The next morning, Cersei sent her trusted agents to secretly investigate Olenna Redwyne.
The agent was one of her long-planted eyes in the Red Keep — quick, discreet, and tight-lipped.
He slipped into the Tyrell family residence in King's Landing, hid behind the bushes in the garden, and overheard the conversation between the old rose and the little rose.
The old rose advised the little rose to peacefully be queen.
Her voice was calm, as if speaking of sothing ordinary.
The little rose was crying. Her voice ca in broken sobs, the words unclear.
The agent repeated two of Olenna's exact words to Queen Regent Cersei.
The first: "Joffrey's character is cruel and he takes pleasure in tornting others. He is truly not fit to be king."
The second: "When sothing that does not exist ets sothing useless, what happens?"
Cersei's beautiful eyes widened. She ground her teeth.
Her right hand clenched into a fist, nails digging into her palm.
She slamd her fist on the table once, twice, before releasing it.
In her palm lay a purple bead.
This bead was one Cersei had found under the table at the banquet that day. It was identical to the beads on Olenna Redwyne's necklace.
Another day passed.
Olenna Redwyne suddenly began vomiting and having diarrhea.
From morning onward, she kept running to the privy. The dicinal soup the maids brought her ca right back up.
By noon, she could no longer stand. Her face was waxen, her lips white, her eye sockets deeply sunken.
Grand Maester Pycelle rushed over and diagnosed the Queen of Thorns with "acute intestinal illness."
He fed her milk of the poppy for the pain and bled her…
This was the Citadel's traditional treatnt — draining the "bad blood" to restore balance to the body.
However, the old rose's condition continued to worsen. The bloodletting did not relieve her symptoms; instead, it left her even weaker.
Pycelle was helpless and could only pray again and again.
There was nothing more he could do.
At midnight, the old rose died.
She lay in the main bedroom of the Tyrell residence, the sheets soaked with sweat. Her hair clung wetly to her scalp. Her eyes were still open, staring at the ceiling, filled with terror.
That terror was not fear of death — it was sothing else… She had recognized the symptoms she was experiencing. She had recognized the true nature of this "acute intestinal illness."
She looked at Cersei, tried to say sothing, her mouth opened, but only a muffled gasp ca out.
No one noticed the terrified look the old rose gave Cersei.
They all thought she had suffered too much and died with her eyes open.
Queen Margaery Tyrell was heartbroken and fainted on the spot.
Littlefinger stood in the corner, looking at the old rose's corpse, and couldn't help swallowing.
He was too familiar with these "symptoms."
Three years ago, Jon Arryn had died the sa way.
Vomiting and diarrhea, dead within a day.
He looked at Cersei with so fear. He had never thought this woman was so formidable.
What had she discovered? How much did she know?
His legs trembled. He wanted to flee King's Landing.
But after a conversation with Cersei, he was surprised to find that Cersei did not know he had also participated in Joffrey's murder.
Littlefinger keenly sensed that Cersei's hatred was entirely directed at the old rose and held none for him!
A strange excitent rose in Littlefinger's heart.
The Queen of Thorns was dead. Who in King's Landing was left to oppose him?
Cersei? A woman blinded by hatred.
Margaery? A little girl who could only cry.
Tomn? A puppet sitting on the throne.
The people on the Small Council — Mace Tyrell was a fool, Pycelle was an old dotard, Varys… Varys was a eunuch with no roots, no army, no family.
But he, Petyr Baelish, had Harrenhal, the Trident, the support of the Vale, and that madwoman Lysa Tully in his hands.
The entire East was under his control.
The corners of his mouth curved upward slightly, then quickly pressed down again.
The North.
The freezing winter wind cut across the wasteland like knives.
Stannis Baratheon stood in the center of the camp, staring at the grey, overcast sky.
The blizzard had lasted for three days and three nights. Snow had collapsed the tents, frozen the horses to death. Soldiers huddled by the fires, lips purple, fingers stiff.
He had sacrificed Princess Shireen.
That little girl, his daughter, his only daughter.
He had tied her to the pyre, watched her swallowed by flas, listened to her cries turn into screams, and then from screams into silence.
The next morning at dawn, the blizzard stopped.
The thick snow began to slowly lt. Sunlight leaked through gaps in the clouds, shining on the frozen corpses and the charred stakes.
lisandre stood in the camp, her eyes gleaming with self-satisfied triumph, believing she controlled the world.
She eagerly went to claim credit from Stannis, who was putting on his armor and preparing to march on Winterfell.
"The Lord of Light will surely protect the stag of Baratheon," her voice carried a fanatical excitent, "and trample the flayed man's banner!"
Stannis did not look at her. As if he hadn't heard, he rudely shook off the red woman's hand and walked alone out of the tent. His back looked especially lonely in the morning light.
Bad news ca one after another.
A soldier reported: "Your Grace, last night half the soldiers fled, and they took all the horses with them."
Those soldiers — the veterans who had followed him for many years — after witnessing his madness of "eating his own child," had finally chosen to desert.
They could endure hunger, endure the bitter cold, endure waiting to die in the snow and ice… but they could not endure a king who would burn his own daughter.
Stannis stood in place. The muscles on his face twitched once.
Before he could recover from this blow, another ssenger reported: "Queen Selyse… the queen could not bear the burden and ultimately could not accept her daughter's death. She hanged herself from a dead tree."
The body had swayed in the wind all night.
The queen's hair was disheveled, her face twisted, and the deep purple ligature mark on her neck looked like an ugly snake.
Stannis suppressed his grief, had just ordered Selyse's burial, when another soldier whispered in his ear: "The red woman has just ridden out of the camp alone. Her whereabouts are unknown."
Upon hearing this, Stannis felt as if a heavy hamr had struck the pillar of his heart.
He stood there motionless, like a stone statue eroded by wind and frost.
He rembered the first ti the red woman appeared on Dragonstone. She stood in the firelight and said he was Azor Ahai reborn, that he was the prince of prophecy, that he was destined to save the world.
He had believed her.
He had abandoned the Seven Gods and turned to the Lord of Light.
He had burned the statues of the Seven on Dragonstone, offending all pious believers.
On her advice, he had sacrificed those with king's blood.
On her advice, he had killed his brother Renly.
On her advice, he had offered his daughter to the flas.
In the end, she ran away.
Stannis raised his head and looked north.
In the direction of Winterfell. The flayed man's banner still flew on the walls.
He knew he did not have much ti to wallow in pain.
Retake Winterfell, regroup… this was his last obsession.
In the bone-chilling north wind, Stannis gritted his teeth and gathered what remained of his broken army — less than half — and staggered toward Winterfell.
Their column was sparse, like a dying snake crawling across the snow. So had no shoes and wrapped their feet in rags. So had no armor and wore thin cloth. So could walk no further and collapsed in the snow, never to rise again.
At this ti, inside Winterfell, Ramsay Bolton was also mustering his forces.
He stood on the walls, looking at the slowly approaching column in the distance, a cruel smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
"So few? Stannis Baratheon, is this all you have left?"
In the vast white world, Stannis ordered his exhausted soldiers to dig trenches while sending out foraging parties imdiately.
He planned to besiege the city, beginning at sunrise, cut off Winterfell's supplies, and force Bolton to co out and fight.
But Stannis was thinking too much. Fate gave him no breathing room.
The sound of iron hooves thundered closer like rolling thunder.
Bolton's soldiers were all in shining armor, full of vigor. Their warhorses neighed, their montum unstoppable.
There would be no siege. No need for a siege.
With one glance, Stannis saw his own end.
He had no intention of retreating.
He lowered his head slightly and gave a bitter smile.
That smile held a kind of release and a kind of unwillingness. Then he drew his sword and charged toward the overwhelming iron tide.
"For Baratheon…"
His voice was swallowed by the sound of hooves.
Stannis was defeated. His entire army was wiped out.
His soldiers were cut down by Bolton's cavalry like wheat. His banner was trampled into the snow. When his body was found, it had seventeen wounds, and there was a self-inflicted sword cut across his throat.
He had drunk from his own sword.
In the final mont, he chose to end his life with his own hand. Perhaps because he did not want to be flayed, perhaps because he did not want to be humiliated after capture, or perhaps simply because he was tired.
--------------------------
Support us on P@tre0n and gain access to 100 chapters in advance!
[email protected]/inkshield
User Comments
0 comments from readers