"Where are you going?!"
During a lull in arranging the city defenses, Tyrion glanced at his dear nephew Joffrey, only to find the guy sneaking up to leave his assigned post.
Tyrion rushed to his side and grabbed the King's slender wrist with his small hand.
"I... I want to go back to the Red Keep!"
"And if I forbid it?!"
"I am the King! It's not your place to command me. If you stop me, I... I will—"
"You will what? Sentence me? Wait until Stannis is gone for that! Now, go back immediately!"
Tyrion threatened sternly, even raising a hand as if to slap Joffrey.
Seeing Tyrion's raised palm, Joffrey instinctively dodged.
He looked at Tyrion's huge forehead, deep-set eyes, and nose so small it was almost nonexistent. The Imp truly lived up to his name.
Joffrey had no choice but to obediently follow him back. Leaving someone to watch Joffrey closely, Tyrion returned to his command post.
He wished he could weld the bronze spyglass to his head. He saw most of Stannis's fleet had entered the Blackwater Rush channel.
Many ships were slowly approaching the shore, attempting to land. During this process, he naturally organized men for symbolic counterattacks.
But the sparse arrows were less than mosquito bites to that massive fleet. Moreover, the opposing "Fleet Admiral" seemed experienced; all sails were lowered to prevent fire attacks.
Tyrion turned his spyglass upstream.
There lay his biggest trump card—a dozen modified fast boats.
Each boat was loaded with wildfire. Tyrion remembered the Alchemists' Guild demonstrating the power of wildfire to him.
They used houses, and pigs and sheep in armor as test subjects.
The result was that until everything flammable was burned clean, the hellish fire would absolutely not go out.
"The spells for making wildfire seem more potent." The words of the pyromancers echoed in Tyrion's mind. Though he didn't know what the spell's potency depended on, Tyrion felt very lucky.
The sky had darkened, and the ships gradually became silhouettes.
Tyrion kept staring at those small boats. Laden with wildfire, they were like arrows ready to loose. He constantly calculated the distance between the "wildfire boats" and Stannis's fleet.
"Lord Hand, fewer than thirty of Stannis's ships remain outside the Blackwater Rush," Podrick reported to Tyrion.
This was another personal guard he found for himself; Tyrion really didn't feel safe entrusting his life entirely to the Kingsguard sent by Cersei.
"Understood. Stick with me from now on," Tyrion instructed, then turned to a blonde soldier. Steeling his resolve, he said in a grim voice, "Signal! Burn them all!"
The soldier on the battlement raised a torch and waved it towards the wildfire boats on the river.
Upon receiving the signal, the small boats raised their sails and sped downstream like arrows aimed at Stannis's fleet.
"Faster, faster, faster."
Tyrion's spyglass moved with the small boats.
Five hundred feet—three hundred feet—two hundred feet—fifty feet—
Tyrion swallowed, sweat pouring from his body.
Not just him; eyes all along the battlements followed the movement of those small boats.
As if their gazes could add speed to those wildfire-laden vessels.
When the men on board were twenty or thirty feet from the target, they threw their torches into the holds and jumped into the water.
Immediately, a white light flashed.
No, not white—it was emerald firelight, just too dazzling.
Everyone was momentarily blinded by the sudden explosion.
Green flames burst one after another. The lead warships were ignited instantly, green wildfire splashing everywhere.
Greedy green flame serpents swallowed the entire front column of twenty warships in the blink of an eye!
The ambushed warships tried to retreat, but behind them were more, larger warships.
The green wildfire ritual officially began. With the help of the wind, the green flames quickly spread to the second column of warships.
Now the emerald flames began to show a faint yellow glow.
By the third column, the yellow light was more prominent. Only then did the rear of the fleet realize what was happening ahead and try to retreat.
But for some reason, shortly after retreating, the fleet stopped. The massive fleet writhed in place like eels splashed with hot oil.
Watching the fire spread madly, countless sailors and soldiers scrambled to jump into the freezing water.
"Let me see!" Joffrey popped up from somewhere and snatched the spyglass from Tyrion.
The green firelight cast a verdant hue on his face, but his grin was unmistakable.
He kept adjusting the focus, as if to appreciate the view carefully. Soon, he locked onto the Fury.
Stannis's flagship.
He had once ridden the Fury to capture Dragonstone, the last Targaryen stronghold.
Joffrey wanted to see the Fury swallowed by wildfire too, but it was positioned further back and wouldn't burn immediately.
But it didn't matter; ships surrounded it.
The winch towers downstream had raised the chain boom. The yellow-hulled Fury was like a beast trapped in a cage, unable to advance or retreat.
Tyrion looked at Joffrey giggling through the spyglass, wanting to shoo him away.
But looking at his thirteen-year-old nephew and his crown, he hesitated and let it be. At least Joffrey wasn't scared now and could focus on being a mascot.
"Alright, go back now. When we win this war, people will remember it was King Joffrey I who led us to defeat the Usurper Stannis." Tyrion used a tone for coaxing children to get him to leave.
When Joffrey returned to his seat, he smugly adjusted his armor.
Tyrion knew that although Stannis had stepped into the trap, the real battle hadn't begun.
Soldiers had landed on the north bank of the Blackwater Rush and were preparing to siege the city. In the woods north of King's Landing, Sora and the Northern soldiers looked south, heads raised.
Even the sky was dyed green by the wildfire. The spectacle reminded Jon of the auroras he had seen.
"Jon." Seeing Jon wake up, Sora spoke quickly.
"Order the soldiers to bring the siege ladders. We attack!"
Although Jon volunteered to lead the vanguard, usually being a "vanguard commander" didn't mean charging at the very front.
But to boost morale, he charged first. The reason was that the ones carrying the ladders were ordinary soldiers—specifically, Bolton soldiers under Jon's command.
Not many, about six or seven hundred. This was also to save the stamina of the real breakthrough force—the heavy armored soldiers.
To show he wasn't treating them as cannon fodder, Jon helped carry the ladders and charged with them. This changed the attitude of some Dreadfort soldiers who held grudges against him.
The sudden explosion attracted not only the Northern soldiers in the woods.
The Gold Cloaks on the walls were also drawn to it. They all looked at the sky, none maintaining vigilance.
Because Tyrion predicted Stannis's main attack would be at the Mud Gate, he had drawn a significant portion of soldiers from other gates.
Through [God's Eye View], Jon sensed the Old Gate had only six or seven hundred defenders.
And the quality of these defenders was mediocre. Most were recent recruits to the Gold Cloaks.
Not long ago, they might have been blacksmiths, tanner apprentices, tailor accountants...
Thus, their battlefield awareness was extremely poor.
Jon ordered every soldier to hold a stone in their mouth, ensuring silence until they were as close to the wall as possible.
Closer, closer!
As Jon and the army approached, the walls of King's Landing loomed taller.
This wasn't comparable to a small town like Rosby.
The Dreadfort soldiers at the front wished they could merge into the darkness.
To get close to the wall quickly, Jon even had them remove their armor.
This meant if discovered, they would face rolling stones and arrows with flesh and blood.
Thud—
When the first siege ladder hooked onto the wall, a soldier finally reacted.
A soldier who used to be a tailor looked down and saw groups of soldiers carrying dozens of foot-long ladders surging toward the wall base.
Behind them were soldiers in white armor.
That white armor was conspicuous in the night, like silver fish scales.
"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!!!"
The tailor soldier shouted in panic. These temporary recruits scrambled to pick up bows and weapons.
But in that short moment, four or five siege ladders were set up.
Sparse arrows were hard to aim in the dark.
After firing for a while, only a dozen people were hit.
By then, Jon was ready to climb the ladder.
"Lord Jon, let me go first!" Martyn fought for the chance beside him.
"Get aside!"
There was no gentleness on the battlefield. He had to take the Old Gate in the shortest time possible, preferably before the defenders could send a message.
Carrying his sword in one hand, he climbed with the other at a nearly constant speed, quickly surpassing all the soldiers.
His protruding figure naturally attracted the attention of the soldiers on the wall.
Arrows and stones began to concentrate on Jon.
But he blocked them all.
"My Lord—"
Martyn watched, eyes popping out.
Is he even human?
He saw Jon didn't even slow down while blocking; instead, he climbed faster.
Recovering, Martyn shouted to the heavy armored soldiers behind him: "See that! Our Lord is charging at the very front! Up! Up! Everyone up!"
Encouraged by Jon, the soldiers relied on their sturdy heavy armor and scrambled up the wall.
Within minutes, the wall was covered with soldiers in white armor.
"Quick! Report to the Hand! Say enemy forces are attacking the Old Gate! Say there are about one—no, seven thousand men!"
It was pitch dark; the officer couldn't estimate the number of attackers.
He could only overestimate.
He never imagined that the so-called seven thousand wasn't even a fraction of the enemy's true numbers.
Just as he prepared to organize a counterattack, a young soldier climbed up.
He shouted at the obvious rookie defenders: "I am Jon Snow, son of Eddard Stark! I killed The Mountain! Drop your weapons and surrender if you don't want to die!"
Jon roared at the rookies. If he could use his reputation to scare the enemy, that would be best.
But clearly, this officer wasn't willing to give up easily.
He drew his sword and said, "Bullshit! That son of a bitch is lying! Kill! Kill him, and I'll reward five hundred gol—"
Before the officer could finish, a grey-white shadow flashed.
A direwolf leaped out and bit into his neck.
Squelch— A sound like tearing fabric rang out, and scalding crimson blood sprayed from the officer's neck.
Soon, one heavy armored soldier after another leaped onto the battlements.
Facing these elite troops, the defenders didn't even have the courage to fight.
Some timid soldiers threw down their spears and ran wildly towards their homes.