Boom!
The thunderous roar of trebuchets echoed throughout the Kingswood, shaking the forest.
Massive stones arced through the sky before crashing toward the remaining royal warships anchored along the Blackwater Rush. Some smashed into the vessels, while others plunged into the river, sending towering columns of water into the air.
Far out on the Blackwater Rush, shifting winds caused countless sails to snap loudly.
The fleets floated less than twenty yards apart, lined up in disciplined battle formations.
Although neither side possessed an overwhelming number of ships, no captain recklessly charged into the river.
Instead, both fleets cautiously observed one another, waiting for the perfect moment.
At the center of Stannis Baratheon's fleet sailed Fury, proudly flying the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
Sixteen years earlier, Stannis had commanded this very flagship during Robert's assault on Dragonstone.
Now history had reversed itself.
This time, he was sailing against King's Landing.
Originally, Stannis had intended to command a fleet of two hundred warships.
However, after discussing strategy with Gendry and agreeing upon an elaborate trap, he reduced the fleet to only one hundred vessels.
"Feign an assault on King's Landing."
"Besiege the city."
"Strike any reinforcements that appear."
"If the enemy takes the bait... cripple them."
Stannis silently repeated Gendry's strategy in his mind.
His expression remained as hard as forged iron.
He had become one of Westeros's finest commanders before reaching the age of twenty.
Yet now...
The responsibility of leading the coming war had fallen largely upon his nephew.
Some men were simply born for battle.
Stannis had always valued discipline, intelligence gathering, reconnaissance, and calculated aggression.
To his surprise, Gendry's battlefield instincts had already matured beyond his own.
The young lord fought with remarkable patience...
And terrifying ruthlessness.
"Tywin..."
"Cersei..."
"Will I finally see your heads displayed upon the walls?"
Robert had been his brother.
Their relationship had never been warm.
Nevertheless...
House Lannister had committed crimes against both gods and men.
They deserved judgment.
Fury possessed three hundred oars, making her one of the fastest heavy warships afloat.
Ballistae lined both sides of her deck.
Trebuchets stood at both the bow and stern.
However, instead of loading barrels of burning pitch...
They were filled with heavy sacks of sand.
Stannis frowned.
"I've gathered every fast ship available."
"Our formation is quick and highly maneuverable."
"But..."
"I'm still uncertain whether these sand payloads will truly neutralize wildfire."
His confidence remained tempered by caution.
"Lower oars."
"Maintain formation."
At his command, hundreds of oars entered the water simultaneously.
The master drummer struck the great drum.
Boom...
Boom...
Boom...
The deep rhythm resembled the heartbeat of some enormous beast.
Each beat drove the fleet steadily forward.
Every rower moved as one.
Perfect synchronization.
Meanwhile...
On the southern bank of the Blackwater Rush...
The morning sun still shone brightly over the Kingswood.
War horns echoed through the forest.
Their deep, haunting calls sounded almost demonic.
The god of war had already arrived.
Rows of banners fluttered proudly above the massive camp.
The Stormlands.
The Vale.
Crackclaw Point.
Every great house had answered the call.
House Caron's black nightingale flew against its yellow banner.
House Swann displayed two battling swans—one black and one white.
House Royce's ancient runes surrounded its field of bronze stones.
House Grafton's burning golden tower blazed proudly upon crimson cloth.
Yet none of those banners could compare to the massive golden standard standing at the center of the camp.
Gendry's banner.
Looking across his assembled army, Gendry nodded to himself.
"At least numerically..."
"We hold the regional advantage."
More than twenty thousand Stormlanders had already crossed to the south bank of the Blackwater.
Roland Storm and his half-brother, Lord Karren Bryce, had successfully marched the armies of Storm's End to join him.
Roland's face remained heavily scarred from childhood illness.
Nevertheless...
His courage was unquestionable.
Additional troops from the Vale and Crackclaw Point had also arrived.
Together, they numbered nearly forty-five thousand men.
A formidable army.
If Tywin attempted repeated attacks and counterattacks, he would likely reduce his own strength to barely twenty thousand soldiers.
As for the Reach...
Its fifty-five thousand troops looked intimidating.
But not every lord followed House Tyrell with complete loyalty.
Winning the coming battle depended less upon numbers...
And more upon exploiting divisions among their enemies.
Gendry stood at the center of the assembled army like the moon surrounded by countless stars.
Unlike the other great lords, he wore no extravagant ornaments.
Instead, his appearance radiated quiet authority.
He was clad in black scale armor, its breastplate adorned with a black crystal stag and a crimson crystal dragon. Draped over the armor was a golden surcoat that shimmered beneath the morning sun.
There was no crown upon his head.
Instead, Anguy carried his magnificent great-horned helmet behind him.
The tasks had already been assigned.
Gendry himself would command the vanguard.
Lothor Brune and Guud would oversee the scouts on both flanks.
Lord Karren Bryce would command the center of the Stormlands army.
Roland Storm would guard the rear.
Meanwhile, the forces from the Vale and Crackclaw Point would be led by Bronze Yohn Royce and Ser Boros.
The monks accompanying the Horn stepped forward before the assembled soldiers.
Raising their hands toward the heavens, they shouted,
"The gods watch over the coming storm!"
"The Father demands justice."
"The Smith demands strength."
"The Warrior demands courage."
"Victory shall be ours!"
Their voices spread across the camp.
Thousands of soldiers listened in silence.
Then Gendry stepped forward.
"My lords."
"This battle will determine the fate of Westeros for generations."
"It is no longer simply a struggle between kings."
"Reports from Lys and the Stepstones suggest that Volantis, together with the fleets of Slaver's Bay, may soon arrive."
He paused briefly before asking,
"So tell me..."
"Will we fight?"
"Or will we surrender?"
Silence lasted only a heartbeat.
"I choose to fight."
Ser Guyard Morrigen was the first to draw his sword.
The blade gleamed brightly beneath the rising sun.
"I choose the same."
Knights from House Caron, House Massey, House Royce, House Thorne, and many others unsheathed their weapons one after another.
Steel flashed across the battlefield.
Gendry slowly drew Orphan-Maker.
Its blade was dark as smoke.
The moment the legendary sword left its scabbard, countless voices erupted.
"Long live the Storm!"
"Long live the Storm!"
The cries spread from the knights to the common soldiers until the entire camp thundered with deafening cheers.
Yet not everyone joined in.
The hired soldiers from the Vale and the men of Crackclaw Point remained unusually quiet.
Hidden among the trees of the Kingswood, they patiently awaited their orders.
They were confident.
But they understood the importance of timing.
Victory favored those who struck at precisely the right moment.
---
Standing beside one of the campfires was the Red Priestess.
The flames danced across her crimson robes.
Nearby stood the Sand Snakes of Dorne.
Earlier, Gendry had asked the priestess whether the flames revealed the outcome of the coming battle.
Unfortunately...
She had shaken her head.
Her visions were never reliable.
Sometimes the flames spoke.
Sometimes they remained silent.
No one—not even she—could control them.
Tyene Sand quietly watched Gendry from a distance.
What a fascinating man...
Strong.
Confident.
Calm beneath unimaginable pressure.
Like a perfectly forged blade.
Deadly.
Yet beautiful.
Tyene smiled faintly.
Her gentle appearance often fooled people.
Few realized how dangerous she truly was.
She suddenly recalled how Princess Arianne had once admired Renly Baratheon.
Unfortunately...
That story had ended poorly.
---
"Lord Yohn."
"Ser Boros."
Gendry turned toward the commanders from the Vale.
"When the battle begins, follow my war drums and signal horns."
"Your forces are not to advance unless ordered."
He gestured toward the nearby siege engines.
Six large trebuchets had been assembled.
Two would continue bombarding King's Landing.
The remaining four had been placed under Bronze Yohn's command.
"Understood."
Bronze Yohn bowed.
"It shall be done."
Ser Boros echoed the same response.
Gendry's gaze briefly shifted toward the Sand Snakes once more.
Although Dorne had not officially entered the war, their advance toward the mountain passes of the Reach had already forced House Tyrell to divert part of its attention.
That alone was valuable.
As for expecting the Dornish army to fight far from home...
Gendry had never placed much hope in that.
The Dornish were at their most dangerous within Dorne itself.
Outside their homeland...
Their advantages diminished considerably.
---
We're all gamblers...
Gendry looked toward the distant walls of King's Landing.
Tyrion.
Marajo.
And me.
Let's see who the true hunter is.
Tyrion had turned King's Landing into bait.
Wildfire was his hidden weapon.
His courage and intelligence formed the second half of his trap.
He wanted Gendry to attack.
Likewise...
Gendry needed Tyrion to believe his trap had succeeded.
At the same time, he had to prepare for the unexpected arrival of Volantis.
Everything depended on timing.
Volantis had remained suppressed for generations.
Now, supported by Slaver's Bay and wealthy exiles from Myr and Tyrosh, they were gambling everything on one decisive campaign.
According to reports, favorable winds—and perhaps darker powers such as blood sacrifice—had allowed their fleet to advance with frightening speed.
Even the Red Priestess had quietly admitted that such magic was possible.
If Volantis truly arrived...
The coming battle would become even bloodier than the original Battle of the Blackwater.
---
Inside King's Landing...
Tyrion Lannister slowly adjusted his armor.
Although beautifully crafted, the suit looked almost oversized on his small frame.
Mounted beside him stood a magnificent crimson warhorse.
Tyrion looked almost childlike inside the heavy armor.
"Fire..."
He gazed toward the city.
"Soon this entire place will burn."
By his orders, buildings near the riverfront had already been set ablaze.
Even parts of the Kingswood burned.
Smoke drifted across the battlefield.
Standing atop the city walls, Tyrion surveyed King's Landing.
Everywhere he looked...
Doors were barred.
Windows were shuttered.
The smallfolk hid inside their homes, praying the coming storm would somehow pass them by.
The last time King's Landing had fallen...
The victorious Lannister soldiers had looted, murdered, and burned the city.
And that had been after a surrender.
Now...
The city intended to resist until the end.
Everyone understood what defeat would mean.
Fear spread faster than fire.
Reports arrived one after another.
Stannis's fleet had sealed the Blackwater.
Stormland armies approached from the south.
The Vale had entered the war.
Crackclaw Point had answered Gendry's call.
Even northern warriors had reportedly joined the campaign.
Enemies...
Everywhere.
Tyrion looked toward the approaching armies.
Am I the hunter...
Or the prey?
He had layered trap upon trap throughout King's Landing.
The city itself had become bait.
His greatest hope was to cripple Gendry's army before reinforcements could arrive.
Yet...
Perhaps Gendry had also turned him into prey.
There was no turning back now.
The dice had already been cast.
If he failed...
His own head...
Joffrey's head...
And Cersei's...
Would all decorate the walls of King's Landing.
Everyone standing at the center of power was gambling with their lives.
Tyrion had never hidden his contempt for Cersei.
On the eve of the battle, she had even ordered the Kettleblack brothers to abduct Alayaya, hoping to use the girl as leverage against him.
Unfortunately for Cersei, she was too foolish to understand the truth.
She believed Tyrion loved the young prostitute deeply.
She couldn't have been more wrong.
"It seems the Great Sept is the only lively place left in the city," Bronn remarked with a mocking smile.
Tyrion glanced toward the towering dome of the Great Sept of Baelor.
Even now, as war loomed over King's Landing, the sound of hymns echoed through its halls.
Thousands prayed to the Seven, begging for salvation.
"Indeed."
Tyrion nodded.
"Perhaps the gods will grant us a little mercy."
Throughout King's Landing, prayers rose from every corner.
Families knelt inside their homes.
Septons led worshippers in the Great Sept.
The people cared little whether a Baratheon or a Lannister sat upon the Iron Throne.
What they truly feared was death.
The approaching war threatened to consume them all.
The melodies of prayer blended with the sounds of marching soldiers, neighing horses, clashing steel, and the groaning hinges of the city's great bronze gates.
Together, they created a strange symphony...
One that heralded only bloodshed.
"Let's hope the Warrior is listening," Bronn muttered.
The Red Keep stood proudly above the city.
Its towering walls and great bastions overlooked the sprawling streets below.
To the west and south flowed the Blackwater Rush.
To the east lay the harbor.
Every battlement teemed with soldiers.
Behind the Mud Gate, three enormous trebuchets towered more than twenty feet above the walls, ready to hurl death across the river.
"The women pray to the Mother for mercy."
Tyrion adjusted his gauntlet.
"We can only pray to the Warrior."
Bronn nodded.
"It's time."
"His Grace is waiting."
Together, they descended from the walls to meet King Joffrey.
---
In the courtyard, Ser Meryn Trant held the reins of a magnificent bay warhorse while helping the young king mount.
Both horse and rider wore matching gilded armor.
Gold chainmail shimmered beneath crimson enamel plates.
Morning sunlight reflected brilliantly from Joffrey's armor, making him appear almost radiant.
"Ready for battle, Your Grace?"
Tyrion asked.
Around them stood ranks of Gold Cloaks, already prepared for combat.
Tyrion mounted his own horse.
The armor looked awkward on his small frame, but the heavy battle axe hanging beneath his shield was very real.
Behind him rode Ser Mandon Moore.
Silent as always.
A Kingsguard who spoke only with his sword.
Joffrey puffed out his cheeks.
"Not yet."
He looked around irritably.
"Sansa isn't here."
"She should have been the one seeing me off."
"It's all those stupid maids' fault."
"I already had them beheaded."
"But killing them once wasn't enough."
Drawing his sword with dramatic flair, Joffrey held it proudly before everyone.
Its lion-shaped pommel clutched a blood-red ruby.
Three deep fullers ran along the polished blade.
"This is my new sword."
"It's called Heart-Eater."
"What do you think, Uncle?"
Tyrion barely glanced at it.
"It is certainly a beautiful weapon, Your Grace."
"Now please put it away."
"We're about to fight."
Joffrey suddenly pointed the sword toward Tyrion.
"I command you to kiss it."
"The Imp."
"Kiss my sword."
His childish grin widened.
"They say touching a dwarf's head brings good luck."
"So if you kiss my sword..."
"I'll have good luck too."
"This was supposed to be a privilege reserved for a beautiful maiden."
"But I'll allow you the honor instead."
Tyrion stared at him without expression.
"That's hardly amusing, Your Grace."
"You'd be wiser to pray to the Warrior."
"We'll need every blessing we can get."
"I don't need anyone's pity!"
Joffrey shouted proudly.
"My bastard brother and my traitorous uncle are the ones who should beg for mercy."
"I'll cut off both their heads."
"And make them kiss my sword instead."
Before Tyrion could answer, Sandor Clegane stepped forward.
"I think Your Grace will find plenty of people willing to kiss that sword on the battlefield."
Joffrey laughed.
"Well said, my dog."
Satisfied, he finally sheathed Heart-Eater.
"When I return..."
"This blade will be dripping with blood."
"You'll get to taste my bastard brother's blood."
"And my uncle's too."
Two Kingsguard accompanied the young king.
Ser Meryn Trant.
Ser Mandon Moore.
Along with them rode Ser Osfryd Kettleblack, sent personally by Cersei.
Joffrey's task was simple.
Command the Gold Cloaks.
Suppress any unrest within the city.
"Forward!"
Joffrey dug his spurs into his horse.
The gates of the Red Keep opened.
He rode out first.
Meryn Trant and Osfryd Kettleblack flanked him.
Ranks of Gold Cloaks marched four abreast behind them.
Tyrion and Ser Mandon Moore brought up the rear.
The soldiers lining the courtyard erupted into cheers as their king departed.
Once the procession disappeared...
Silence settled over the Red Keep.
---
Those remaining behind naturally divided into two groups.
Many gathered inside the Great Sept to pray.
Others sought safety within Maegor's Holdfast alongside Queen Regent Cersei.
"May the Smith strengthen King Joffrey's sword."
"May the Warrior grant him courage."
"May the Father judge his enemies."
The septons' prayers echoed through the Great Sept.
Old servants.
Young maids.
Knights.
Cooks.
Falconers.
Squires.
Wet nurses.
Stable boys.
Nearly everyone joined the hymns.
Whether they loved Joffrey mattered little.
What united them was fear.
Fear of the battle outside.
---
Elsewhere within the castle...
Lady Tanda struggled to coax her daughter upstairs.
"No!"
Lollys Stokeworth cried pitifully.
Large and clumsy, she resisted every step.
"Hurry, my lady."
Shae, serving as one of her attendants, had clearly lost all patience.
Judging by her expression, she looked ready to shove Lollys directly into the castle moat.
"My sweet child..."
Lady Tanda forced a smile.
"Inside there's music."
"Food."
"Wine."
"You'll enjoy yourself."
Turning toward those helping her daughter, Lady Tanda sighed apologetically.
"She's... not very well."
With Shae's help, they finally managed to coax—and half drag—Lollys into Maegor's Holdfast.
Several noble ladies nearby struggled to suppress their laughter.
Everyone in King's Landing already knew the truth.
Lollys was pregnant.
The guards standing outside wore crimson cloaks beneath lion-crested helmets.
Although they appeared impressive...
Most were merely hired mercenaries.
---
Cersei had transformed Maegor's Holdfast into a refuge for the city's noblewomen.
The ballroom was far smaller than the Red Keep's Great Hall.
Even so, it comfortably accommodated over one hundred people.
The chamber had been lavishly decorated.
Large polished silver mirrors reflected the torchlight, doubling its brightness.
Beautiful wood carvings covered the walls.
Sweet-smelling rushes blanketed the floor.
From the musicians' gallery came cheerful melodies played upon flutes and fiddles.
Heavy velvet curtains concealed every window.
No daylight entered.
Neither did the sounds of prayer...
Or war.
Nearly every noblewoman remaining in King's Landing had gathered here.
Several elderly lords and young boys were also present.
The atmosphere was heavy.
Every husband...
Every father...
Every son...
Had gone to battle.
At the far end of the hall sat Cersei Lannister upon a raised dais.
Behind her stood the silent Ser Ilyn Payne.
His black-oiled mail glistened beneath the torchlight.
Ice-cold steel rested quietly in his hands.
"Rise."
The Grand Steward announced loudly.
"Her Majesty, Queen Regent Cersei of House Lannister, Protector of the Realm."
Everyone stood.
Cersei wore an elegant white linen gown.
Its color was as pure as a Kingsguard's cloak.
Long flowing sleeves revealed golden silk lining.
Her bright golden curls rested upon her bare shoulders.
Around her neck hung an exquisite necklace of emeralds and diamonds.
For a fleeting moment...
She looked almost innocent.
Almost.
Were it not for the faint traces of age and exhaustion upon her face, one might have mistaken her for a young maiden.
"Please..."
She smiled gracefully.
"Be seated."
---
At that very moment...
The first true sounds of battle echoed across King's Landing.
War horns roared from the walls.
Ballistae launched enormous iron-tipped bolts toward the river.
The city's trebuchets hurled massive stones and burning barrels of pitch across the Blackwater Rush.
Towering columns of water exploded where the missiles struck.
Royal warships bearing the lion and stag banners nervously patrolled the river.
Across multiple fronts, the besieging armies began probing attacks.
The Battle of the Blackwater...
Had finally begun.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)