The doleful cavalcade processed down the Street of Silk, the flagellants chanting hymns to the Seven, and lashing themselves continuously. Ser Garlan failed to see the point of such nonsense, but it seemed to impress the Smallfolk. He winced inwardly, at the sight of blood pouring down the backs of the chanting men and women. The High Septon had tried to persuade him to close the brothels in this district, but that seemed hardly calculated to improve morale. In truth, spirits were still high among his men and, so far as he could tell, among the populace, after a fortnight of siege. He had introduced rationing, prioritising the army, while limiting the food available for the useless mouths; but even among the latter, no one was starving so far. His own torsion weapons had taken a toll on the besiegers, but the enemy were relentless. Thousands of men had joined them, marching from the West, or disembarking from troop ships. Day after day, the rocks slammed into the city's walls, or into the houses and warehouses beyond. The barbican of the Old Gate was a particular source of concern; struck again and again, it was starting to crumble. He made his way to the Gate. He suspected that the enemy would be making their first assault on the city today. Thousands of his men were stationed in the vicinity, waiting to repel them. As he reached the top of the walls, he looked out. Trenches were zig-zagging towards the city's walls. Before long, the enemy would be trying to mine them.
Fuck it! The Dragon Bitch herself was watching the assault, behind the enemy lines. He saw her monster, towering over the enemy, a tiny figure perched on top of it. He knew she was reluctant to torch the city; thank the Gods that the homes of the Smallfolk pressed right up to the city walls. But she'd have no qualms about burning his men if he led them in a sortie against the enemy outside . The Gods damn that fool Jaime Lannister! Had he only had the wits to carry a dagger with him, he could have opened the woman's throat, and ended the war in one night! Well, there was a second chance. The man called the Hound of the Gods would slip into her camp, and hopefully finish the job the Kingslayer had botched. The High Septon had vouched for the man; a fanatical septon who he had employed to carry out murder on other occasions, he had granted him absolution, and assured him that he would join the blessed martyrs with the Seven, should he perish. He said that the man had no fear of death. Well, Ser Garlan did. If the city fell, he had no intention of falling into the hands of the Dragon Queen, and suffering the same fate as Lord Tarly. There were ways of escape, and if all else failed, he would take his own life.
The wall beneath his feet reverberated as another stone slammed into it. He fancied he heard an ominous groaning noise from below. It would only be a matter of time before the barbican collapsed. A great horn sounded from beyond the enemy lines, followed by the beat of a great bulls-hide drum. "Here they come" shouted one of his lieutenants. "Notch and draw". He saw the great wicker shields that protected the enemy moving forward steadily, protecting the men behind them. Over them, he caught sight of the tops of tall ladders, to be launched against the walls. The attackers broke into a jog-trot, steadily approaching, perhaps no more than a hundred paces now. "Loose' he ordered, and a storm of bolts swept towards the enemy. He heard the familiar click-whir-thump of a ballista, and saw the bolt punch a hole in the advancing line. The volleys seemed to be doing little damage, but he knew what would. "Wildfire" he yelled. Jets of green flame shot from siphons built into the walls, turning men into screaming charcoal within seconds. Great lines of fire crept up the wicker shields, which were cast aside by panicked men. Now the arrows of the defenders could really take a toll. Again and again, his archers lashed them, cutting down hundreds. He saw a mix of Crownlanders and Valemen among the attackers. Amazingly, they still came on, their fighting spirit undaunted; no doubt the chance to plunder the city was a powerful lure. Here and there, his own men were falling to their arrows and bolts, but there was no doubt who held the advantage. Let the dragon whore watch her men perish! Some of the attackers had actually reached the walls, and propped ladders against them, intending to assault. None reached the top. The defenders hurled down masonry, stones, iron balls, smashing them to pulp. He saw one of his soldiers dragged past him, an arrow through his eye. "Is it bad?" the man kept asking. Another man suddenly choked beside him, an arrow in his throat. Wearing the finest plate, his visor down, he knew that he was safe enough, and barely heeded the occasional bolt that struck him. Down at the foot of the walls, a bottle of oil burst among the attackers, wreathing them in flames. The scent of cooked meat reached his nostrils. Then, they broke. No soldiers could withstand such punishment. He was impressed that they had lasted as long as they had. The attackers raced for the safety of their own lines, men still falling to the bolts of the defenders. Hundreds lay dead or injured between the lines, many of them groaning.
The men closest to Ser Garlan looked at him, expectantly. He knew what was required of him. "An excellent morning's work, men. Well done. Those fuckers won't attack again in a hurry." He handed the men silver stags in reward. In truth, he doubted that the attackers would come again soon. The Dragon Queen was simply testing the mettle of his soldiers. Now that they had proved their worth, she would resume the bombardment of the Walls, and wait until they were breached before making her true assault. As if to prove the truth of it, he saw another stone come flying over the wall, a hundred paces away, before it came crashing down among the houses beneath it. He descended the steps leading down from the barbican, and entered a house which had been made into a makeshift hospital. Both soldiers and civilians were lying there on straw mattresses, being tended by silent sisters and other nurses. In truth, most would die of their wounds, that was simply the way of war. He talked to those of the wounded who were conscious, thanking them for standing by the true king and queen in their hour of need. The true king and queen! The pair could barely stand him now, or his father or grandmother. He cursed inwardly. His family had been so close, but now they were riven. Had their ambitions destroyed them? Never particularly religious, he couldn't help but wonder if the Gods were punishing them all for the death of Loras