Tommen waited the assault with his men. His wife, her father, the High Septon had all begged him not to risk himself. Yet, he had asserted himself. He would not let his men do what he refused to do. A barricade had been assembled, some yards behind the ruins of the Old Gate. The Barbican had collapsed a week previously, and the adjoining walls had been mined and bombarded to rubble. There was a light drizzle in the morning air, and behind him, the banners of lion, rose, and stag hung limply. Thousands of men were stationed in the district to repel the assault. The Pale Mare had begun to gallop through both the city and the camps of the besiegers, and both sides wished to force the issue. Yet, even if they won, what then? Would the Dragon Queen refrain from unleashing fire from the air? She could win the war within hours, he knew, simply by turning her dragons loose on the population. They had gambled that she would refuse to do so, and so far, that gamble had paid off. Quite ruthlessly, his family had used the people of Kings Landing as a shield. But, what if she was losing? Would they remain a shield? And, did they even deserve to remain unharmed. Whipped into a frenzy by the High Septon and his followers, armed mobs had dragged suspected traitors to the flames of the Faith, during the past fortnight. Margaery's view was that they were just picking on anyone whose goods or women they wanted. It was pathetic! He was king and Margaery was queen, and the pair of them were virtually powerless. Beyond the breach, he heard the kettle drums of the Unsullied beating out their tatoo. The soldier-fanatics of the Dragon Queen would lead the assault.
In her tent, Daenerys prayed to the old Gods and the new, to the Rider God of the Dothraki, to the Lord of Light, and the Lord of Harmony. She prayed that her soldiers would carry the breach, and that she would not have to reduce the city to ashes . Disease had taken hold in her army, as it always did during a siege. Yet, there were horrible rumours from the city, of plague among the population, and frenzied murder, led by the High Septon. He, at least, merited a terrible death. Seven Thousand Unsullied would lead the assault, backed up by more than twenty five thousand from the Crownlands, Vale, and East. For once, the Dothraki would fight on foot. Their horses would be useless in a city, unless the defenders broke and fled. Yara Greyjoy was leading an assault on the Mud Gate, from the docks, but that was simply a feint, designed to draw off men from the Old Gate. This would be the main assault. She had agreed to the protestations of her commanders and advisors; if the assault failed, it was time to unleash dragonfire on the defenders; even Tyrion did not demur. But, if she did, she would go down in history as worse than Maegor, worse even than her father. So be it, if that was the price of victory.
Arslan waited for the moment. Thank the Gods, he was not a part of the forlorn hope, the first wave of soldiers who would bear the brunt of the defenders' fire. There were five hundred of them, all promised rich reward if they survived, to be paid to their families if they died. Zengi, the Prefect, would be among them. He himself led the fourth file from the front of his regiment, the Lady of Battles. He stared intently at the defenders, three hundred yards away. The walls might have been breached, but the rubble would still make a formidable obstacle. The front ranks carried pavisses, large wicker shields which will provide some protection from the enemy's bolts. He guessed they would have to run the gauntlet of fire as well. Behind the Unsullied were massed hundreds of archers, who would keep up a brisk fire on the defenders, over their heads as they raced towards the breach. Their own ballistae would also pour rocks and bolts into the enemy. He was no stranger to battle and siege, but his heart was in his mouth as he waited for the signal. This would be a fight like no other. At last, he heard a shrill whistle, and the advance began. First a brisk walk, then a jog trot, and then the gates of hell were opened to him.
Yara felt a surge of joy, as her men swept towards the Mud Gate. They had taken the docks and the Fishmarket, two days previously, and readied themselves for the assault. She knew her attack was intended just as a feint, but she would storm this gate if she could. Her men dreamed of the great spoils the city would provide. Enough for each one of them to be rich for the rest of their lives. The inhabitants had defied the besiegers. They would pay the iron price for victory. She was in the middle of her army, as they raced up to the Mud Gate, some of the men bearing ladders, while in the middle, a turtle protected a great ram, to breach the gate. Scores of her men fell to the bolts and darts of the enemy, but now they had reached the walls. She saw ladders flung against the walls, and her men raced up them. Many were cast down, as the defenders hurled rocks and iron bars at them. "After me, your Grace" screamed Ser Tristifer Botley, as they reached the foot of the walls and began the climb, holding their shields above them. She felt her arm grow numb, as something bounced off her shield. She cursed as a bolt pierced her right shoulder, but she managed to keep climbing. By a miracle, she reached the top of the wall, and leapt on to the parapet, to see Ser Tristifer and the others, laying about them manfully. A screaming, bearded maniac, mouth full of rotten teeth, swung an axe at her head, which she ducked, before giving him a quick shove that toppled him from the parapet. More of her men were swarming up the wall, overwhelming the defenders. She heard a cheer from below, as her men lifted the bars of the Mud Gate, and more soldiers flooded through.
She looked back from the top of the wall, and her heart sank. "Oh. Fuck. Me." she muttered. Hundreds of the enemy were tearing through the Fishmarket, to take her men in the flank. They must have come out of postern gates or tunnels under the walls. She was the one who had fallen for the enemy's feint.
"Hell on earth" thought Arslan as he jogged forward. Men were falling all around him, as he ran, going down to the bolts and rocks of the defenders. He winced, as he saw Osman fall to an arrow in his throat. Amazingly, he was unharmed, less than fifty yards from the breach. He dodged the man in front, screaming hideously, as he was caught in a spray of liquid fire, and turned into a living torch. A violent blow to his helm left him seeing stars, even as he forced his legs forward. Life in a one-horse village, a hundred miles from Meereen, mightn't be so bad, he thought, as his head gradually cleared. He reached the breach, clambering over the rubble with the other survivors of the attack. One man vaulted up onto the barricade that the defenders had built, only to have his legs chopped from under him. Another, and another. Men sprang up all along the barricade, being cut down again and again, but some made it to the other side. He braced himself, and clambered to the top, expecting a pike through the guts, but he somehow made it down to the other side, after all. There was no skill in this type of fight, simply unrestrained savagery. One defender aimed a vicious blow at this head, with an axe, which he ducked, driving his spear through the man's midriff. A sword struck him hard on his left shoulder, but his armour held. He turned to fight the swordsman. A young man, it seemed, encased in gilded armour.
Tommen confronted the Unsullied, swinging his sword at his head, his own visor open for the sake of visibility. The man was fast as a snake, taking the blow on the blade of his spear. Then the man was on him, his spear jabbing at him constantly. Where the hell were his bodyguards, he wondered, knowing it would be fatal to look around for them. He gave ground, desperately parrying his opponent's spear, only to trip backwards over a dead body. Looking up, the last thing he saw was the great blade scything down at his face. And, so perished Tommen Baratheon, first of his name, as the Unsullied carried the war into the City of Cities.
Daenerys sighed with relief, as she saw her soldiers carry the breach. No doubt they would sack the city, regardless of orders, but that was normal practice when a stronghold was taken by storm. The Unsullied would restore order before the population suffered too badly. At least there was no need to unleash dragonfire on the inhabitants. That horror would be spared them at least.
As it turned out, she was wrong about that