Davos Seaworth stood at the bow of the flagship Fury, his hand resting on the railing. The maid knuckles of his left hand throbbed faintly.
It was too quiet.
He narrowed his eyes, gazing toward King's Landing.
There were only a few small ships on the river, but no n, no chains — nothing.
He knew King's Landing had few warships, but this eerie calm pressed on his heart like a stone.
His son Mathos stood beside him, his young face full of excitent. "Father, they're afraid."
Davos said nothing. He had seen too many battlefields to know the difference between fear and an ambush.
The archers already had arrows nocked, ready to loose.
Mathos gripped his bow tightly, the arrowhead aid at the ships ahead.
"Wait." Davos pressed down on his hand.
The ships drifted closer.
He saw the viscous, green, pus-like liquid seeping from the gaps between the planks.
His pupils contracted sharply. In horror, he shouted, "That's wildfire! Retreat! Full retreat!"
His voice was drowned out by the sound of flaming arrows launched from the city walls.
More than twenty burning arrowheads streaked across the sky like orange-red birds, trailing long tails of fire as they flew toward the unmanned ships.
Whoosh—
A green flash filled their vision. It wasn't ordinary fla — it was a nest of erald-green vipers, hissing as they spread in all directions.
One ship caught fire. Then two. Ten. Fifty…
Wildfire burned, exploded, and scattered sparks across the warships. It writhed across the decks, climbed the masts, and clung to the soldiers.
Black smoke and green flas rose over the Blackwater. The green glow was dazzling yet chaotic.
Screams poured from the river. n rolled in the flas, others jumped into the water, but the wildfire burned on the surface as well.
The sll of charred flesh mixed with the thick green smoke, stinging the eyes.
The Dragonstone fleet collapsed instantly. The mouth of the Blackwater had beco the gateway to hell for them.
Davos was thrown to the deck by the blast wave.
He crawled up and saw Mathos lying beside him, his face covered in blood. His eyes were still open, but they no longer blinked.
His son. His fourth son. The boy who had wanted to beco a knight.
He lifted Mathos into his arms and knelt on the burning deck.
Stannis stood behind the vanguard, watching his main force turn to ash before his eyes.
His face showed no emotion. Only the hand gripping his sword had veins bulging.
"Wildfire…" he said to the knight beside him. "They can only use it once. Pass the order — continue the landing."
Landing boats were pushed into the water. Soldiers boarded one after another.
Without the fleet's cover, they had to bypass the burning wildfire on the river and could not reach the intended best landing point.
Stannis knew thousands of soldiers would die because of this, but he was the first to jump into a landing boat.
The entire Blackwater was filled with burning masts and burning n. Fragnts of exploding ships flew through the air. Green flas flowed between the wreckage and corpses, like demons tearing apart dying beasts.
But nothing could stop Stannis's determination to win.
He stood at the prow, shield in one hand and sword in the other. The wind of the Blackwater turned his bald head red.
On the walls, Tyrion watched the dark mass of n landing.
"Loose arrows!" Flaming arrows rained down like a storm.
But Stannis's soldiers did not retreat, because their king stood at the very front, three or four arrows stuck in his shield, still charging forward.
This was the army of the stag. Half had just been burned by wildfire, but the other half fought even more furiously.
"Hound," Tyrion said to Sandor Clegane, "take n out of the city and et them. Strike while they're still gaining their footing."
Sandor glanced at him, then turned and descended the wall.
Tyrion knew the Hound did not trust him, and he knew the gold cloaks did not trust the Hound, but at this mont they had no choice!
Both Tyrion and the Hound knew that if the tide turned, these n would break and flee.
The only way to win was to hold the upper hand from beginning to end.
The city gates opened. Sandor led the gold cloaks charging out.
Stannis t them personally. His sword was fast and vicious, every strike threatening to cut a man in half.
Fighting beside him brought unparalleled glory. The soldiers of the stag charged forward like n possessed, braving the arrow storm to reach the foot of the walls.
Blades clashed. Blood and flesh flew. Screams and wails rose without end.
On the walls, Tyrion's gaze followed the battle closely.
Stannis's target was indeed the Mud Gate.
"Podrick," he said to the small squire beside him, "go bring the garrisons from the other gates. Quickly!"
Podrick ran off to carry out the Imp's orders.
Below the walls, the lee was in full fury. Everywhere the eye could see was blood and flying limbs. The air was filled with miserable screams.
Whoosh~
Lancel Lannister was struck in the chest by an arrow and staggered back into the castle.
Monts later, Sandor began to struggle. In the blink of an eye, more than half his force had been lost.
Suddenly, a soldier covered in flas roared and charged at him. The Hound froze for a mont.
He saw flas. He saw a brazier. He saw his brother pressing the head of a child — himself — into a brazier.
Podrick rushed over from the side and stabbed the flaming soldier in the belly, saving him.
But Sandor did not look at him. He did not even look at the fallen enemy. His eyes were blank. Blood covered his face, gleaming red in the firelight, but he seed to see nothing.
He slowly turned around and led his n back into the city.
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