While the Riverlands were in turmoil, King's Landing was also facing a life-and-death crisis!
On the Blackwater River, the morning mist had not yet dispersed.
Stannis Baratheon's fleet was slowly advancing along the river channel.
More than two hundred warships covered the river surface in a dark mass. The red flaming heart banners on the sails stood out sharply against the grey sky.
The flagship Fury led the way, cutting through the waves. The bronze stag at the prow glead coldly in the firelight.
Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight, stood at the bow, gazing toward King's Landing.
The city was still shrouded in thin mist. The spires of the Red Keep were faintly visible, like daggers thrust into the horizon. His hand rested on the railing. The four remaining knuckles on his left hand ached faintly in the cold wind.
Seventeen years.
Seventeen years ago, he had sailed a small boat loaded with onions and salted fish up this river, breaking through the Redwyne fleet's blockade to save the besieged Stannis in Storm's End.
That ship of onions had made him a knight, and it had cost him the tips of four fingers on his left hand.
Seventeen years later, he had beco the commander of King Stannis's fleet!
"My lord," a sailor's voice ca from behind, "enemy ships sighted ahead."
Davos narrowed his eyes.
On the river, several warships flying golden lion banners were blocking the center of the channel. That was all — just these few small ships.
King's Landing's fleet was smaller and more cowardly than he had expected.
"Pass the order," his voice was calm and firm, "maintain formation and continue advancing."
He did not know how Renly had died, but he knew it was the work of that red woman.
Those dark, bloody, unspeakable sorceries.
He had once questioned Stannis, but the king had avoided the topic, leaving only the words "You do not need to know."
He had stopped asking, but he had made one request: the red woman was not to accompany them when they attacked King's Landing. Stannis had been silent for a long ti, then nodded.
Davos knew this was his last piece of advice.
Stannis had changed. He was no longer the young man who had eaten horse at and rats while holding Storm's End. He no longer listened to unpleasant truths or harsh counsel.
But at least this ti, the king had listened.
"My lord, look…"
The sailor pointed toward the shore. Davos followed his finger and saw dense figures on the walls, banners fluttering in the wind — golden lion banners and the banners of the gold cloaks.
King's Landing was waiting for him. Stannis was waiting for him. He gripped the railing tightly, both his maid left hand and his intact right hand clenching hard.
On the city walls, Tyrion Lannister was putting on his armor.
Podrick helped him fasten the last strap. The boy's hands were shaking.
Tyrion did not bla him. His own hands were shaking too. Not from fear — from the cold. The morning wind from the Blackwater carried salty mist and the sll of rust, seeping through the gaps in his armor like countless tiny needles pricking his skin.
"Gold buys loyalty. A na commands obedience." He muttered to himself, tucking his helt under his arm as he walked to the edge of the wall.
Tonight, he was the only barrier standing between King's Landing and Stannis.
Varys the Spider had sent him a map — the layout of the secret passages beneath King's Landing.
The eunuch had stood in the shadows, his voice soft as silk: "My lord, these passages lead outside the city. If you need…"
"I am not looking for an escape route," Tyrion had cut him off. He had unrolled the map and traced the winding lines with his finger. "I am looking for a way to strike first."
Varys had looked at him. A flicker of sothing unreadable had passed through those eyes. Then he had smiled, and the smile vanished into the shadows.
"As you wish, my lord."
Bells rang. War drums beat.
Stannis's fleet had entered Blackwater Bay.
On the walls, every soldier and gold cloak who could fight had been sent up. So held spears, so drew bowstrings, so checked rolling stones and hot oil. Their faces were pale, lips tightly pressed. So were still shaking.
Joffrey had also co. He wore his jewel-encrusted armor, his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight.
The Hound Sandor Clegane followed behind him, expressionless. Lancel Lannister walked on his other side, his face even whiter than the soldiers on the walls.
"Where is our fleet?" Joffrey's voice was shrill and thin. "The enemy is already here!"
No one answered.
Tyrion was looking down at the map and ignored him.
Joffrey frowned, his voice rising several pitches: "Hound, tell the Hand that his king is asking him a question!"
Sandor Clegane turned his head. There was no fear or respect in those eyes — only weariness. He looked at Tyrion and said flatly, "Your king is asking you a question."
Tyrion did not look up.
His gaze remained fixed on the surface of the Blackwater. The sails were getting closer now. He could even make out the patterns on the banners.
"Ser Lancel," Tyrion said, "tell the Hound for that the Hand is too busy."
Lancel paused, then turned to Joffrey: "Your Grace, the Hand says he is too busy."
Joffrey's face turned bright red. He drew his sword, the tip pointed at Tyrion's nose.
"You dwarf! I'll kill you!"
Tyrion finally looked up.
He looked at the sword, its tip only a hand's breadth from his face. Then he looked into Joffrey's eyes — eyes full of rage and fear.
An angry king was not frightening. A fearful king was not frightening. But a king who was both angry and fearful would get everyone killed.
He reached out and pushed the sword aside. His voice was not loud, but each word struck Joffrey's ears like a nail: "If I die, there will be no one to command the soldiers to defend the city. Stannis will take the capital easily and seize the Iron Throne!"
He took a step forward. Joffrey took a step back.
"And stick your little head on the city gate."
The wall fell deathly silent. Joffrey's sword drooped. He opened his mouth, wanting to say sothing, but nothing ca out.
Tyrion turned around and looked back at the river. Stannis's fleet was even closer now. He could see the bronze stags at the prows and the dense mass of soldiers on the decks.
He took a deep breath.
"Pass the order," he said to the runner beside him. "Prepare the fire ships."
The runner ran off. Lancel also retreated to the other side of the wall. Joffrey stood there, his face shifting between red and white, until Sandor dragged him away.
Tyrion stood alone on the wall. The wind tugged at his ill-fitting armor, making it clank.
He pulled a small bottle from his chest — the "nightshade" Grand Maester Pycelle had given him. He uncorked it, sniffed it, and put it back.
"Nightshade" was a powerful poison provided by Grand Maester Pycelle at Cersei's request. If the city fell, she and the children would take it together!
The Grand Maester had also specially given a bottle to the Imp…
Not yet!
The corners of the Imp's mouth curved upward. He tucked the bottle back into his chest and looked at the approaching sails on the river.
The Lannister "fleet" was still there, standing between Stannis and the walls.
Those ships were his last line of defense, but they would not hold for long.
He needed more ti, more soldiers, and more luck.
Podrick walked up beside him, holding his helt.
"My lord, you haven't put on your helt yet."
Tyrion took the helt and placed it on his head. It was too big and covered half his face. He pushed it up with effort, exposing his eyes.
"Podrick."
"Yes, my lord."
"When the fighting starts, stay behind ."
The boy did not answer.
Tyrion turned his head and saw him shaking. He chuckled softly. "Are you afraid?"
Podrick nodded, then shook his head.
Tyrion smiled. "So am I." He placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. "But we can't let Stannis know. Let's go."
He walked toward the other end of the wall, where he had spent an entire spring preparing defensive works. Wildfire, chains, archers, and the smallfolk he had dragged out of Flea Bottom.
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