A/N: Longclaw: Greetings everyone! We're back and better than ever!
Good news, friends, I'm considering starting another fic. It'll be set during the time of Aegon the Conqueror, Queen Visenya, and Maegor the Cruel. It'll be called Dragonshield and tell a story of the Conquerors being more cunning, the Starks being more in the loop, and Maegor changing things greatly by marrying his niece Rhaena instead of Alys Harroway, not to mention a much more robust Faith Militant uprising. Be sure to let me know what you think about it and I'll reveal more details later :)
BRuh4: Hiya, it's been a month, as per usual. But that's only because we've been writing this chapter along with the next two all at the same time. It's taken longer but that only means we're ahead of the game.
We appreciate everyone who's here. We've been working on this for over a year now. I remember when we first talked about this chapter and the few following. It feels so long ago now but we're finally here.
Anyhoo, we hope you like it.
Enjoy.
Chapter 40: Fire and Brimstone
One couldn't imagine something like this. Arya couldn't, even from the number of situations where she had been afraid for her life. Among herself or a small group was one thing, but in a city of hundreds of thousands jammed together… the tension could be cut with a knife. Smallfolk wandered around like wights, in a daze. Children sat listlessly on stoops or porches without a sign of vibrancy. And the noise… there was quite little of it and it truly unsettled her.
"Fuck…" Sandor, his hood pulled up over his head, looked around with a sneer. "Pathetic… even the damn first siege wasn't this bad."
Arya didn't respond. Having heard from Sansa the harrowing tales of the riots and starvation while Stannis first attacked, she wasn't keen on bringing up her sister right now… not while she was focused on one thing and one thing alone. "Siege or no siege, Cersei dies." Her voice was low, though. Ears were still everywhere, attached to hungry mouths that would sell out anyone for an extra morsel of bread.
Tilting his head down, Sandor watched her closely from beneath his cowl… trying hard not to expose the axe hidden under the cloak. Arya had it easier, only carrying Needle and a dagger. "Whaddya think you'll do when you see her?" They turned a corner, moving towards the base of Aegon's High Hill.
"I'll kill her." There was nothing to elaborate.
"We'll see," Sandor snorted. "You don't have the metal to kill a pregnant woman."
"I'm capable of a great many things." If the Hound didn't know that already, then Arya couldn't help him.
"Perhaps you are, but as I said, your life should be worth more than fuckin' vengeance."
Arya did not want to discuss this, so changed the subject. "And what do you want out of this?"
"I just want my brother."
"Why? Just because he stuck your face in a fire?"
Sandor snarled, "Fucking yes because stuck my face in a fire. He scarred me for life. He needs to pay for that."
Arya quieted down for a few moments before speaking again. "Cersei has a lot to pay for too. Justice, not vengeance."
"Keep telling yourself that." In the scummy neighborhood they were, everyone was too afraid or too hungry to even pay them to heed… the 'don't fuck with us' glares didn't hurt. Arya shot him one of those, but he didn't care. "I'm done. Got no life to live but this… not the same with you."
One place that was still bustling… the forges, belching out swords and spearheads for the newly raised Goldcloaks. As they passed it, Arya rolled her eyes. "Just shut up and get us there." She felt eyes on the back of her head and stiffened, but shrugged it off. One way or the other, no one would stop her from finishing her list.
Peering through the flurry of sparks shooting out of the forge, the young smith blinked. Unknowing of what he saw but convinced it was a ghost from his youth. Hand stilling at the forge as he lost himself in thought.
Is that her? The hair was longer, but he couldn't be sure.
"Hey, stupid bull!" the master smith bellowed. "Less dicking around and finish that fuckin' sword!" Shaking his head, the boy brought down his hammer onto the molten metal with a loud clang. Couldn't be her… you're dreaming.
Still… "Blade's finished," he called back. "I'm gonna grab my rations from the communal kitchen. I'll be back later." Without waiting for a response, he looped his hammer on his shoulder and strode out of the shop. Making sure to follow the massive bruiser that stood out in the crowd.
Is that you, Arry?
Unfortunately for the young man, for the two killers… seven hells, for all of King's Landing, the sound of horn blows pierced the din. It started weakly. Faintly, as if dozens of miles away, but it steadily grew louder. A sound straight from the deepest of all the hells booming across the landscape.
A tactic Stannis had borrowed from the Boltons.
As such, it took a collective moment before someone within the city - a nameless archetype of the average denizen of King's Landing's slums - took up the hue and cry. "STANNIS ATTACKS!" The reaction wasn't that of the dragons returning, but pretty close… all remembered how Stannis tried before to rape and plunder the city they called home. Now, he was back to finish the job and everyone knew it.
In an instant, what was a quiet, listless city roared to life. Empty streets soon became a throng of tens of thousands of desperate people fleeing to gods' know where. Some raced for the Red Keep… some booked for the Dragonpit… most just ran without any plan at all except to escape the vengeful horde that would overwhelm and slaughter them all. Men, women, children, aged, infirm… they all ran, and thousands of them were trampled underfoot in the ensuing chaos.
Fists lashing out, Sandor added to it by bashing the skulls of anyone who got in his way. "Fuck! Fuck Stannis in the ass!" This was not going well at all.
Unperturbed, Arya crashed her shoulders into the doorway of a house. Shoddily built, the door collapsed. "Follow me!"
The sneaking towards the beach now became a mad dash… for three, not two.
"Five years." Seated upon his simple camp chair out of archery range, King Stannis I Baratheon looked over the Gate of the Gods and the wall that stretched across the grassy plain of the Blackwater Rush. "Five years, my Lords. Sixty moons. Eighteen hundred days since I last bore witness to this wretched city. Since the stag lost to the lion before its very walls."
None of the generals or courtiers - nor the King's very own daughter brought to bear witness to what was to come - said a single thing. The silence was eerie given that an entire city of hundreds of thousands dwelled behind the walls and an army of tens of thousands waited outside them. Even Lord Hand Davos and Councillor Baelish kept silent.
One best not antagonize the Stag King.
His lips curled into the most satisfied smile. Savoring the sight of it all. "Such will never happen again. By the time the sun rises on the morrow, I shall be sitting upon the Iron Throne." The throne of my ancestors. Aegon the Conqueror's blood ran through his veins, and the great dragonrider's destiny existed as one facet of his own. "Are the men ready?" he barked at Lord Tarly.
Randyll nodded. "They are, your Grace."
Stannis pursed his lips. "Full attack." The death sentence for thousands was passed with but two words and a wave of the Stag King's hand.
Wordlessly, Randyll signaled to the heralds as Littlefinger smirked and Davos said a silent prayer. Bringing their trumpets to their lips, the heralds belted out their cheery warble so out of step with the tense air hanging over King's Landing.
"Forward!" commanded the Vale knights.
"To the gates!" bellowed the men of the Stormlands.
"Advance!" cried the levies of the Reach.
From atop the battlements, drums beat a malevolent stucco as archers and swordsmen took their positions at the strip of land making up the Gate of the Gods. "Nock!" Arranged in one long line of men, each of the archers drew an arrow from their quivers while the crossbowmen wound back their weapons. Levying them at the ready as each took in the advancing forces of the self-styled Prince who was Promised.
The sight made even the toughest man quiver.
The Baratheon line stretched out over a quarter-mile, tightly concentrated against the particular stretch of wall. Blocks of horsemen and light infantry waited just out of archery range, presenting and demonstrating in spectacular fashion - the brainchild of King Stannis himself, to strike fear into the hearts of their enemies. All formations waited for the breach to happen, ready to charge right into the city and secure it before the Lannisters could regroup.
Centering the entire assault force were two massive siege towers. Built of the best Rainwood oak, wet animal skins and metal sheets were tacked onto the side to block out flaming arrows, lines of men-at-arms waiting behind to climb the monsters as soon as they touched down upon the battlements to the left and right of the gatehouse. Sprinkled to either side of the siege towers were tortoise formations of raised shields pondering towards the walls. They carried ladders, ready to do their part.
In the very center of the line was a massive device. Placed on wheels and propelled by the men inside, Stannis and his commanders had learned from their attempts to storm the city the last time. A large battering ram over forty feet long lumbered towards the gate, the wet animal hides protecting the rear while the front ten feet sported the nailed steel plating to protect the front of the ram. A hundred Stormlander volunteers commandeered the device and the massive pine log contained within. They would batter open the great gate or die trying.
Once they were in turkey-shoot range, the Westermen commanders gave the signal. "LOOSE!" A sheet of bolts and arrows shot out from the battlements, streaking over open sights straight for the onrushing Baratheon forces.
Simultaneously, the heralds blared out another command out of their trumpets. From this order, the catapults and trebuchets lined up all across the plains released their payloads of rock, oil and pitch-soaked projectiles, and shards of scrap steel and bronze balled together.
Each side's first strike crashed into each other in near-instantaneous torment and slaughter. Waves of arrows bracketed the onrushing Baratheons, bolts punching through shields or exploiting whatever weak spot or gap was available. Spurts of blood-soaked the dead grass and clothes of men alongside them, the grunts and battlecries soon mixing with screams… or an even louder silence as lives were extinguished in the blink of an eye. Along the walls, the projectiles crashed into them with an indomitable fury. Large boulders plowed through stone battlements and crushed men underneath them. Fire blanketed dozens, flaming pitch clinging to armor and clothing as those afflicted flailed about in terror. Shrapnel cut up further dozens, adding to the slaughter and screams blocking out the drums and horn blows that kept the men's spirits up.
First to crash against the walls were the various ladder teams of men-at-arms, but they were soon followed by the immense battering ram. It slammed against the thick gates topped by a great Seven-Pointed Star… one with a massive chunk blasted through the stone by one of the trebuchets, targeted directly at Stannis' orders. "Heave!" screamed Lord Rolland Caron, the commander of the breakthrough detachment.
"HO!" Teeth gritted, the scores of volunteers within pulled back the mighty log and shoved it forward, a loud thud echoing into the din as it made contact with the gate.
"Heave!" Arrows and rocks thwacked against the wooden surface or clanged upon the metal plates of the front.
"HO!"
"Heave!"
"HO!"
Men hauled ladders into place, smacking against the stone battlements as the men-at-arms scrambled up. Most of the vanguard found themselves impaled with large spears or blades, but even the Lannister defenders couldn't stop all of them once the siege towers rolled into place. In the 'castle' at the top, countless crossbowmen engaged in covering fire for the attackers that stormed across the drawbridge. Axes and swords high, they poured onto the battlements to duel with those under the Lion banner. A vicious melee began, one that tipped heavily in the Stag King's favor.
"Heave!
"HO!"
Again, the log crashed against the gate, thud interrupted by cracks and splinters forming in the wood. "Keep it up, lads!" screamed Lord Rolland, exhorting his men. "The spoils of the city are through this fucking gate. Keep heaving!"
Above, battered and under countless fusillades of arrows and bolts from the siege towers, the defenders brought in their final defense to hold the gate. Stoked by roaring fires, the heated cauldrons of oil approached a boil. "Drop!" bellowed the Lannister commander, his bannermen complying with grappling hooks and wooden staffs to tip the cauldrons over. Spilling the searing liquid, it flowed out through rivulets in the stone battlements to drop atop the battering ram in a continuous shower.
It impacted upon the front of the ram with a hiss… followed by screams from the men within, oil seeping through the gaps to wash over them. Skin searing off from the boiling liquid, they dropped from their positions to writhe on the ground. Primal, blood-curdling screams drove terror deep through their comrades.
"Back!" shouted Caron. "Back!" Just as the ram began to lurch backward away from the gate, flaming arrows lanced out from the gatehouse and set the oil ablaze. What poor souls within the puddle were immolated along with the entire van of the battering ram. Even through the sunny day, it burned bright into the distance, cheers from the defenders following its retreat.
Such cheers drove the Baratheon men to fury rather than fear. With Lord Caron taking a position at the very front alongside his most vulnerable men, the battering ram lurched forward right at the gate. A loud battle cry emerged from their throats as they crashed into the gate, metal plating shearing and ironwood finally cracking - doors blasting open.
"Hurrah! Hurrah!" screamed the forces of the Stag King, waving banners to their cavalry and infantry in the rear to advance.
The city was theirs.
The city was ripe for the taking.
Fingers gripped the stone railing hard enough to go white, blood squeezed out of them. Queen-Claimant Cersei Lannister's eyes narrowed, peering into the distance towards where her enemies were, the vastness of Aegon the Conqueror's city spread out between them. A vastness that should provide more protection than it in reality did…
At least on its own.
"Qyburn!" Her sudden bark startled the Lord Hand, currently juggling the tasks of reading action reports and using his spyglass to track the frontlines on his own. "What's the status?!"
Gulping, the disgraced maester shifted his feet. "Lord Crakehall has surrendered the main garrison of the Gate of the Gods."
"What?!" she shrieked.
"Lord Lefford reported he was preparing a secondary defensive line deeper inside the city, but from what I can find it is safe to presume that they blasted through it."
Fists clenching again, a dark look passed over Cersei's eyes. "See to stopping their attack. Do it!"
He bowed. "At once, your Grace." With that, he scurried off, several scrolls tucked under his arms. Much as the old, little man irritated Cersei sometimes, he was competent at what he did. And loyal.
Beside Cersei, Jaime hadn't torn his eyes from the fighting in the distance. Eyes worn and losing their spark with each passing second. "I should be there."
Noticing him again, Cersei scoffed. "Hogwash."
"No, sister. I should be there with my men. Fighting alongside them."
"Since when have they been yours?"
"Since I fought with them… bled with them… died with them in the field. We fought Stannis together, battled the Dragon Queen's slave hordes, and Dothraki savages together. I am their commander!"
She chuckled arrogantly. "A lion doesn't concern itself with sheep, Jaime. I am not inclined to risk you to death at the hands of Stannis' goons - not with your sword-arm gone." Walking over to the gilded table resting in the middle of her solar, legs shaped like the rearing lions of their house, Cersei took the decanter of Arbor gold and poured herself a cup. "Don't worry, brother. I will allow you to be the one to take Stannis' head for me when all is said and done."
Trumpets blared, the sound of clashing steel and screaming smallfolk audible to Jaime even from as far away as the Gate of the Gods. Memories of a very similar night flashed in his mind, it was almost uncanny, only the names differing. "Cersei… I suggest we prepare to leave. Even Ser Gregor…" His eyes flickered to the great beast of a man waiting by the door in his black armor. "Won't be able to hold all of them."
Sipping, Cersei's lips curled upward. A gentle laugh falling from her lips, which turned into one that nearly made her stomach double over. "Oh, Jaime…"
His blood turned to ice.
She didn't notice. "We won't have to worry about any of that. I intend to win this war, be it over a pile of corpses or a pile of ashes, it doesn't matter how." Setting down the cup, Cersei walked to him. Wrapping her arms around him. "Fuck everyone who isn't us, remember?" Without another word, she drew him for a kiss, and gods help Jaime he let himself feel lost in it.
Suddenly, an eerie green light flashed all around it for miles. One that cast its almost blinding glow upon the solar. Blastwave almost toppling him to the ground, only how the two of them braced against each other keeping them upright. Eyes closed, the intense noises tearing through his ears like a woman's scream.
Like the screams of Elia Martell that echoed so loud that even he heard them from the throne room. Like the screams of Rhaella Targaryen as the Mad King brutalized her.
But in his arms, he heard Cersei laugh over the roar. "It's started! Jaime, it's begun!" Her green eyes, once the most beautiful shade of green, glinted with the same color as the wildfire set off outside.
A shining light, one that in an instant erupted as a second sun right in the middle of the great city of Aegon the Conqueror. Hidden pots of the unique concoction of the pyromancers guild all went up in an instant, and from only two of the many caches of them spread across King's Landing. Blinding white in the middle, the green cloud enveloped upwards in the shape of a toadstool before billowing outward… shockwave racing in front of the smoke and flame to slam into all in its way.
The rumble of the earth beneath their feet sent some men to their knees. The shockwaves of the explosion begat complete chaos. Horses went to their hind legs, sending their riders to the dirt. Stannis tried his best to keep his horse stable, but even he took a tumble. Falling flat on his back, everything went black. Unsure how long he was out, Stannis awoke to the sight of Randyll Tarly grizzled face calling to him. His ears rang loudly but eventually he was able to hear.
"Your Grace! Your Grace! King Stannis, are you seriously injured? Should we carry you?"
"No! Blast it. Just help me to my feet." Stannis scoffed, gritting his teeth. Leaning on Randyll to stand back up. His eyes found the fireball that enveloped into the toadstool, eyes blazing. "That sick bitch actually did it! I'll roast her for this!"
Davos, ever the pragmatist - though having faced Wildfire before, he trembled at the sight - concentrated on the task at hand. "How… how many did we lose?"
"Who knows?" Randyll shrugged, dispassionate. "Depends on how many advanced, though most of our reserves and most likely the initial attackers are still on this side of the wall or among the battlements themselves. From how it looked, aside from a cloud of smoke and ash, the walls were only slightly damaged. "Should I halt the attack?"
Grimacing, his leg starting to twinge, Stannis waved Randyll off. "Sound a hold… and get me back to my tent!" I need to salvage victory from this mess! It was in these moments that he truly missed Melisandre… her certainty and determination carrying him through the tough spots. But he was the Lord's chosen. He needed to wield his might before he could wield Lightbringer into the final battle.
Kingsguard carrying their King to the tent, the ashen-faced generals and Lords crowded around a model of the city. "Seems to me Cersei destroyed these areas of the city." Randyll drew a circle with his hand.
"Blackwater Bay showed us that wildfire burns hot and it burns quick," Davos added from personal experience. "Should be clear in an hour or so. We can race for the Red Keep. Full cavalry charge to take out Cersei before she knows it…"
Stannis shook his head. "No, too risky if they fortified Maegor's Holdfast. We'd need the siege weapons to get in."
"Attack from the sea?" suggested Lord Meadows.
"Euron Greyjoy is still there… somewhere," mused Davos, not keen on trying that again.
"We need to stop their fire," the Stag King stroked his beard. "Neutralize it somehow. We have our own fire. Perhaps ours would counterbalance and set off the rest of theirs," Stannis muttered. Then his eyes went wide. "Yes… Yes. We use our catapults at the city. Lord willing, firing flaming projectiles'll set off all the other wildfire and we can advance."
"Your Grace… You can't mean…" Davos began.
But Stannis held his hand up to cut in. He glanced around at all his advisors, "All of you out except for My Hand." Everyone murmured with a small bow before exiting. When they were gone Stannis spoke again, "I do, Ser Davos. The decision has been made. Ready the catapults." He spoke directly to his Hand, who stood unmoving at the command. "Ser Davos, ready the fucking catapults."
"Your Grace, there must be a better way. Thousands will die."
"If there is, I don't give a damn. This is the way. Any way I choose."
"It's not right."
Stannis' eyes widened, "I don't care what you think about it. It is my command. It will win me the Throne."
"At any cost?"
"Of course! There's no other way to do it. So what if some miserable townsfolk get burned up? It'll be quick. Fewer mouths to feed once I'm King."
Davos finally understood. "Who are you?"
"I am Stannis Baratheon! The one true King! The Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms!" Stannis boomed, pounding on his chest. "I see a way through. So I can sit on the Throne. I cannot back down now. I cannot cower."
"I see."
Stannis approached the Onion Knight, his oldest friend. "Ser Davos, stay with me. You've always been by my side, through everything. We're so close. We're here, after traveling so far. Just a few more steps." He held his hand out, "Are you with me?"
"A few thousand… They stand in your way. Instead… Instead of doing the right thing, sparing the innocent. You'd rather leave them to ruin."
"It is the only way."
"It's not. But it is the only path you see because it has the least risk to you."
"Ser Davos-"
"You're right. I have followed you all these years. Wherever you went, so did I. But this way you choose, I cannot follow. I refuse."
Stannis stiffened, "You lack the resolve to do what is necessary."
"No. I have the strength to choose what's right, instead of what's easy."
Chuckling, the Stag King backed up. His eyes scanned over Davos. "You should've stayed lost, instead of returning to me."
"Perhaps I should've. But I thought the man I remembered you still existed. I see now I was wrong. He must have died when I wasn't looking."
Stannis glided forward and reached out. Grabbing Davos' Hand of the King pin off his chest. "Get out of my fucking sight, Seaworth. I should kill you. But out of my respect for all the years, you served me, I'll spare your life."
"As you wish," Davos replied plainly.
"Get out of here," Stannis said. "Now."
Davos locked eyes with him but said nothing. For a few moments, no one moved. But then the Onion Knight began to speak, "I always thought you were the one, Stannis. I felt it in my bones. Perhaps you still are. But you're not the man I once knew. You've changed. Not into a better man but a weaker one who doesn't care about the means but only the result you want. If needlessly killing thousands wins you the Throne, fine. You'll not be any different from previous Kings. But that's just it, Stannis." He turned and started to walk away, but before he ducked out of the tent, "I thought you were different than the rest."
As his feet carried him forward he heard Stannis bellow, "Baelish!" Hearing his name, Littlefinger snaked past Davos into the tent, giving him a sly look all the while.
Davos, he just feared for the future.
A/N: BRuh4: Well? Lots to unpack here. Massive battle undermined by a equally massive destruction. Answers to questions if you want. Uh... yeah. Good stuff.
41 is pretty much in the can so you can expect it fairly soon. That's partly why we've written them together.
Longclaw: Everything is settling into their final form, minus Jon, who we'll see plenty of in the next chapters.
If we get 25 reviews, we will update on Tuesday.