As night fell, all of King's Landing sank into a suffocating darkness and silence.
A citywide curfew was standard procedure during a siege, to prevent fires, theft, and infiltration by enemy spies or saboteurs. That needed no explanation.
But beyond that, Stannis had an additional concern: Daenerys attacking under the cover of night on her dragon, using the city lights to observe the defensive layout and locate the Red Keep. It was true that anti-dragon ballistas were stationed throughout the city, ready to fire at the sky. However, in the pitch black of night, the City Watch—who relied on their eyes to detect threats—would likely only notice the dragon's presence after it was already overhead, spewing fire.
With that concern in mind, he issued a rare order, perhaps the first in Westeros's history: a complete blackout.
Inside the war room, where thick curtains blocked all light, Stannis stood over the sand table showing the positions of friend and foe around King's Landing. He stared at it, racking his brain, yet could see no path to victory.
In his not-so-short life, this was the third ti he had been driven to desperation.
The first was during the Siege of Storm's End. On that occasion, Lord Mace Tyrell led the Reach army, while Lord Paxter Redwyne commanded the Redwyne Fleet to blockade the castle by land and sea for an entire year. Supplies ran out. The garrison resorted to slaughtering horses, cats, dogs, even catching rats to eat, coming dangerously close to cannibalism. It was only thanks to his elder brother Robert's miraculous triumph at the Trident, which toppled the Targaryen dynasty, that the siege was lifted just in ti.
The second ti ca during the War of the Five Kings. His foolish younger brother, swollen with ambition, colluded with the Riverlands after Robert's death and tried to steal the Iron Throne. With traitors inside King's Landing and the Tyrell army outside, they stord the city and seized the Red Keep, forcing Stannis back to Dragonstone. He was humiliated, a King who had abandoned his throne and fled by sea, reduced to clinging to a rocky island. Only after lisandre's persistent persuasion did he commit fratricide with a poisoned hand, relying on the strange Binding Shadow sorcery from Asshai to turn the tide and ultimately take the capital.
But what about now?
The Night's Watch had rebelled, the North and Riverlands had defected, the Westerlands were too far away, and the Vale had ignored his call for aid. The remaining kingdoms were either indifferent or openly hostile. Even lisandre had left his court under the pretext of battling the cold god. She might already be in the enemy's camp.
He had no reinforcents from outside, no sorceress at his side. Sitting on a throne that stabbed his back like a bed of nails, he was now abandoned by all, seemingly at the end of his rope.
Not only were his chances in battle slim, he had to remain constantly alert, dreading that the enemy might employ magic to assassinate him the sa way he had once slain Renly—by sending a shadow to pierce his heart.
...
As exhaustion weighed on him, one persistent doubt lingered in his mind.
When the Night's Watch had begged for help, had it truly been a mistake not to send troops north?
From the current outco, the answer was clear. But even if he were given a hundred chances to choose again, it would have been difficult to make a different decision.
Had he sent a large force north to fight the White Walkers, the troops remaining in the south would not have been able to stop the Golden Company and the Mad King's daughter from besieging King's Landing by sea and land. Before the White Walkers even breached the Wall, he—Stannis Baratheon—would have been overthrown, replaced by a Targaryen. His troops would then be the ones defending the northern border in soone else's na. Would that not have been the cruelest joke of all?
Refusing to divide his forces had been the cautious choice. But who could have anticipated Daenerys—child of the Mad King—would travel alone to the Wall, arriving just in ti to join the battle against the White Walkers? That she would erge victorious, win over The Gift, rally the North, and return south leading armies from beyond the Neck?
So... was everything he had done wrong?
In the face of such uncanny turns of fate, how could he help but feel that she—Daenerys Targaryen—was the chosen one, the true claimant ordained by destiny, and that he, the false Prophet, was rely a stepping stone in her royal path? A footnote to be rembered in her future glories?
It was all that cursed lisandre's fault.
Without her constant coaxing and manipulation, he—who had never been driven by a deep thirst for power—might never have fought so desperately for the throne. He would not have committed fratricide in defiance of his own principles, and he would not have ignored the North's plea at a critical mont, handing over The Gift and the North to rebellion, and ultimately losing everything—his legacy and his honor.
This kind of soul-crushing doubt was a trendous blow to any man's will. The expression on Stannis's already grim face beca even heavier.
"Your Grace, please be at ease. Even from my rather dull perspective, we still have at least three possible paths to victory."
Across the sand table, Stannis's Hand of the King—the renowned Onion Knight, Davos Seaworth—saw the despair in his liege's eyes and spoke up with tily reassurance.
"The Golden Company, the Riverlands, and Dorne's armies on the southern bank are not camped together, nor are they retreating. That ans they are not fully united. The enemy is divided, and that opens up endless possibilities. The first path is this: if the rebel factions fail to agree on how to divide the spoils, internal strife or even open conflict could erupt. We could seize the chance to sally forth and crush the disorganized besiegers in one blow. The second option: even if they remain patient and avoid infighting, the faction that launches the first attack will inevitably be constrained by the others. They'll be forced to hold back, knowing their 'allies' might turn on them at any mont. That allows us to defend steadily and buy ti for new variables."
He gestured with his right hand, the fingers of which were still whole, drawing a triangle on the map between the three southern camps around the Blackwater and King's Landing.
"And if the worst-case scenario happens—if the rebels agree to terms and storm the city together—we still have a plan. Since the attacking force would be too strong to resist head-on, we could establish layered defensive lines within the city, using the three main hills, especially the Red Keep, as strongholds. We feign retreat and allow the enemy to enter the city. I dare not speak for the Riverlands or Dorne, but Daenerys and Aegon—those two Targaryens—will undoubtedly covet the glory of 'being first to retake the Red Keep and reclaim the Iron Throne.'"
"And when each of them starts to chase glory, command will break down. Every army rushing through the streets will assu we've retreated to the Red Keep and head straight for Aegon's High Hill. At that point, we clear the main roads and let them pass... then strike when their vanguard and rearguard are too far apart to support one another. We divide them, cut off ssengers, and sow confusion. That's when their fractured alliances will truly show. They'll fight among themselves, unable to tell friend from foe. If we act swiftly, we can break through their disarray, concentrating our forces to pick off each one. Despite our smaller numbers, we'll fight many with few in every engagent. Who wins and who loses is still undecided."
Stannis sighed and looked at the map in the direction Davos pointed.
He was no stranger to war, and his tactical mind was certainly no worse than that of a forr smuggler. He had thought of the sa three strategies.
But the first two, if one were honest, depended on sheer luck—waiting for so miracle to fall from the sky. Even if the enemy's camp fell into chaos, unless both Daenerys and Aegon happened to die in the confusion, he'd still just be buying ti, clinging to the Iron Throne for a few extra days.
Only the third plan gave them a real, active path to turn defeat into victory.
Alas, theory was easy. Reality was cruel.
His reign had never been secure. He'd never had the chance to consolidate loyalty or nurture the people's trust. Though King's Landing's ten thousand defenders were nominally loyal, they were divided into groups: his original Narrow Sea bannern from Dragonstone, the Stormlanders, and the City Watch of King's Landing. Their numbers increased from first to last, but their discipline and loyalty decreased in equal asure.
Unless he could command them as effortlessly as the White Walkers controlled their wights, the mont the enemy entered the city, those garrisoned units would likely waver, scatter, or even switch sides. What was ant to be a calculated counterattack would turn into his last stand, swallowed by the enemy like a ripple lost in a rising tide.
But waiting to die was not Stannis's way. After a mont of despair, he forced himself to rally. Leaning over the table, he carefully studied the map of King's Landing, poring over the maze of alleys, buildings, and roads, hoping to spot so hidden detail. Perhaps there was a sliver of hope, a one-in-a-thousand or even one-in-a-million chance that could be seized in the chaos of urban warfare. Even the smallest chance was not the sa as none.
And if it was one in a hundred thousand? Then he would fight for that one.
Seeing that the King had snapped out of his despair, Davos wisely said nothing more. The room fell silent once again. At that mont, a set of footsteps approached from outside and stopped at the door.
The guards announced the visitor: a soldier from the garrison at Steel Gate on the east side of King's Landing.
"Your Grace, a patrol boat of the royal fleet intercepted a small boat in the eastern waters. The person aboard claims to be an envoy from King Euron of the Iron Islands, requesting an audience. How shall we proceed?"
(To be continued.)
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