"Father, let me go! I will surely bring you that bastard's head!"
"No."
Mace emotionlessly rejected Loras's request. He looked at King's Landing in the distance, his thoughts seemingly returning to Storms End.
A frustrating thought echoed in his mind: Do I really have no talent for war?
First, Stannis, with a small force, held back his tens of thousands of Soldiers, and now Jon has replicated the scene from back then.
Two consecutive failures made this man, old enough to be a grandfather, seriously doubt himself.
"Sir, the Lannister army has breached the Lions Gate!" A young noble reported to Mace at this moment.
Mace, who had been dejected, suddenly stood up, his somewhat thick neck stretching out of his collar.
"Really!"
"Yes! At least ten thousand Westerlands army has now entered King's Landing."
The young noble looked very young, with an undisguised childishness on his face.
He was Dickon Tarly, Randal Tarly's youngest son. Randal Tarly sent Sam away precisely to make room for this younger son.
Upon hearing this news, Mace was overjoyed, feeling capable again.
Mace drew the longsword from his waist and shouted to the general on the city wall, who was bearing four banners: "Attack the city! Whoever can cut off that Northern bastard's head, I will reward him with one hundred thousand gold dragons!"
Suddenly, the Riverlands Army, which had been launching a sluggish offensive, began to attack with desperate vigor.
However, those rushing to the front were all ordinary Soldiers.
The knightly nobles dared not show their faces; Jon's terrifying archery had left a deep impression on them.
And Martin naturally took advantage of this, holding his longbow, aiming here and there but not shooting.
He already knew that Tywin's army had breached the Lions Gate, and of course, he also knew about the wildfire trap, so he frequently turned his head to look in the direction of the Lions Gate.
"Lord Jon, you must take the Red Keep!" Martin prayed in his heart, when suddenly, a dazzling green flame made him instinctively squint and dodge.
The bowstring, which he had not released, also shot an arrow.
The arrow flew wildly off target.
But fortunately, no one noticed; everyone saw the terrifying emerald green fire.
With a thunderous explosion, the ground beneath their feet seemed to tremble.
The direction of the Lions Gate turned into a sea of green flames.
As if the very earth was burning.
"Kevan!" Tywin, who had always been cold as ice, realized they had fallen into a trap.
Tens of thousands of Westerlands elites were swallowed by wildfire, and his brother Kevan, who was commanding almost at the forefront, had absolutely no chance of survival.
"My Lord, My Lord, it's dangerous!"
Tywin's guards desperately held him back. He watched the Soldiers being consumed by the flames, his heart aching so much that breathing became difficult.
Whether by luck or misfortune, some Soldiers were not at the epicenter of the wildfire explosion but were still affected.
The green flames splashed onto their armor, instantly turning them into green human torches.
They frantically tried to remove their armor, but steel is an excellent conductor of heat.
The scorching hot steel made almost zero-distance contact with their skin, and the air was filled with the smell of charred flesh.
If only three or four thousand out of ten thousand people died on the spot, Aegon the Conqueror's 'Field of Fire' battle only burned and injured four thousand.
The remaining six or seven thousand Soldiers surrounded by wildfire were disoriented by the heatwave, their morale completely shattered.
At this point, Tywin had fewer than four thousand Soldiers left; after this battle, the Westerlands elite was completely lost!
"Jon! Snow!"
Tywin looked at the green wall of fire in front of him, now taller than the city walls, his eyes bloodshot, but the tears that seeped out were quickly dried by the oncoming heatwave.
He clenched his molars tightly, blood oozing from the corners of his mouth, and a beast-like roar erupted from his chest. Supported by his personal guards, he slowly stood up and gave the order he least wanted to give:
Retreat!
Indeed, no sooner had Tywin given the order than elite troops converged from both sides of the breached wall, completely trapping the Westerlands Soldiers who had not been burned to death inside the city.
The wildfire hidden by Aerys was not as powerful as recently produced wildfire, but it was certainly enough to trap these Westerlands Soldiers.
On the city wall, the scarlet golden lion banner was cut down and replaced with Jon's black-and-white Direwolf banner.
The great gates of the Red Keep, just like fifteen years ago, were opened from within, the heavy doors groaning like the sigh of a giant beast.
Behind the gates was not the imagined splendor, but a bottomless darkness, like a dragon's esophagus, exuding the smell of rust, blood, and death. Sunlight barely squeezed in, illuminating the dust dancing before the gates, as if countless ghosts were circling at the victors' feet.
High on the battlements, Ser Harrion was gasping for breath, his tall frame trembling slightly from exhaustion and excitement. He extended his armored foot and fiercely kicked the yellow-crowned stag banner off the battlement, followed by the red-roaring golden lion banner. The banners fell with a wail, like two giant birds shot down, plummeting into the muddy, blood-soaked square below.
Then, he solemnly unfurled and raised Jon Snow's banner—the ice-white Direwolf on a black field, flapping in the salty sea wind of King's Landing, as if truly alive, letting out a silent roar at the recaptured capital.
"Victory!"
Harrion looked at the wildfire still burning eerily in the distance towards the Riverlands, the green flames licking the sky. Even from this far, he seemed to feel the heat that scorched the soul.
His thick beard, covering his entire chest, blew in the wind, and at this moment, his heart was filled with heroic pride. Such a victory would leave a glorious mark in history, and his name, Harrion, would be sung in ballads with Jon Snow for a thousand years!
"To pull the chaotic country back on track!" he murmured, repeating Jon's words.
But immediately, a chill unexpectedly seized him. 'Those who should not be king have become king'—Jon's other words echoed in his mind. He suddenly realized a terrifying consequence: Jon had now achieved unparalleled feats, yet he fought under the banner of His Majesty Stannis Baratheon.
And the North, his homeland, was ruled by Jon's brother, Robb Stark, as king. In the future—would Jon have to face Robb on the battlefield?
This simple, straightforward man, who had spent most of his life thinking about how to fight wars, was for the first time troubled by complex and headache-inducing political prospects. He looked worriedly towards the towering Maegors Holdfast deep within the Red Keep. For Jon, who was younger than his own son, Harrion now felt a deep reverence, even a hint of fear. If such a day truly came, he would naturally fight for Robb, but how could he defeat Jon before him? He had no confidence.
"Forget it," Harrion vigorously shook his head, as if to shake off these annoying thoughts. "Jon—he will surely handle it." He turned his gaze back to Maegors Holdfast, able to vaguely see figures moving inside through a high window.
Inside Maegors Holdfast, the air was thick, almost suffocating.
Compared to the noisy victory outside the hall, here was a dead silent ruin. The once luxurious furnishings lay scattered, broken wine glasses and scattered swords telling of the final panic.
Jon Snow stood in the center of the living room, his armor stained with blood and dust, but his posture remained as straight as an icicle on the Wall. Facing him was the completely broken Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, and beside her, the "king" Joffrey, huddled in extreme fear and trembling all over.
Cersei's golden hair was disheveled, her magnificent gown full of wrinkles, and those emerald eyes that once captivated countless people now held only emptiness and madness. Joffrey's face was pale, like a startled rabbit, showing none of his usual cruelty.
Jon's gaze swept past them, falling into the corner of the room. A Kingsguard, his white cloak stained and tattered, held a longsword to the neck of a thin girl. That was Sansa Stark, his sister. She was emaciated, with a sharp chin and large eyes filled with numb fear, like a fawn walking alone in the wilderness.
"The Lannisters are finished," Jon's voice was calm, yet carried an undeniable authority, echoing in the silent room. "Release my sister, and I swear by the honor of my father, Eddard Stark, that I will spare your life."
These words were like a final judgment. The Kingsguard's hand trembled. He looked at the frantic Queen Regent, then at the murderous Jon, and the white Direwolf banner fluttering outside the window. The instinct for survival overcame all loyalty.
Jon didn't remember if this white cloak was named Meryn or Boros; it didn't matter. The Kingsguard was now filled with glory-seekers, and Stannis would surely not use them in the future.
"Clang!" With a crisp sound, the longsword fell to the ground, like the breaking of invisible shackles binding Sansa.
Sansa froze for a moment, then burst forth with all the strength in her life, like a chick finally finding its way home, rushing to Jon. Her slender arms tightly embraced her brother's cold breastplate, her sharp chin hooked on his shoulder plate, her whole body trembling violently.
"Jon—Jon—" she repeated incoherently, tears soaking his neck, "I was so scared—I was really so scared—every day, every moment—"
Although Jon and Sansa's relationship was not deep, and they even disliked each other somewhat, at this moment, his heart felt as if it were clutched by a cold hand.
Jon sheathed his longsword and, with his gauntleted hand, gently patted Sansa's back. On this twelve-year-old girl, a faint scent of lemon still lingered—the last trace of Winterfell, of a beautiful past life, completely out of place with the surrounding despair.
"Hey, my little sister," Jon sighed inwardly. Nothing could evoke a person's protective instincts more than a delicate sister or daughter.
Watching Sansa rush into Jon's embrace, Cersei understood that she had lost her last bargaining chip. A complex expression, a mix of despair, pride, and maternal love, flashed across her face. Suddenly, with astonishing speed, she pulled a small glass vial from her sleeve, uncorked it, and was about to drink its contents—it was what she had saved for herself, the last dignity of a Queen Regent.
"Drink it."
Jon's voice sounded again, without rebuke, without obstruction, as calm as stating a fact.
"Drink it, and Myrcella and Tommen will officially become motherless children."
Cersei's movement froze in mid-air, her lips already feeling the cold and bitterness from the vial's opening.
"I grew up without a mother," Jon continued. He took a step forward, his gaze piercing Cersei like an icicle. Now was the best time to break Cersei's psychological defenses! "That kind of life was like an endless winter. You hate Tyrion because he took away your mother. Do you want your children to hate you for the rest of their lives?"
Every word was like a blunt knife, slowly and precisely cutting through Cersei's psychological defenses. She remembered her mother, Lady Joanna, who died in childbirth, and how that grief had consumed her entire childhood.
She thought of her unending resentment towards Tyrion, how much of it stemmed from the displacement of the pain of losing her mother. If she died, what would happen to Myrcella and Tommen? They would not only lose their mother but also be branded as "bastards," struggling to survive amidst shame and danger, perhaps even—not living to adulthood.
Maternal instinct ultimately triumphed over pride and despair. With a 'clink,' the delicate glass vial slipped from her trembling hand, rolled away on the floor, and the deadly liquid slowly seeped out. Cersei Lannister, the Queen Regent who once held immense power over the Seven Kingdoms, collapsed to the ground as if all her bones had been removed.
She was no longer a high and mighty ruler, but merely a mother beast trying to protect her young. She knelt and crawled, her magnificent gown dragging across the cold floor, coming to Jon's feet, grasping his trousers with hands stained with tears and dust.
"Please—please—" She looked up, tears streaking her elaborate makeup, "Spare Joffrey! He didn't mean it—he's just a child—send him to the Wall, let him take the black, spare his life! Spare his life! Spare his life!!!" Her plea was hoarse and desperate, filled with utter collapse.
The Kingsguard nearby witnessed this scene and lowered their heads in shame. The former Queen Regent now groveling at the feet of a Northern bastard, begging for mercy—what an irony.
Sansa had calmed down a bit by this point. She quietly stepped away from Jon's embrace and stood behind him. She looked at Cersei, who was kneeling and begging, with a complex gaze. Before today, she might still have felt fear, even a twisted envy, due to this woman's apparent elegance and power.
But now, she only saw ruins. She also remembered her past attitude towards Jon; because of his bastard status, she always deliberately emphasized that he was only "half a brother" to draw a line. At this moment, standing behind this "half a brother," she felt a sense of security she had never experienced before.
"He didn't give my father a chance on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, did he?" Jon's tone was as cold as the eternal winter of the North, continuing to shatter Cersei's reason.
He crouched down, looking directly into Cersei's pleading green eyes.
"I have been very merciful, Your Grace. Think of Tommen and Myrcella. If you cooperate, His Majesty Stannis might show extra clemency and grant you a quiet tower to live in. Myrcella can marry safely, Tommen can live peacefully, and you might even become an ordinary grandmother in the future, enjoying your grandchildren. Perhaps—just as my father privately suggested to you—you and your children can take a ship and leave for the Free Cities of Essos, forever leaving the conflicts of Westeros."
With a low and clear voice, Jon painted the only possible future for Cersei in her despair, gradually dismantling her last resistance.
But she suddenly jolted, catching unusual information in his words: "You—how do you know what Eddard Stark said to me?" It was an extremely private conversation, under the moonlight, by the weirwood tree, where Cersei proposed that Eddard become the Hand of the King.
Cersei was not foolish; she knew that only with Eddard's affirmation could Joffrey's crown be secure. Thus, she was willing to offer herself.
"Tsk, I let it slip," a flicker of imperceptible emotion crossed Jon's eyes, but under the absolute power of the moment, it was insignificant. "Because he is my father," he explained quickly and naturally. "Lord Eddard Stark upheld honor and justice his entire life. He opposed His Majesty Robert's pursuit of Daenerys Targaryen back then; he must have felt a trace of pity for you all. Don't forget, there's also Jaime. You can leave together and start a new life."
"Jaime—" Cersei murmured the name distractedly, the image of her twin brother seemingly appearing before her eyes. All her strength finally drained away; she completely collapsed onto the cold floor, her eyes unfocused, no longer struggling, no longer speaking. She had given up.
Jon gestured to the Soldiers behind him. Two Northern Soldiers stepped forward and, still somewhat politely, helped the distraught Cersei up and dragged her towards the door.
"No—!" When she was dragged to the doorway, Cersei seemed to awaken from her numbness, letting out a piercing scream, kicking her feet wildly, "Spare Joffrey! Don't kill him! Please—don't!"
Her cries gradually faded down the corridor, yet lingered like background noise.
Jon knew Cersei had accepted his proposal; those screams were merely a mother's instinct.
Now, only Jon, Sansa, and Joffrey, who was slumped on the ground, weeping and snot-nosed, remained in the room.
"I am the King! I am the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms!" Joffrey shrieked, trying to maintain his last shred of dignity, but his trembling voice and flailing limbs betrayed him. "Jon Snow! I can make you Duke of the North! No, Hand of the King! What do you want? Gold? Castles? Women? I'll give you anything! Please—don't kill me—I'm willing to go to the Wall! I'm willing to swear the oath!"
Jon didn't even bother to look at him again, much less waste words on him.
He had achieved his goal of capturing Cersei alive. As for Joffrey, he had to die. Just as Jon drew his sword and walked towards Joffrey, Sansa stopped him.
Just when Jon thought Sansa was going to plead for Joffrey, Sansa said seriously, "Jon, can I do it?"
"Yes, that's a bit like a Stark." Jon gave her an approving look, but Sansa couldn't even lift the sword.
So Jon placed the hilt of the sword into Sansa's slender hand, holding her hand with his own. Under Jon's guidance, Sansa felt as if they were performing an ancient and solemn ritual, holding the longsword, walking step by step towards Joffrey.
The sword tip reflected the firelight from outside the window, its cold gleam dancing on Joffrey's face, distorted by extreme terror. His golden curls were soaked with sweat and tears, and his blue eyes held only the most primal fear of death. He curled backward, flailing his arms uselessly, his pleas turning into meaningless howls, and a foul stench wafted from beneath him.
"For Eddard Stark!" Jon guided Sansa's arm, gathering all her grief, indignation, and strength, and swung down with all her might!
A flash of cold light! It wasn't a clean cut; the blade met bone as it entered the neck, emitting a sickening thud. Jon had deliberately controlled the force, ensuring the process wasn't too "quick."
Blood, like the richest wine, spurted out, staining the lavish carpet and splattering on Sansa's pale cheek and plain dress. A head with golden hair rolled onto the ground, covered in dust, its mouth still frozen in a scream, its once malicious green eyes wide open, seemingly unable to comprehend the eternal darkness before it.
Outside, Cersei's heartbreaking cries seemed to resonate with the gushing blood inside the room, gradually weakening, and finally swallowed by the silence of death.
Everything fell silent.
Sansa released the sword hilt, her hand still trembling uncontrollably. She stared blankly at the headless corpse still twitching slightly on the ground, and at the once arrogant head, without screaming, without vomiting, only shedding tears with unusual calmness, the tears washing away the bloodstains on her cheeks.
"Jon," she asked softly, her voice as faint as a wisp of breath in winter, "Is this revenge? Why—why do I feel so empty inside, as if a part of me has died too?"
"That's good, no Stark child has a bad heart." Jon gently pulled her into an embrace, letting her face rest against his cold, hard breastplate, preventing her from seeing the bloody scene again.
Jon sheathed his longsword and ruffled her hair, just as he would Arya.
"Revenge doesn't bring happiness, Sansa." Jon guided the girl who once yearned for court life, "It merely—crosses a blood debt off the ledger. It can't bring father back, nor can it erase the harm we've suffered. Father wouldn't be satisfied with our killing today, but he would be relieved that we are still alive and can reunite like a pack of Direwolves."
He put his arm around Sansa's shoulder and walked out of the room, which was filled with the scent of blood and death. Outside, the black and white Direwolf banner flew high in the sky over King's Landing.
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