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 31: For The King!
"So it begins."
Joffrey said calmly as the first raindrop fell from the sky and struck the black steel of his pauldron. For a heartbeat, it was only that single drop, against the heated tension of the battlements.
Then another.
And another.
Within moments, the rain began to fall from the dark night sky, hissing against the torches, and pattering against the soldiers' helms. It made dark trails over the armor of the Royal Guards standing along the walls of the Mud Gate.
None of them moved or spoke.
They stood at attention as if carved from the same black stone beneath their boots. Their spears were held tightly, while their faces remained hidden behind their visors as water streamed down their armor in silver lines.
Above them, thunder roared.
Lightning split the sky a moment later, bright and jagged, tearing across the black clouds gathering over King's Landing. For the span of that flash, the whole bay shone white, and Joffrey saw them clearly.
Ships.
More and more of them were making their way through the rain and fog. Their sails swollen by the storm wind, their hulls rising and dipping with the restless water.
Lanterns swung from their masts. Torches burned along their decks. The orange glow shimmered across the waves, broken again and again by the pounding rain.
But the drums kept pounding.
Each beat rolled across the bay like the heartbeat of some eldritch beast crawling toward his city.
Joffrey stood at the battlements, one hand gripping the wet stone wall, his eyes fixed on the enemy fleet. His crimson shadowcat cloak snapped behind him in the wind, soaked with every passing breath, though he didn't even register it.
Rain continued to slide down his face and gather beneath his chin before falling onto his breastplate. Around him stood Tyrion, Ser Barristan, and the Kingsguard, all watching the approaching armada with varying degrees of grim understanding.
Stannis had finally come, and he had brought the storm with him.
The forest fire in the Kingswood had brought the rain out of the clouds faster than he had anticipated. Turning the night cold and wet. Somewhere beyond the city walls, the distant orange glow of burning trees still pulsed against the horizon, smoke rising in black columns that twisted against the downpour.
His Royal Daggers had done their part. They had bled the old stag, delayed him, rattled his men until he was forced to set the forest itself aflame.
Now the rest fell to their king.
He watched the enemy ships enter the bay in a steady stream, counting them as best he could through the rain and fog. One group passed the mouth of the harbor, then another, then another, the drums growing louder with each passing minute. Stannis's fleet moved with grim confidence, believing the city's lack of naval strength meant that the sea belonged to them.
They were dead wrong.
According to the reports the old stag's fleet was around two hundred ships. Some would remain beyond the harbor mouth, others would lag behind, attempting to spread the armada across the available water so that they all could not be engaged at once.
But that didn't matter; he didn't need to destroy all of Stannis' ships.
Just most of them.
He waited until more than half the fleet had entered the Blackwater. Waiting ensured that the bay became so crowded with enemy ships that turning back would be impossible.
Joffrey turned his head and nodded once to the Royal Guard captain standing nearby.
The captain snapped into motion immediately. He turned and signaled to another guard farther down the wall, who raised a torch high above his head waving it back and forth, signaling the men below.
Far beneath the city walls, three ships began to move out into the bay.
They emerged from the dark waters near the harbor, moving away from the safety of the city's side of the bay and turning toward the enemy fleet.
Two smaller vessels led the way, narrow and quick against the waves, while a larger battleship followed behind them like a hulking shadow. Rain battered against their decks and wind pulled at their sails.
From the battlements, they looked insignificant compared to the vast armada they were sailing against, but they actually carried the King's ace in the hole.
Wildfire.
The holds of all three ships were packed full of it. Clay pots were stacked in reinforced crates, lashed into place with rope and padding, surrounded by pitch, oil, and kindling.
The vessels had been stripped of anything unnecessary and prepared for one purpose only. They weren't meant to return, they were meant to sail a one-way trip into the heart of Stannis' fleet.
Tyrion noticed the ships a moment later, his brow tightening as he leaned forward beside the battlements.
"Are those…?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," he answered solemnly.
Tyrion's eyes flicked toward the vessels, then back to the crowded bay beyond them. His mouth opened slightly, no doubt to ask the obvious question, then closed again as understanding dawned across his face.
Bronn, standing a little farther back beneath the shadow of one of the wall towers, let out a low whistle.
"Mad little bastard," he muttered, though there was more awe in the words than insult.
Joffrey ignored him.
His attention remained on the ships, and the men aboard them.
The vessels were crewed by Royal Guards from the provisions unit, men who had already paid for their loyalty in blood during the battle against the Northmen.
They had been maimed in ways that would have ended most military lives. Crushed limbs, ruined knees, or missing hands. They could no longer stand in the phalanx, or lock shields and thrust their spears with their brothers.
But the king had refused to discard them.
He had given them other positions to accommodate their injuries, like training recruits, managing supplies, or maintaining order within the city's military stores. Many had accepted the roles with gratitude. They had remained useful, respected, but most of all apart of his army.
But not all of them had been content, which he could see in their eyes whenever they watched the others drill. Their bodies stood behind the training lines, but their spirits remained among the men holding the shields they once did.
That's why he wasn't surprised when eight of them came and kneeled before him.
The memory rose clearly now despite the storm.
[Flashback]
It had been more than a week prior, in the training grounds near the Dragonpit.
Joffrey had been walking with Jacelyn and several officers, reviewing final preparations for the battle, when the small group approached. They had moved slowly, not from hesitation, but because their injuries forced them to.
At their head knelt Demick, a young Royal Guard whose arm had been crushed beneath a Northman's mace during the battle at the walls.
Demick had dropped to one knee despite the difficulty, his useless arm hanging stiffly at his side, while the others followed suit.
"Please, Your Grace," Demick said, looking up at him with eyes that had already made peace with death. "Give us the chance to serve you and protect our home."
The king remembered the silence that followed. Apparently, the news of his plan to use wildfire against Stannis had somehow spread among the ranks. He had looked from Demick to Jacelyn, then to the other kneeling men. The training yard around them had gone still, nearby soldiers turning to watch without daring to speak.
"You men don't have to do this," Joffrey had said carefully. "I would not ask this of you. There is still much you can offer the kingdom that doesn't involve forfeiting your lives."
"With respect, Your Grace," Demick said, interrupting with a trembling voice. "We were trained to be king's men. Let us die as king's men."
The king's jaw tightened.
Demick continued, his head lifting higher. "Instead of rotting away in our beds as old, crippled men, let us fight in your name and die on the field of battle, so that we may join our brothers in paradise."
The words had struck deeper than Joffrey wanted to admit.
He had wanted to refuse them. Every rational part of him understood that wielding their loyalty in such a way was ugly, no matter how willingly they offered themselves. He could use criminals who were bound for execution instead of men who bore his brand.
But these men didn't come looking for death, they had come looking for meaning.
Joffrey looked into Demick's eyes and saw no panic there; no madness, or desperation born of despair.
Only resolve.
Fanatical, perhaps, but resolve nonetheless. These men believed their bodies had betrayed their purpose, and they wanted one last chance to serve as they had been trained to serve.
"Does he speak for all of you?" Joffrey asked.
"Yes, Your Grace," the other seven answered in unison.
Their voices rang across the yard.
The king looked at Jacelyn again. His vice commander's face had been unreadable, but after a moment, he gave a single nod.
Joffrey let out a heavy breath and looked back down at Demick. He allowed his king's mask to soften into something warmer, something these men deserved to see before they walked willingly into the fire.
"Give me your swords," he said.
Smiles broke across their faces.
One by one, the eight men drew their short arming swords and laid them at his feet. Some struggled with the motion because of their injuries, but none allowed another to do it for them.
Jacelyn gathered the blades carefully while Joffrey stepped forward and placed a hand on Demick's shoulder.
"I will have each of them blackened," Joffrey said quietly, "and planted in the garden beside your brothers."
Demick's face crumpled slightly, tears spilling down his cheeks despite the smile he tried to hold.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
The others wept as well, though none of them looked ashamed. They had been given what they came for.
Recognition.
The details of the plan had been given to them that same day. Each man listened without flinching. By the end, they looked eager. Not because they wanted to burn, but because they understood what their sacrifice would mean.
[Flashback End]
Now, standing atop the battlements in the rain, Joffrey watched the three ships carrying them toward Stannis's fleet.
The smaller vessels moved first, angling just enough to draw attention, their sails straining against the storm wind.
The larger battleship trailed them, sitting lower in the water from the weight of the wildfire packed into its belly. It looked slow compared to the others, but that didn't matter. It did not need speed once it reached the heart of the enemy.
Rain hammered the bay so hard the water almost seemed like it was boiling.
Lightning flashed again, revealing the Royal Guards aboard the ships as tiny black figures against wet wood and green-black waves.
Some stood near the tillers. Others remained near the hatch covers, protecting the cargo from rain. One figure at the bow of the lead ship stood with a torch shielded beneath a cloak.
Demick.
Joffrey knew who it was without needing to see his face. His heart tightened at the scene, but he forced it down.
"Your Grace," Barristan said quietly beside him, his voice nearly swallowed by the rain. "Those men…"
"They asked for this chance," he cut him off.
Barristan fell silent.
He just stared at the ships for a long moment, then lowered his head slightly in respect.
Tyrion shifted uneasily on Joffrey's other side. "And if the rain puts out the flame?"
"It won't," Joffrey said. "The ignition pots are sealed. Oilcloth, pitch, and covered fireboxes. They only need one spark once they reach the target."
Bronn let out a low breath. "And then the bay goes green."
Joffrey's eyes remained fixed on the water. "Yes."
The words tasted like bile in his mouth.
Out in the bay, Stannis's fleet finally reacted to the approaching ships. Horns sounded from the enemy vessels, sharp and confused beneath the deeper rhythm of the drums.
Some ships began shifting course, while others continued forward, trapped by the press of their own formation and the narrow space of the harbor.
Which is what Joffrey had been counting on.
The first part of Tyrion's chain plan had already begun as well. Farther behind the enemy fleet, hidden mechanisms waited near the harbor towers. Once the signal came, the chain would rise and seal the trap.
Not yet, it was still too soon, and too many ships would remain outside. Too late, and too many would reach the inner harbor.
Everything depended on the timing.
Everything.
Joffrey's hand tightened once more on the wet stone.
The drums faltered, just slightly.
It might have been his imagination, but still he heard it. The steady rhythm wavered as the three ships continued sailing straight toward the center of the enemy formation.
The lead enemy vessels began shouting orders now, their voices carried thinly across the water between cracks of thunder.
They knew something was clearly wrong. It was just that the realization had come too late. More enemy vessels continued entering Blackwater Bay.
The trap was almost complete.
As the final elements of Stannis's fleet crossed into the harbor, Joffrey noticed that a handful of ships remained farther back beyond the mouth of the bay. Unlike the others, these vessels seemed reluctant to commit fully.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Salladhor Saan," he thought.
The Lyseni pirate was many things: greedy, self-serving, opportunistic. But he wasn't stupid.
Unlike Stannis's bannermen, the pirate had no personal stake in the Iron Throne. If something looked wrong, Salladhor would be the first man to turn his ship around and sail in the opposite direction.
And unfortunately for him, caution would not save the fleet tonight.
Seeing the last of the enemy ships commit themselves to the harbor, Joffrey finally turned toward Tyrion and gave a sharp nod.
The dwarf understood, and turned toward his squire.
"Podrick," The boy straightened instantly. "Raise the signal."
"Yes, my lord."
Podrick hurried across the battlements, his boots splashing through puddles of rainwater. Upon reaching the designated signal position, he seized a torch from a nearby brazier and raised it high overhead.
For several moments, nothing happened. Then the water at the mouth of Blackwater Bay began to churn. A low grinding sound echoed across the harbor.
The familiar sound of metal scraping against stone.
The noise grew louder and louder until it became impossible to ignore. Every eye in the bay turned toward the harbor entrance, until suddenly a massive iron chain burst from beneath the water.
Water cascaded from the enormous links as they rose higher and higher. The chain stretched between the two great harbor towers that guarded the entrance to the bay, slowly tightening until it became a solid barrier across the water.
A cheer almost escaped several of the Royal Guards.
Almost.
The men managed to maintain their discipline, but Joffrey could see the satisfaction in their eyes. The harbor was sealed, and the enemy was trapped.
Out on the water, confusion erupted almost immediately.
Horns began sounding throughout Stannis's fleet. Sailors shouted to one another across decks while captains scrambled to understand what was happening.
Some ships attempted to turn, while others tried to slow, nearly colliding with their fellow ships.
The chain had effectively trapped most of Stannis's fleet inside Blackwater Bay. No reinforcements could enter, and none of the enemy ships could escape, turning the harbor into a cage.
Tyrion stared out across the water, unable to hide the satisfaction on his face.
"Seven hells," he muttered. "It actually worked."
Joffrey didn't respond; his entire focus was on the three ships, which continued advancing towards the fleet.
The two smaller ships finally broke away from the larger battleship and cut a path straight toward the lead ship of the enemy fleet. The king watched the scene carefully; every second mattered now.
Beside him, Ser Barristan studied the approaching vessels with a troubled expression. The old knight knew exactly what those ships carried and what they were meant to do.
Aboard the flagship, Ser Davos Seaworth stared through the rain with growing unease.
The harbor chain had thrown the fleet into disorder, but that wasn't what concerned him the most.
It was the ships.
They didn't make sense. Two small merchant vessels were sailing directly toward the fleet without making any attempt to evade or retreat. No sane captain would ever do such a thing.
Unless…unless the ships themselves were the weapon.
The realization struck him a heartbeat later.
"Archers stand to!" His voice cut across the deck.
Men rushed into position. Bowstrings were drawn, and the scorpions rotated toward the approaching vessels.
"Nock and set!"
The sailors obeyed without hesitation. Rain hammered against armor and wood alike as tension spread throughout the ship.
The merchant vessels continued forward.
Closer.
And closer.
Davos narrowed his eyes and then he saw them. There were only two men aboard each ship, and they weren't sailors, they were soldiers.
His stomach dropped.
"Loose!"
At his command, the archers released their bowstrings and fired the scorpions. Darkening the sky even further under a cloud of falling arrows.
The Royal Guards aboard the vessels were already moving. One man secured the ship's helm while another seized a torch.
Clay pots were smashed against the decks, green liquid spreading across the wood.
The sight of the green hue coming from the small ships made the Onion Knight's heart seize with fear.
"Wildfire," he muttered.
"For the king!" The four men shouted as one.
Their voices carried through the rain and thunder, then they threw down their torches igniting the substance. Seeing the green flames spreading, Ser Davos turned to his son further down the ship.
"Matthos, get down!"
Suddenly green fire exploded across the darkness. The two detonations erupted almost simultaneously, sending men flying and Ser Davos was thrown overboard.
The front of Stannis's fleet vanished beneath an emerald inferno.
The explosions illuminated the entire bay.
Men screamed as their ships were destroyed. Burning debris rained across the water, but most horrifying of all, the flames spread across the surface of the sea itself.
The wildfire burned atop the water as though it were dry kindling.
The flash was so bright that many of the defenders atop the walls instinctively shielded their eyes.
Tyrion blinked rapidly, as Bronn let out a low whistle.
"Bloody hell."
Joffrey remained focused.
The first phase had succeeded, but it wasn't enough. His eyes drifted towards his flagship as it continued toward the center of the enemy formation.
Behind him, another flash of lightning illuminated the Kingswood.
Orange lights moved through the darkness and there were thousands of them. It seemed the old stag's army had finally reached the edge of the forest.
"Looks like their main force is almost here," Joffrey said calmly.
Barristan followed his gaze, and the old knight nodded.
"It won't matter, Your Grace."
A faint smile appeared on Joffrey's face.
"No." His eyes returned to the battleship. "It won't."
Demick stood at the wheel of the ship, rain continued to hammer against his face. His ruined arm hanging loosely at his side.
The ship surged forward through burning water and floating wreckage.
Green fire reflected off the rain clouds overhead, transforming the storm into something else, something infernal.
Around him, his remaining brothers worked feverishly adjusting the sails, securing the cargo, but most of all preparing the wildfire.
Every man aboard knew there would be no return journey. That knowledge hadn't weakened their resolve. If anything, it had only strengthened it.
The enemy fleet loomed straight ahead.
Dozens of ships crowded together, exactly where they needed to be.
Then the arrows came.
The first volley struck like a storm. One Royal Guard collapsed immediately, an arrow piercing straight through his throat.
He died without making a sound.
A second volley followed moments later. A scorpion bolt tore through another man's chest, hurling him backward into the mast.
Demick gritted his teeth.
"Almost there."
The enemy fleet had recovered from its initial shock. Now every archer and every scorpion focused on them.
The ship shuddered beneath repeated impacts. Finally, an arrow punched through Demick's shoulder.
Pain exploded through his body, making him stagger, but he managed to recover.
Another arrow buried itself in his thigh, his leg almost giving out. But still he kept sailing forward.
The remaining Royal Guard responsible for igniting the wildfire collapsed as another arrow struck him.
Falling to the deck dead.
Demick understood immediately what he needed to do. He tied off the wheel, making sure the battleship would continue forward on its own.
Then he ran—or tried to, the arrow in his leg made it difficult.
Arrows continued falling around him, but he ignored them. Achieving his mission was all that mattered.
He reached the fallen Royal Guard and dropped beside him. Demick started picking up clay pots and began smashing them.
Again.
And again.
And again until the deck was covered in the green substance. The ship then slammed into an enemy vessel, the impact nearly threw him off his feet.
Perfect.
He was in position.
Demick reached upward and seized a burning torch from its holder. For a moment, he stood alone amidst the chaos.
Rain, blood, fire, and death were all around him. And yet he still smiled as his life flashed before his eyes.
He thought of the training yard. He thought of his brothers' pyres that burned inside the Dragonpit. He thought of the garden where his sword would stand beside theirs.
Most of all he thought of the king who had seen value in him even after his body had been broken.
Tears mixed with rain upon his face, then he raised the torch high.
"For the king!"
His cry echoed across the harbor, then he hurled the torch down.
Green fire erupted instantly, the flames spreading faster than thought, consuming everything in its path.
Demick felt heat unlike anything he had ever imagined.
His armor melted, his skin burned away, and the whole world was consumed by green light. Yet despite all of it, he died with a smile on his face.
"I'm coming, brothers," was his last thought before the flames obliterated his body and the ship with him.
The blast dwarfed everything that had come before.
An emerald sun erupted in the center of Blackwater Bay.
Entire sections of the fleet disappeared instantly. Ships were shattered into splinters while sailors were vaporized.
The shockwave exploded outward in all directions.
Trees bent in the Kingswood; horses reared as men were thrown from their saddles. Even the walls of King's Landing shook violently beneath the impact.
Several Royal Guards lost their footing entirely.
Others grabbed desperately for stone as the force rolled through the city.
Joffrey braced himself against the battlement. Even he hadn't expected the explosion to be so powerful.
The harbor had become an inferno; where once two hundred ships had sailed, now only burning wreckage remained.
Green flames stretched across the water as far as the eye could see, and everywhere screams filled the night.
o-O-o
Inside Maegor's Holdfast, panic spread immediately.
The entire castle trembled from the force of the explosion. Dust fell from the ceiling and candles flickered wildly.
Several noblewomen cried out in fear, while others dropped to their knees.
Sandor Clegane immediately reached for his sword.
The Hound looked around with narrowed eyes as another distant rumble echoed through the stone walls.
At first, he had hated this assignment.
While the battle raged outside, he had been ordered to remain behind and protect Sansa and Prince Tommen.
He'd complained about being a warrior to the king, not a babysitter, until Joffrey explained his plans involving fire and then after that, Sandor was more than happy to remain at the castle.
Though it wasn't out of consideration that Joffrey had ordered him to stay behind. It was because he had entrusted his Sworn shield with one last mission should he fall to Stannis' forces.
He ordered the Hound to use the secret passage he disclosed to him and get Sansa and Tommen out of the city. He was to take Sansa north and return her to her family, then take his brother and get him to his grandfather.
The king had given him more than enough gold to make the trip easy.
Sandor still remembered when he had asked the king how he was so sure he wouldn't just take the gold and leave the two brats to their fate. Joffrey's answer still echoed in his mind even now.
Because you're not your brother, Sandor.
The memory stirred something uncomfortable inside him. His gaze drifted across the room.
Sansa sat quietly stroking her direwolf, which Joffrey had allowed her to bring into the castle during the battle. The creature was surprisingly passive despite its immense size, even letting other scared girls stroke its fur.
Despite the fear around her, Sansa maintained a calm dignity that reminded Sandor more and more of the king himself.
Nearby, Tommen was doing his best to comfort frightened noblewomen despite looking terrified himself.
The boy's voice shook and his hands trembled.
But he kept trying.
Sandor found himself smiling despite everything.
"Gods, I've really gone soft, huh?"
What Sandor didn't notice was another pair of eyes fixed upon Sansa.
Ser Ilyn Payne stood motionless near the far wall.
His dead eyes never left the red-haired girl, and deep within them, something dark was beginning to stir.
o-O-o
The aftermath of the explosion was unlike anything the men of Westeros had ever seen.
For several long moments, nobody moved. The world itself seemed frozen as emerald fire consumed Blackwater Bay. Great sheets of green flame drifted across the river's surface, devouring everything they touched.
Ships that had proudly flown the crowned stag only moments earlier now drifted as shattered wrecks. Some had been blown apart completely, reduced to floating splinters and mangled corpses. Others remained partially intact, their decks and sails engulfed in unnatural flames that refused to die no matter how hard the rain fell.
The screams were the worst part.
Men burned alive in the water. Men burned alive upon drifting wreckage. Men burned alive while desperately clinging to broken timbers and shattered masts, their cries carrying across the bay even through the hammering rain and rumbling thunder overhead.
Back in the Kingswood, Stannis Baratheon's army emerged from the trees and came to an abrupt halt.
Thousands of soldiers stood motionless as they stared at the devastation unfolding before them. No one spoke or moved. The bright green inferno illuminated the shoreline like some vision from the Seven Hells themselves.
One knight dropped his shield. Another muttered a prayer under his breath. Several men simply stood frozen as they watched the remains of their fleet drift downstream.
Stannis himself sat rigid atop his warhorse. The old stag's jaw tightened as he stared across the river at the destruction. Hundreds of ships and thousands of men. Weeks of planning and preparation. All of it gone in a single blinding flash of green fire.
His hands tightened around the reins until the leather creaked.
"Damn that dwarf."
The words escaped through his clenched teeth.
For the first time since Robert's death, genuine uncertainty wormed its way into his thoughts. It wasn't fear, just the cold realization that he had been outplayed. His fleet had been annihilated before his army had even reached the city walls.
Around him, his officers exchanged uneasy glances. No one seemed certain what to do next.
Then fate intervened.
One of the larger wrecks drifted toward the shoreline. Then another, and then a third.
The current carried the shattered hulls together until they lodged against one another. Timbers groaned, ropes tangled, and masts snapped. Slowly, a crude bridge began to form across part of the river.
A makeshift bridge, but a bridge nonetheless.
Before Stannis could issue new orders, another shout rose from the shoreline.
"Your Grace!"
The king turned sharply.
Across the burning bay, what remained of his fleet had suddenly erupted into chaos.
Ships were starting to turn, and at first Stannis thought confusion had overtaken the surviving captains. Then he saw the colors.
The pirate fleet that belonged to Salladhor Saan.
The flamboyant Lyseni's ships slammed into the flanks of the remaining Baratheon vessels. Grappling hooks flew through the rain. Boarding ramps crashed onto enemy decks. Steel rang against steel as fighting broke out across the harbor.
Aboard one of the pirate ships, a furious captain pointed his sword toward Salladhor.
"What do you think you're doing, pirate?"
Rain streamed down the colorful pirate lord's jeweled beard as he laughed.
"My apologies."
His curved blade flashed, opening up the captain's throat from ear to ear. Blood sprayed across the deck as the man collapsed.
"But the boy king pays better."
Salladhor stepped over the corpse and pointed his sword toward another Baratheon vessel.
"Kill them all!"
His sellsails erupted into cheers.
Moments later another ship vanished beneath the waves. Across the bay Tyrion stared in disbelief.
"What in the Seven Hells-" His mismatched eyes widened."Those are Stannis's allies."
Another ship erupted into flames, and slowly Tyrion turned toward his nephew who remained silent despite the scene. Then he remembered the council meetings and Joffrey's talks with Lark of a mutual friend.
Realization hit him like a hammer.
"You bribed him."
Joffrey didn't answer; he didn't even look at him. That alone was enough of an answer.
Tyrion slowly shook his head in disbelief.
His nephew had somehow reached across the Narrow Sea and purchased Stannis's ally before the battle had even begun. Not only had he trapped the fleet and burned it, but he had also made arrangements for the survivors to be hunted down afterward.
And that realization left the dwarf both impressed and deeply disturbed.
How many moves ahead had Joffrey planned? How long ago had he begun preparing this? The questions died in Tyrion's throat when he finally looked at his nephew's face.
The king wasn't smiling or celebrating.
Instead, he looked pale.
Very pale.
Joffrey's eyes remained fixed upon the burning water and the sailors screaming as they burned alive. For a brief moment, the Blackwater disappeared, replaced by another battlefield from another life.
Filled with fire, explosions, burning vehicles torn apart by artillery blasts. Soldiers screaming out his name for help that would never come as the smell of smoke, blood, and cooking flesh filled the air.
The helpless feeling of watching the people he'd been entrusted to keep safe and to get home to their families die while being powerless to stop it.
His heart hammered against his ribs while the battlements beneath his hands seemed to sway. The screams from the river merged with memories that he had desperately tried to bury.
"Joffrey?" Tyrion asked quietly.
The king didn't answer.
Ser Barristan noticed it as well. Concern flickered across the old knight's weathered face as he watched Joffrey's breathing become shallow. For a moment the young king looked ready to vomit.
Then his hand rose to the necklace hidden beneath his armor.
His fingers wrapped around the carved direwolf pendant Sansa had given him for his nameday. Immediately, another memory surfaced.
A memory of a stubborn northern girl sitting in his lap while lecturing him about sleep. Her warm blue eyes pulled him back from the darkness.
The panic slowly receded, as his breathing steadied, while the screams became distant and the burning ships became ships again.
Joffrey closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Then another, and when he opened his eyes the panic was gone.
Without warning, he drove a fist into his own cheek. The crack echoed across the battlements.
Tyrion nearly jumped.
"What in the—"
The king ignored him as the sudden pain helped him regain his focus.
He rolled his jaw before turning back toward the battlefield. His expression became stone once more.
"Your Grace?" Barristan asked.
Joffrey didn't answer immediately, instead, he turned toward the assembled defenders.
"Ready yourselves." His voice carried across the wall making every soldier straighten."Stannis Baratheon is many things, but a coward is not one of them!"
Across the river, Stannis stood motionless, watching the entire scene and calculating the next best course of action.
Finally one of his lords gathered enough courage to approach. The man removed his helmet as rain streamed down his face.
"Your Grace."
Stannis didn't respond, making the lord swallow nervously.
"What are your orders?"
Slowly the old stag looked toward the makeshift bridge. Then toward the wreckage of his fleet and King's Landing.
But most of all towards the throne.
No battle plan survived first contact, every commander knew that. Good commanders adapted, and great ones evolved. And Stannis hadn't spent decades in war to retreat because of one setback.
His fleet was gone.
Sure.
He would take the city without it. The old stag reached down and drew his sword.
Lightbringer sung as it was drawn from its scabbard.
The ruby-studded blade glowed orange-red beneath the storm clouds. Steam hissed as rain struck the heated steel. The sight alone steadied many of the men around him.
"Cross the wreckage of our ships and batter down their gates," he ordered.
"But Your Grace... the wildfire..."
"The dwarf has played his little trick, but he can only play it once."
"We're too far from the gates. Their archers, hundreds of our men will die."
Stannis turned, and without warning, he swung his sword and severed the coward lord's head.
The headless body collapsed into the mud, making several of the soldiers recoil and instinctively step back. Stannis looked down at the body for only a moment before turning his gaze toward the rest of his commanders.
"Thousands," Stannis corrected. "Come with me and take this city! Cross the wreckage and kill them all!"
A roar erupted from the remaining thirty thousand men. With swords, axes, and spears raised in the air.
Thousands of men surged forward toward the makeshift bridge. From atop the walls, Joffrey watched them come, his hand settled on the pommel of Fury. But his expression never changed.
The old stag had survived the first trap. Now it was time to see if he would survive the second.
"Let them come."
Lightning split the sky illuminating the soldiers atop the Mud Gate who stood silently and awaited the enemy.
The Battle of Blackwater had finally begun.
If you like the story and want to read ahead 10 chapters are already available for Patrons.
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