Chapter 196

Thick black smoke billowed from the burning pitch coating the siege engines below the King’s Gate, shrouding large sections of the city walls. The fiery heart banners, tattered from countless arrow strikes, still stubbornly clung to their poles—resilient, like the defenders holding the walls.

Below, corpses littered the blood-soaked ground, and the stench of blood mingled with the acrid odor of scorched wood and flesh, forming a grotesque, stifling miasma.

Stannis Baratheon stood atop the highest tower, fully armored, surveying the battlefield from his vantage point. Surrounded by his trusted soldiers, he refrained from entering the fray himself. Instead, he directed reserve forces to reinforce key positions as needed.

Wave after wave, the Stormlands forces charged the walls under the banner of the crowned stag. Each assault broke against the city's defenses like waves against unyielding cliffs. The only attacker to breach the walls, a lone hero hoping for a promised earldom, was swiftly cut down by the replacement troops Stannis had stationed nearby.

The battle raged from noon until the sun began to dip below the horizon. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Stormlands and Reach soldiers lay dead beneath the walls of King’s Landing. When the last batch of hastily constructed siege ladders failed to breach the defenses, Renly's commanders reluctantly ordered a retreat.

For the exhausted attackers, the sound of the retreat horn was like an oasis to a dying man in the desert. Without hesitation, they turned and fled back toward their camp.

The defenders, though fatigued, had suffered far fewer casualties. Keen observers noted the staggering disparity in losses—far greater than three to one. If the trend continued, even if Renly’s forces fought to the last man, they would fail to halve the defenders’ numbers. Moreover, the city could always conscript its citizens to bolster the garrison if needed.

But before the victorious defenders could breathe a sigh of relief, a new order spread through the ranks: all able-bodied men were to gather at the gate to prepare for a sortie.

...

Everything was proceeding according to plan.

From his high vantage point, Stannis squinted disdainfully at the retreating enemy forces, already calculating his next move. He planned to open the gates just as the retreating infantry reached the midpoint between the walls and Renly’s camp. Barristan Selmy would lead the cavalry in a devastating charge, scattering the fleeing soldiers like herded sheep. The panicked remnants would trample their own reinforcements, throwing Renly’s camp into disarray. Once the enemy’s lines were broken, Stannis would lead the remaining infantry in a follow-up attack to crush the Stormlands forces.

If the plan succeeded, it might not capture Renly himself, but it would decimate his army, halving its strength and shattering its morale. From there, all Stannis had to do was hold King’s Landing and wait for reinforcements from the North and the Crownlands. The Iron Throne would be his, unshakable.

Stannis was mentally reviewing the timing of the operation when a panicked voice shattered his thoughts. A soldier, disheveled and pale, stumbled up the tower steps, gasping for breath. “Your Grace! Disaster! The Old Gate’s garrison… the auxiliary troops from the Crownlands… they’ve betrayed us! They’ve opened the northern gate and let the enemy into the city!”

“What?!” Stannis snapped his head around so violently that his neck cracked audibly. “Where is the city’s reserve force? Send them north to retake the gate immediately!”

“They’ve already been dispatched, but, Your Grace… if the Old Gate’s defenders have turned traitor, what’s to stop the Gold Cloaks at the Dragon Gate, the Gate of the Gods… even the Red Keep itself from doing the same? I beg you—retreat to the Red Keep and fortify our position there before it’s too late!”

The soldier’s words jolted Stannis into stark clarity. Eddard Stark had gathered the families of the Crownlands lords in the Red Keep, not just to protect them but to hold them as hostages, ensuring their loyalty to the city’s defense. If the traitorous garrison and the invading forces made a direct assault on the Red Keep, the consequences would be catastrophic.

“Leave one hundred men here to hold the gates,” Stannis commanded. “Send word to the other gates to bring their troops back to the Red Keep at once. Barristan! Take the cavalry and come with me. We’ll deal with the traitors and the invaders ourselves!”

...

At the gates of the Red Keep, Aegor faced a tense standoff. A dozen Gold Cloaks stood before him, their long spears pointed in his direction. Confusion and suspicion churned in his mind. Were these men loyal to the king, or were they among the traitors? Should he retreat back inside the Red Keep or force his way through to escape into the city?

Realizing that either choice could jeopardize the neutral stance he had worked so hard to maintain, Aegor decided to take a gamble. “It’s me! Don’t attack!” he called out, his voice steady as he urged his horse closer.

The soldiers looked unfamiliar, and Aegor’s heart sank as he noticed their wary, unrecognizing gazes. Before he could think of a way to bluff his way past them, one of the men spoke up. “Aegor West? What are you doing here?”

Aegor’s eyes darted to the speaker, and recognition clicked. It was the captain of the Old Gate garrison, a member of House Buckwell—a family heavily invested in the Night’s Watch industry. This man had even recommended Buckwell’s involvement to Horn Hill’s Earl, becoming a key figure in Aegor’s network of allies in King’s Landing. But what was he doing here at the Red Keep instead of defending the northern gate?

Aegor couldn’t voice his suspicions without raising questions about his own presence in the Red Keep. Adopting a calm demeanor, he offered a casual greeting. “Ser Buckwell, good to see you. I’m here to meet with the Master of Coin to report the Night’s Watch’s earnings over the past two months. When I saw the gates unguarded, I assumed it was safe to enter. What’s happening here?”

The captain hesitated, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he scrutinized Aegor. After a few tense seconds, he relented. “This has nothing to do with you, Lord Aegor. Go home, lock your doors, and wait for this to blow over. Once things settle down, you can reopen and make your money.”

Understanding the implied warning, Aegor nodded. “I see. Thank you, Ser Buckwell. I’ll take my leave.”

Turning to Arya, he added in a low voice, “Let’s go. Back home.”

...

Arya, visibly shaken after seeing the bodies of Stark guards lying in the streets, asked in a trembling voice, “Master… what’s happening? Sansa’s still inside. Are we just going to leave her?”

Aegor suppressed his frustration, his mind racing. The situation was clear enough: the garrison loyal to the Crownlands lords—many of whom were heavily tied to the Night’s Watch industry—had betrayed Stannis and opened the city to Renly’s forces. If not for his connections to Buckwell, Aegor might have been killed on the spot, black cloak or not. Rebellions had no patience for neutrality, especially not from someone as influential as Aegor.

“Quiet!” he snapped, glaring at Arya. “You and Sansa are Starks. Even if they’re betraying Stannis, they won’t harm you. But if they recognize you with me, I’ll be the one to suffer for it!” His anger flared briefly before subsiding into resignation. “Not another word. Let’s go.”

As they rode back toward the Night’s Watch residence, Aegor spotted Stannis himself, leading a charge of cavalry toward the Red Keep. The sight of the grim-faced king and his bloodthirsty knights made him reconsider handing Arya over to their protection. Shaking his head, he muttered bitterly, “Why does it feel like no matter what happens in King’s Landing, I always end up dragged into the chaos?”

...