit walls.
"They mean to kill your brothers. They mean to burn your friends alive inside their homes. They mean to violate the women of this city. Your wives. Your daughters. Your mothers."
The soldiers tightened their grips upon their spears. Joffrey suddenly turned fully toward them, his voice rising sharply.
"So I ask you…" His emerald eyes burned beneath the torchlight. "ARE YOU AFRAID OF DEATH?!"
Five thousand spears struck stone.
Again Joffrey shouted:
"ARE YOU AFRAID TO DIE?!"
Another deafening impact answered him. A fierce grin slowly spread across the young king's face.
"Good."
He continued pacing while his crimson cloak dragged softly behind him across the stone floor.
"All men are born to die. Whether tonight or fifty years from now changes nothing." His gaze sharpened. "So would you rather rot, forgotten in some bed as old men?"
BOOM.
"Or would you rather carve your names into history with steel in your hands?"
The soldiers hit harder now.
"Victory means nothing when it is freely given! It only matters when it is taken!"
BOOM.
"Our brothers who fell against the wolves watch us tonight, and wait for us in paradise!"
Joffrey drew Fury from its sheath in one smooth motion. The Valyrian steel blade sang through the chamber.
"But sadly for them…" He raised the sword high overhead."…they will have to wait a little longer."
The Royal Guards erupted.
Thousands of spears slammed repeatedly against the stone floor in rising rhythm until the entire Dragonpit shook with thunderous impacts. The noise became almost animalistic, like the heartbeat of some ancient beast awakening beneath the city itself.
Tyrion stared in stunned silence, even Jaime looked impressed.
Joffrey raised Fury toward the massive gates.
"OPEN THE DOORS!"
The enormous entrance slowly groaned apart. Cold night air rushed into the chamber carrying the smell of rain and distant smoke.
Then the Royal Guards marched.
The black armored soldiers poured from the Dragonpit beneath banners displaying the golden seven-pointed crown upon a black field. At their head marched Joffrey beside Jacelyn and his Kingsguard while drums echoed steadily through the streets.
King's Landing watched them pass.
Citizens opened shutters and leaned from windows as the army marched through the city beneath the ringing bells. Some whispered prayers. Others simply stared silently at the black armored soldiers moving like a tide through the streets.
Then somewhere in the crowd a voice shouted:
"HAIL KING JOFFREY!"
Others quickly joined afterward.
"Seven protect the king!"
"Protect us, Your Grace!"
"Death to Stannis!"
The Royal Guards marched onward without breaking formation. Their armored boots struck the cobblestones in perfect rhythm while rain began falling lightly from the heavy clouds gathering overhead.
When they finally reached the city square, the forces split.
One army marched toward the King's Gate beneath Jacelyn's command. The other continued with Joffrey toward the Mud Gate.
The two commanders paused briefly at the crossroads. Jacelyn removed his helmet, revealing his scarred face beneath the falling rain.
"Fight true," he said quietly.
Joffrey clasped his forearm firmly.
"Die well."
Jacelyn smirked faintly before turning away and leading his men toward the King's Gate.
Joffrey watched him disappear into the darkness for only a brief moment before continuing toward the battlements overlooking Blackwater Bay.
The defenders of the Mud Gate moved quickly into position. Spearmen formed ranks behind the massive wooden gate while archers climbed the walls carrying bundles of arrows. Teams of soldiers loaded the Hwachas lining the battlements with rows upon rows of explosive bolts.
Rain steadily worsened overhead, the sky had become nearly black.
Joffrey climbed the stone steps slowly until he reached the top of the wall overlooking the bay.
And there…he saw them.
Far beyond the fog and rain, dark silhouettes emerged from the night. Ships, hundreds of them.
Drums echoed faintly across the water growing louder with every passing moment. The fleet moved like a black tide through the mist while torchlight flickered across wet sails and armored decks.
Stannis had arrived.
The men atop the walls fell silent, even Tyrion stopped speaking.
Rainwater rolled down Joffrey's armor as he stepped toward the battlements gripping the wet stone hard enough for his knuckles to whiten.
Behind him thunder rumbled across the heavens.
Ser Barristan glanced upward toward the storm clouds gathering overhead while Tyrion swallowed nervously beside him.
But Joffrey barely noticed them, his mind saw only two futures now.
One where he stood victorious and his strategy worked, and the other where his body was left broken in the streets while his severed head rotted upon a spike beside the corpses of his men.
Joffrey slowly exhaled trying to steady the pounding of his heart while rain struck softly against his armor.
The drums grew louder, and then finally the young king spoke.
"So it begins."
If you like the story and want to read ahead 10 chapters are already available for Patrons.
Just go to google and search RoguePrince69 and click the first link then enjoy.