Chapter 591

Night fell, and the entire city of King’s Landing plunged into a deathly darkness and silence.

To prevent fires, deter theft, and guard against infiltration or sabotage by spies, enforcing a curfew during times of siege was a standard practice that required no further explanation. However, Stannis had an additional concern: the possibility of Daenerys launching a night raid on her dragon, using the city’s lights to pinpoint military arrangements and the exact location of the Red Keep. Though dragon-hunting ballistae were stationed throughout the walls, ready to fire at a moment’s notice, the defenders relying solely on sight in pitch-black conditions would likely only detect the beasts when they were already close, breathing fire.

To address this fear, Stannis issued what was likely the first-ever blackout order in Westerosi history.

In the war room, its thick curtains drawn to block all light, Stannis stood over a sand table that depicted the enemy and allied forces in and around King’s Landing. He racked his brains but found no path to victory.

This was the third time in his life he faced such a desperate predicament.

The first was during the Siege of Storm’s End. For a year, Mace Tyrell’s Reach army and Paxter Redwyne’s fleet from the Arbor had besieged the Baratheon stronghold by land and sea. With supplies exhausted, the defenders were forced to slaughter their horses, cats, and dogs for food—and even catch rats. They had been one step away from cannibalism when Robert’s miraculous victory at the Trident turned the tide of the rebellion and lifted the siege.

The second was during the War of the Five Kings. His treacherous younger brother, driven by ambition, had allied with the Reach to seize the Iron Throne after Robert’s death. With traitors inside King’s Landing and the Tyrell army besieging the city, Renly had even managed to take the Red Keep, forcing Stannis to retreat to Dragonstone. A king fleeing his capital was humiliating, but it was only after Melisandre persuaded him to commit the ultimate betrayal—killing his own brother with shadow magic from Asshai—that he turned the tables and claimed victory.

But this time?

The Night’s Watch had rebelled, the North and the Riverlands had turned against him, the Westerlands were too far away, and the Vale refused to respond to his summons. Half the kingdom was already in enemy hands, and the rest was filled with foes. Even Melisandre, who had left court to combat the Great Other, might now be aiding the enemy.

He had no reinforcements to hope for, no sorcery to rely on, and only sat upon a throne so uncomfortable it felt like it stabbed him when he sat down. Betrayed by all, his situation seemed hopeless.

It wasn’t just the military odds that loomed over him—he had to stay vigilant against the possibility that the enemy might also use magical trickery. The thought of a shadow assassin slipping through his defenses haunted him.

Amid this mental exhaustion, a question lingered in his mind.

Had he made a grave strategic error by refusing to send aid to the Night’s Watch when they first sought help?

The answer was clear in hindsight, but even if given a hundred chances, he doubted he would have acted differently. Sending an army north would have left the South defenseless against the Golden Company’s rampage and Daenerys’s dual assault by sea and air. The Others might not have breached the Wall yet, but Stannis himself would likely have been dethroned, leaving the Baratheon army to defend the North for the Targaryens’ benefit. It would have been the ultimate irony.

No, holding the army back had been the safest choice. Who could have foreseen that Daenerys, the last of the Targaryen line, would personally journey to the Wall, join the fight against the Others, and return south wielding the power of the North and the Gift?

It seemed that no matter what he did, he was fated to fail. How else could he explain such an extraordinary twist of fate? Stannis couldn’t help but feel that Daenerys Targaryen was destined to reclaim her throne, while he was merely a pretender—her stepping stone and the final obstacle to her inevitable triumph.

And it was all Melisandre’s fault! If not for that red witch’s endless whispers and manipulation, his lukewarm ambition for the throne would never have driven him to such desperate measures. He would not have broken his principles, killed his brother, and abandoned the Night’s Watch in its hour of need. Now, with the North and the Gift rebelling against him, he had lost everything: honor, allies, and even hope.

This bitter realization weighed heavily on him. His face, already grim, grew darker still.

“Your Grace,” came a voice, breaking the silence. It was Davos Seaworth, his Hand of the King. Standing across from the map table, the Onion Knight had seen his liege’s unease and chose this moment to speak. “Take heart. Even to my untrained eye, I see at least three paths to victory in this siege.”

“First, the enemy forces besieging us—Golden Company, the Reach, and Dorne—have neither joined camps nor withdrawn. This suggests they are not a united front. If disputes over spoils erupt into infighting, or if open conflict breaks out among them, we could seize the opportunity to launch a counterattack and destroy them piecemeal.

“Second, even if they don’t fight amongst themselves, the one who strikes first will expose themselves to the others. Their divided interests will make it hard for them to launch a concerted attack, giving us time to strengthen our defenses and wait for an opportunity to turn the tide.

“And finally,” Davos tapped the map with his finger, tracing a triangle between the enemy camps south of the Blackwater and King’s Landing, “if they do settle their differences and launch a coordinated assault, we can stage a feigned retreat, abandoning the outer city to draw them into the Red Keep. The Targaryens—Daenerys and Aegon—will both be eager to claim the glory of taking the Iron Throne. That kind of rivalry will create chaos in their ranks.”

Davos outlined a plan to let the enemy’s ambitions work against them, exploiting their rivalries and poor coordination to launch a decisive counterattack.

Stannis nodded, recognizing the potential in Davos’s ideas. But as a seasoned commander, he knew the challenges of executing such a plan. His forces were not a monolith; they were an uneasy mix of Stormland troops, Essosi allies, and King’s Landing’s garrison. Should the enemy breach the walls, he feared defections would undermine his strategy, turning a last-ditch counteroffensive into a futile death throe.

Still, Stannis was not one to resign himself to despair. He leaned closer to the map, studying the layout of the city, searching for overlooked details that might turn the tide. Even the faintest glimmer of hope was worth pursuing.

The room fell silent, save for the faint rustle of parchment and the soft glow of candlelight. Then, footsteps approached the door. A guard announced the arrival of a soldier from the Iron Gate.

“Your Grace,” the soldier said, saluting. “A patrol from the royal fleet intercepted a small boat in the eastern waters. Its occupant claims to be an envoy from Euron Greyjoy and requests an audience with you. What are your orders?”

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