Barristan didn't speak Lysene, but even through the deafening noise he could still catch scattered words:
"Stand and fight, you bastards!"
"Run! Run, you little shits!"
"Traitors!"
"Hide behind your mother's skirts!"
"No!"
"Run for your lives!"
No one was in any mood to show mercy to deserters.
Wood's knights kept cutting them down, using every advantage in training and equipment.
Allyn and every man with him understood the real goal of this assault wasn't just to kill the enemy—it was to shatter their will, break their spirit, and send them fleeing for their lives no matter what.
They were succeeding.
A young defender, after his commander whipped him again, turned and killed the man on the spot.
That was the last straw.
Others quickly followed his example, throwing their weapons down onto the stone street.
"Don't kill us!" the crowd wailed in a hundred voices.
"Spare us!" a woman screamed from a window. "Don't kill the father of my children!"
"No!"
The commander raised his hand. The knights stopped killing at once.
Allyn Wood seized the moment and barked new orders.
The former poacher flipped up his visor and roared across the square:
"First company—"
His eyes swept the men, including Ser Barristan.
"With me! Forward!"
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"The Gate of Joy is waiting for us! Second and third companies—straight to the harbor, seize every ship! Twenty men stay behind and march these prisoners back to camp! Everyone else—sweep the suburbs clean!"
No further explanation was needed. The orders were clear.
The Black Knights threw themselves into the work with fierce enthusiasm. They weren't looting yet, but every man knew his time would come soon enough.
In his long life Ser Barristan Selmy had fought many kinds of enemies.
Rebellious lords, outlaw knights, ironborn reavers, eastern sellswords, Vale knights, northern warriors—he had faced them all.
Now, as he rode through the streets of Lys, he couldn't help comparing this fight to the old assault on Pyke.
The ironborn had been fearless, but they'd never managed real coordination.
Every islander was a fierce fighter, yet they lacked discipline and a common purpose. Each man fought only for his own glory and plunder.
The Lysene militia was just as hopeless at war.
The difference was that most Lyseni didn't even know how to fight at all.
What did tailors, potters, and brothel madams know about battle?
If a single charge could make them turn and kill their own officers, then…
It was still too early to celebrate, but the gods were clearly favoring House Targaryen.
Could that red comet truly be the sign of an ancient dynasty's return?
"We will return!" Selmy roared with the others.
His horse kept pace with Allyn's. Once more he rode beneath the dragon banner… and for the first time in years the old knight felt like a true knight again.
In the wide square ahead, Lyseni were desperately trying to throw up new barricades.
Too late.
Hundreds of armed men had gathered, but real fighters numbered maybe a few dozen at most.
A handful of old sellswords, bodyguards, and city watchmen stood out like sore thumbs among tailors, potters, and male whores.
This time the resistance lasted a little longer.
One agile Lysene dodged Barristan's sword and tried to strike his horse, only to be blocked at the last second by the knight beside him.
Selmy repaid the favor quickly, cutting down the dark-skinned sellsword before he could land a second blow.
The defenders tried to hold the barricade made of carts and crates, but they could never form a solid line.
Every man fought only for himself—or at best for the small group right beside him.
Real battle, without discipline and trust, could never hold.
Barristan kept swinging, taking full advantage of their lack of training.
The king's knights maintained tight formation. The Lyseni could never mount an effective counterattack.
When steel met spear, the fight ended in seconds.
The first man broke and ran toward the Gate of Joy. A second followed.
Barristan's blade took another Summer Islander through the throat before he could finish cursing the deserters.
That first flight was like the first snowflake in the Vale mountains—once it fell, the avalanche followed.
The last defenders at the barricade scattered like frightened rabbits.
The Black Knights chased them all the way to the Gate of Joy, only to find the heavy doors already shut tight.
The deserters' screams and curses had failed to convince anyone inside to open up. The Black Knights began preparing to break through.
No arrows rained down from the walls. No stones were dropped. Not even a single insult was shouted.
Ser Barristan's instincts screamed that something was wrong.
Why would the Lyseni leave even this secondary gate completely undefended?
"Those whores are pissing themselves," Allyn spat on the ground. "They think playing dead will make us go around…"
"What now, Allyn?" the giant Rodrik called out as he rode up. Gods only knew where the huge dark-skinned man had come from or how he'd earned his nickname… but there was no doubting his fighting ability.
"Want to build a ram and see how strong that door really is?"
"Too risky," Barristan warned. "They could have an ambush waiting inside. We don't have the numbers to get bogged down fighting a thousand men."
"A thousand men and we'd have heard them by now," the giant shot back at once. "No way that many whores could stay quiet. And if there really are a thousand, all the better—more loot and glory for us!"
Before Allyn could give the order or Barristan could argue further with the Summer Islander, a rider came galloping down the side street, red dragon saddlecloth flapping.
"Ser Allyn!" the messenger reined in hard, breathing heavily. "His Grace has taken Ser Loren and two thousand men straight into the Womb!"
"Long live Viserys!"
"Long live the king!"
The Womb—or the people's "mother's womb"—was the walled heart of Lys where the governors and nobles lived. They had built a wall to separate themselves from the rest of the city.
If Viserys had already broken inside…
"How is that possible?" Wood demanded.
"That idiot flag officer thought he was smarter and braver than His Grace," the messenger said with savage glee, still gasping for air. "We fought him at the Gate of Flowers and then pretended to retreat like we planned. The fat pig thought it was his moment to counterattack… and His Grace ran him through with Sunset like he was skewering a roast!"
Barristan could picture the rest.
Viserys had lured the glory-hungry governor off the relative safety of the walls, then smashed his force with one savage, perfectly timed strike.
After the rout, the Triarch had simply ridden over the fleeing men and through the open gate behind them.
It was a bold, dangerous gamble… but it had worked.
"This is the best news I've heard all day!" Allyn Wood immediately turned and bellowed across the square. "Listen up, brothers! His Grace needs us! Right now—break that fucking gate open and get to the king! Kill every whoreson you see on the way! No mercy!"
The answering roar was deafening—the sound of men who could already taste victory.