Disclaimer: Just in case nobody realized I don't own nor do I claim ownership of Game of Thrones, all characters and worlds belong to their real world respective owners. I'm just having some fun, that's all.
The Young Lion
Act 2 Ch 32: Battle of the Blackwater
The Stormlander soldiers charged from across the river, making their way over the ship wreckage that acted like a makeshift bridge connecting the two banks of the Blackwater Rush near the Mud Gate.
Stannis hung back with one of his lords as his army surged forward.
"Here they come," Joffrey thought.
Personally, he had hoped that the sight of the wildfire and the death of a third of their army would've been enough to discourage them, but their fear or loyalty to Stannis appeared to be stronger than he expected.
The army finally made their way over the makeshift bridge and filed out, charging toward the walls like a roaring wave.
"Looks like they're more committed than I thought," the king said.
Tyrion turned and looked up at his nephew. "What are your orders, Your Grace?"
"Rain fire," he ordered, his tone cool.
"Archers to your marks!"
The Royal Guards atop the wall stepped forward, readying their hwachas and longbows.
"Hold," Joffrey commanded.
His men obeyed, standing at the ready. Hundreds of Stannis's soldiers came charging over the wreckage bridge, each man howling with collective violence. As they came out the other side onto the shore, they spread out, charging at the city's stone walls.
"Hold," he repeated.
Then the soldiers stepped onto the sandy beach—and suddenly hundreds of steel bear traps clamped down on their legs.
Shock and agony filled the men's faces as their limbs were pierced by steel spikes. As the wave of Stormlanders was struck with chaos from the sudden turn of events, the king gave the order.
"Now!"
The officers carried the command, shouting, "Loose!"
As one, all of the Hwachas and archers released their arrows; a swarm of projectiles descended upon the enemy forces.
Thousands of arrows and bolts rained down on the unsuspecting soldiers. Hundreds of men fell to the ground dead, the carbon-tipped projectiles cutting through their inferior armor like silk. As the soldiers tried to take cover and raise their wooden shields, another volley was already raining down on them.
In the blink of an eye, over a thousand of Stannis's soldiers lay dead.
Some of the more experienced veterans knew that their only hope was to get close to the city's wall. They led the men forward, using their shields in an attempt to protect themselves.
The men atop the walls continued to reload the Hwachas with much more efficiency than when they'd battled the northern army, and while they did, the men wielding longbows continued to loose flaming arrows in perfect sync.
Stannis's men continued to push forward even as their comrades died around them, some carrying ladders and poles to climb the walls.
As they pushed forward, a large enough force was able to get close to the walls—but found a deep trench and a spiked wooden wall waiting for them.
While the men contemplated how to climb over the wooden spikes, Joffrey's men continued to fire down at them. Those soldiers lucky enough to have proper metal kite shields raised them in an attempt to block the bolts.
Some set up their own individual formations and began firing arrows back at the Royal Guards, hitting a few of them. Some of the Stormlanders climbed over the wooden spiked wall and began trying to set up ladders. An enemy captain shouted orders to his infantrymen.
"To the Mud Gate! Go now!"
The men did their best to comply, hundreds of them running alongside the wall toward the gate, pushing a battering ram along with them.
To their surprise, as they neared the gate they found no enemy soldiers outside the walls waiting to greet them.
At the gate itself, they found the wooden gates open. It made no sense. The attacking troops thought perhaps there had been a mutiny of these so-called "elite" defenders that had somehow managed to defeat Robb Stark and the Northern army.
Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, the men surged forward, crowding together, each trying to be the first to make it inside the walls.
As the men entered the tight gate, their glee soon turned to confusion. They found black-armored soldiers waiting for them inside the tunnel.
It was the Royal Guard, and at the head of the first line, the commanding officer, pointed his spear at the Stormlander bannermen.
"None of you are leaving here alive," he stated calmly.
As one, the King's Sabers interlocked their shields and stood in tight formation, each shield locked and covering the man to the left of them.
Inside the narrow stone vault of the tunnel, the atmosphere instantly turned suffocating. The air grew thick and heavy with the sudden, trapped stench of sour sweat, wet leather, and the iron tang of fresh blood.
The deafening roar of the battle outside was suddenly sucked into the echo chamber of the gatehouse, as the front-line soldiers' confusion rapidly hardened into a desperate, feral bloodlust.
They raised their battle axes and swords into the air and charged headfirst at the rigid wall of black steel.
"Hold!" the officer at the head of the wall shouted.
The enemy soldiers continued to charge forward, screaming with fury. The Sabers remained unfazed and focused, bracing themselves for impact.
"Steady," the officer repeated once the wave was a few feet from them.
The wave of Stormlanders slammed into the shield wall with all their might, each enemy soldier pushing against the shield formation with all their strength.
As they tried to reach over and swing their axes and swords at the black-armored men, the Royal Guards remained steadfast and pushed back, holding the wave of southerners at bay.
The Stormlanders lost their forward momentum with their initial charge. Now, pinned against the shield wall, and unable to advance, the Royal Guards made their move.
"Now!"
As one, the front line pushed the enemy soldiers back, creating space between them. They then opened their shields and skewered them with their spears. Then, as one, they stepped forward and relocked their shields.
"Push!"
They repeated the same move—pushing the enemies back, then piercing them with their spears.
Some of Stannis's men at the front began to panic, realizing too late that they'd been turned from predators into prey. As they tried to backtrack, those behind them kept trying to push forward.
In their confusion, the attacking troops became lambs for slaughter. The Royal Sabers continued to push forward and devastated the enemy forces.
Those in the front tried to keep the black-armored demons from making space, clinging to their shields and trying to wrest them free.
But the second line of the Royal Guard, using longer spears, stabbed through and over the shoulders of the front line. Soon, all those that were trying so desperately to wrestle the shields away from the front line had their faces and torsos pierced.
The front line once again moved as one, pushing the enemies further out of the tunnel.
While the phalanx moved forward against the attackers, the third line—the plungers—stabbed their spears into any still-breathing enemies lying on the ground.
When Joffrey had told the men and his uncle his plan to defeat Stannis's superior numbers, they thought he was mad. It wasn't until he explained that forcing Stannis's army into a chokepoint would make their superior numbers completely meaningless that they saw his logic.
Now, here on the battlefield, they looked at Joffrey like he was some kind of military genius. Though none of them knew that he was actually just a cheater.
He was utilizing the same strategy that King Leonidas had used with his three hundred Spartans in their battle with the Persian Empire at the Battle of Thermopylae.
As the Royal Guard continued to push the enemy out of the gate, the attacking troops outside the tunnel looked on with confusion and dismay.
Bodies were being shoved out of the tunnel entrance like refuse, blood pooling on the sand and stone.
The enemy captain realized that no matter how many of his men flooded into the opened gate, their forces had no chance of getting inside. All the while, the screams from within were growing ever more desperate and agonized.
Deciding to take matters into his own hands, the enemy captain turned and addressed the two remaining squads with him.
"You men, follow me, we're going to the King's Gate!" he shouted.
He then ran forward, leading a few hundred men with him. They brought with them a wheeled battering ram, the heavy wooden beam mounted on its cart. Its groaning wheels struggled as they pushed it across the slick, uneven ground.
As the attackers ran alongside the wall, Joffrey's troops continued to fire their longbows and Hwachas from above. Arrows whistled through the air, some finding their marks in exposed necks and legs.
As men stumbled and fell, the rest pressed on, driven by desperation and the captain's determination.
Joffrey watched, a large number of the enemy's forces split off and headed for the less defended gate. Everything was proceeding exactly as he had planned.
The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but something close to satisfaction. He turned and looked at one of his Kingsguard, Ser Preston Greenfield.
"Go to the other gate and protect Ser Jacelyn," he ordered.
"Yes, Your Grace," the knight responded.
Ser Preston ran along the stone wall, making his way toward the King's Gate with long, fast strides.
Joffrey turned and gazed down upon the bloody battlefield.
Thousands of Stannis's men already lay dead, their bodies scattered across the beach like broken dolls. The sand had turned dark with blood, and the air was thick with the stench of death.
Yet no matter how many his troops killed, more seemed to pop up like cockroaches, scrambling over the bridge of wrecked ships and debris in seemingly endless waves.
Joffrey realized that eventually the casualties would start to pile up for Stannis. The chokepoints that he had created were completely neutralizing their numbers. As he looked upon the endless scores of dead in front of his city's walls, his heart sank.
Each of these men had families of their own, and he was making countless orphans and widows on this day.
Fathers who would never return home, sons who would never see another nameday. Brothers, husbands, friends—all of them bleeding out on foreign soil for a king's ambition.
The slaughter was by his design. Every death was a result of his strategy. This wasn't a battle anymore—it was a massacre, and the weight of that knowledge rested entirely on his shoulders.
Slowly, he closed his heart to it. It was far too late to turn back, and this was the ugly truth of war. The part that didn't make it into the songs.
He didn't take any pleasure from the pointless slaughter, but he had learned long ago some tragedies couldn't be avoided.
"Close your heart to it."
He told himself, trying to steady his nerves, blocking out the screams of agony and the smell of death that saturated the air.
Tyrion, Jaime, and Barristan all looked at the young king with sympathetic expressions. It was easy to forget sometimes that Joffrey was still just a seventeen-year-old boy.
He should have been learning to rule in peacetime, not ordering the deaths of thousands. Yet, here he stood, shoulders squared, watching men die by his command. The weight of the crown pressing down on his golden head felt like a mountain.
At the King's Gate, the enemy forces had already begun ramming their battering ram against the wooden door.
The heavy beam slammed into the reinforced wood with a thunderous boom that echoed across the battlefield.
Again and again, they struck, each impact shaking the gate on its hinges.
Joffrey's men continued to fire down on them from above, many hitting their mark. Arrows punched through shoulders, necks, and skulls.
Bodies fell around the battering ram, but were quickly replaced by fresh soldiers eager to break through.
Some of the enemy forces created three-man units—two men utilizing their wooden shields to protect themselves while the third would fire arrows at the top of the walls.
It was crude but effective. One unit held their shields high and angled, creating a protective roof as their archer nocked and released arrows in rapid succession.
Another volley came from the walls, and the shields took the impact with dull thuds, arrows splintering against the wood. The archer in that unit fell to the ground with an arrow through his eye, but another soldier immediately stepped into his place, drawing his own bow.
A third unit moved in a tight triangle formation, shields overlapping, their archer firing from the center. For a moment they held, trading arrows with the soldiers above, but then a Hwacha volley punched through both shields at once, killing all three of the men.
Several Royal Guards took arrows from below. The bolts struck them in the face and throat, sending several toppling backwards off the battlements with strangled cries.
As the men slammed the ram repeatedly against the strong door, other soldiers carried in a canopy to shield them from the Royal Guards' arrows. The heavy fabric stretched over a wooden frame, creating a protective roof above those operating the ram.
At that moment, Jacelyn Bywater and Ser Greenfield made their way to the top of the gate.
The one-handed commander moved with surprising speed despite his age. Jacelyn immediately took in the tactical situation below. He shouted to his men.
"Burn them alive!" he ordered, his voice cutting through the chaos.
The four guards atop the gate dumped boiling oil down the front of the gate and onto the two front men in the canopy. The thick, viscous liquid splashed across their heads and shoulders, soaking into their clothes and running down their armor in rivulets.
A soldier tossed a burning torch from atop the gate. The oil burst into flame, setting the two men on fire.
The two men screamed in agony as they burned, their voices rising to inhuman shrieks as the flames consumed them.
Their skin blackened and blistered, peeling away in strips. The smell of burning flesh filled the air as they stumbled backward, clawing at their faces while their armor glowed red-hot. The flames spread quickly, threatening to light the entire wooden frame on fire.
Both men fell to the ground dead, their bodies still twitching as the fire ate away at their flesh, consuming their corpses like starved beasts.
The other four did not hesitate but continued to slam the ram against the now-burning door.
Smoke billowed up around them in thick, choking clouds, while sweat poured down their faces, mixing with soot and ash.
Their eyes watered from the smoke, but they pressed on with grim determination, their hands blistering on the wooden beam as they drove it forward again and again. The door was weakening—they could feel it in the give of the wood, and the way it was starting to splinter.
Royal Guards began to fling their spears into the canopy, piercing the tough canvas and stabbing one of the four remaining men operating the ram.
He gasped, looking down at the spear shaft protruding from his chest, then collapsed across the ram itself, his weight adding to the burden of the remaining three.
Finally, the door gave way and burst open with a splintering crash. The captain and his men then charged forward, pushing the cart-mounted battering ram through the flames.
Fire flicked at their armor and clothes, but momentum and grit carried them through the blaze. Stormlander soldiers followed behind, funneling in through the now burning canopy and past the demolished gate. Their battle cries echoed and were amplified by the tunnel.
Once inside, the men pushed the ram aside. They drew their swords and readied their axes and maces. Steel rang against steel as weapons were unsheathed. They were inside the city now, which meant that victory was within reach.
The sight that greeted them as they exited the tunnel halted their advance and left them stunned.
A large semi-circle of black-armored soldiers awaited them, shields locked, spears ready. It was a perfect defensive position, and the Stormlanders had walked right into it.
The enemy troops crowded into the courtyard, those in the rear pushing against those in front of them. As the last few crossed the threshold of the splintered gate, Jacelyn shouted out.
"Now!"
Two Royal Guards atop the gate cut a pair of ropes, which dropped a second gate behind the men with a heavy crash. The iron portcullis slammed down, its spikes embedding in the stone floor.
The captain and his small force turned around with shock and horror, seeing that they were now trapped inside. They were caught between the shield wall and the gate—Joffrey had called it the "kill box" when he had briefed his troops earlier and there was no escape.
The captain slowly looked up at the top of the wall and stared into Jacelyn's eyes. The one-handed commander stood there, silhouetted against the smoke-filled sky.
A grin slowly spread across Jacelyn's face as he gave out his next order. "Archers!"
Then the Royal Guards standing behind the circle of shields readied their bows, nocking arrows in perfect unison.
The enemy soldiers clumped together, trying to find some kind of safety in their numbers. Men pressed shoulder to shoulder, shields raised, knowing what was coming but powerless to stop it.
"Loose!"
The men then fired their bows as one when the front line of the shield wall ducked down. Many of the enemy troops fell from the first volley, the carbon steel bolts ripping right through their ring mail and aketon armor like parchment.
Blood sprayed across the stone floor as men collapsed, clutching at the arrows protruding from their chests and bellies.
The archers ducked and nocked their arrows, preparing their bows for another volley as the shield wall stood up as one— a perfectly coordinated movement born from endless hours of drilling.
"Archers! Loose!" Jacelyn continued to order. The coordinated movement of those holding the shield wall and those firing the bows looked like a grim ballet of death.
Another volley and more dead men.
Some of the enemy troops tried to push their way out through the shield wall, but all that earned them was a short arming sword through their guts or face. The Royal Guards held their position with iron discipline, stabbing any man who came within reach.
The defenders continued to fire their bows at their vice commander's command.
Volley after volley rained down on the trapped soldiers. Bodies began to pile up, making the footing treacherous with blood and corpses.
Finally, the enemy captain refused to die like a dog.
With his few remaining men, he pushed through the shield wall, roaring with fury and desperation. Many were stabbed by arming swords as they went through, blades finding gaps in armor and flesh.
The captain was shot with two arrows in the back as he made his way up the stone steps of the wall, but he kept moving, swearing that he would at least take the guard's commander with him.
He managed to cut down a few of the black-armored soldiers defending the steps, his swordwork was brutal and efficient despite his wounds.
He received more injuries as he fought his way through—a slash across his thigh, a dagger in his side. Blood poured from multiple wounds, but rage and determination kept him going.
As he climbed to the top of the wall, he was faced with the sight of several armed men, one of which was wearing white armor and standing beside the obvious commander.
The white knight—Ser Preston Greenfield—drew his sword and charged at the bloody and wounded soldier.
The pair slashed and hacked at one another, their fight short but intense.
Steel rang against steel in a flurry of blows. The captain fought with the desperation of a dying man, while Ser Preston fought with the skill of a Kingsguard.
The enemy captain came in high with a vicious overhead strike, and Ser Preston parried, their blades met with a shower of sparks.
The captain twisted his wrist, trying to bind the Kingsguard's blade, but Preston was faster. The knight disengaged and slashed at the captain's exposed side. The captain twisted away, taking the blow on his already-wounded ribs.
He grunted in pain but pressed forward, driving his sword at Preston's face in a desperate thrust. Preston sidestepped, and the captain's blade whistled past his ear.
They exchanged another series of rapid blows, each man testing the other's defenses, looking for an opening.
Until the enemy captain spotted a hole in the Kingsguard's defense and drove his sword into Ser Greenfield's armpit, where the armor plates met. The blade slid in deep, finding an artery.
Ser Preston Greenfield slowly slumped to his knees as he bled out, his white capelet turning a sickening, deep crimson. The castle-forged steel had found the one fatal flaw in his plate armor.
His breath came in ragged, wet gasps. He looked up at his killer with absolute surprise in his eyes—a look of disbelief that a legendary White Cloak could be undone by a nameless, dying man.
Slowly his fingers slipped from the hilt of his blade, and he fell over dead, his heavy armor hitting the stone walkway with a dull, hollow thud that seemed to echo across the entire battlements.
For a fraction of a second, a stunned silence rippled through the immediate line. The nearest Royal Guards froze, their weapons lowering an inch as their breath caught in their throats.
Sensing that sudden, paralyzing hesitation, the bleeding enemy captain let out a feral roar, drew his side dagger, and turned to finish off the enemy commander. Instead, he was met with a knife in his throat. The blade punched through his windpipe with surgical precision.
As he stared down in shock at the hand holding the large dagger that was piercing his Adam's apple, he looked up and saw that the blade belonged to the one-handed commander he had come to kill.
Jacelyn Bywater stood before him, his iron hand pressed against the captain's chest for leverage, his good hand holding the dagger steady.
When his legs began to lose their strength, he began to fall forward, but was caught in the embrace of his killer. Jacelyn slowly held him and lowered him to the ground with surprising gentleness, cradling the dying man.
As the old veteran lay dying in his enemy's arms, he gazed up into his killer's eyes. He expected to see disdain, hatred, or even pity, but instead he saw only respect.
The look of one warrior acknowledging another.
After Jacelyn gave him a respectful nod of the head, the old captain finally let go and went to meet the gods.
Jacelyn slowly released the man and laid his corpse gently on the stone pavement, arranging him with dignity.
"Everyone remember that man's bravery," he ordered, his voice carrying across the wall.
The Royal Guards looked down at the fallen captain with something approaching respect. He had been their enemy, but he had died a warrior's death.
After making sure that all of the enemy troops were dead, the men began treating their wounded, binding injuries and carrying those who were incapacitated to the rear.
Those that were still able followed their vice commander as they continued to fire on the opposing army, raining death down on Stannis's forces below.
Back at the Mud Gate, the enemy soldiers were still trying to climb the walls with their ladders and poles.
Dozens of wooden ladders leaned against the stone, each one crowded with desperate men clawing their way upward.
The ladders swayed and creaked under the weight, some threatening to snap from the sheer number of bodies on top of them.
Any man who had successfully made it to the top was sent back down without a head.
The Royal Guards stationed along the battlements worked with brutal efficiency—a quick slash of a sword, and another corpse tumbled backward into the mass of soldiers below.
Some fell silently, dead before they ever hit the ground. Others screamed all the way down, their bloodied bodies crashing into their comrades and knocking others off the ladders like dominoes.
Once enough ladders had been set up past the spike barricade below, Stannis's men rushed in force, trying to breach the wall with sheer numbers.
They came in waves,each man pushing the one ahead of him, creating a living chain of bodies ascending the walls.
Seeing the rows of men climbing like an army of ants, Joffrey played the next card in his city's defence.
Hundreds, if not thousands of men were streaming up the ladders, all focused on reaching the top, convinced that if they could just get over the wall, victory would be theirs.
Nodding to Tyrion, he simply said, "Now, uncle."
The dwarf turned to his squire Podrick. The young squire stood ready with a lit torch in his hand.
Tyrion said, "Podrick, my good lad, if you would be so kind?"
Podrick stepped forward and tossed the torch into the trench below.
The flame ignited the oil inside the trench, causing a wall of fire to erupt from below the climbing enemies. The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic.
A roar of flame shot upward, joining the attackers in its climb up the face of the stone wall. The heat was so intense that defenders atop the wall had to step back.
The fire spread along the entire length of the trench in seconds, fed by the oil that had been placed hours earlier and left to soak into the wood and earth.
The attacking soldiers' clothes quickly caught fire beneath their boiled leather armor. Many of them fell into the inferno below, their agonizing screams adding to the cacophony of the ongoing battle.
The terrified soldiers still clinging to the ladders could see the rising flames licking at their legs. The fire took most of them as well, climbing faster than they could and igniting clothing and bodies with horrific speed.
Some tried to beat out the flames with their hands, only to set their sleeves on fire as well. Others simply let go, choosing the fall over the burning. They dropped into the trench, into the heart of the inferno, where their screams were mercifully short.
The wooden ladders soon fell apart, halting any attempt to scale the walls. Structures that had held dozens of men moments before collapsed into burning fragments, sending everyone on them plummeting into the flames below
The lucky few that had somehow managed to reach the top of the wall were quickly dispatched with a spear thrust to the head or face.
The Royal Guards showed no mercy to the survivors. The men who had climbed through hell itself to reach the battlements died within seconds of arriving. Their bodies were unceremoniously kicked or thrown back over the wall to join their burning comrades below.
While chaos was erupting all along the city's walls, inside the tunnel of the Mud Gate, the Royal Guards were clearing the way.
The phalanx slowly pushed the Stormlanders out of the tunnel. They attacked, defended, and moved as one impenetrable unit. The men of Stannis's army, working individually without cohesion or any coordinated movement, broke like brittle knives against a mountain face.
For the King's Sabres, every movement was synchronized, every step coordinated.
When one man thrust his spear, twenty others did the same. When the front line pushed forward, the second and third lines moved with them, maintaining the formation's integrity.
Working as one, they had already slaughtered hundreds of the attackers as they slowly ground forward towards the gate's entrance.
The tunnel floor was slick with blood and gore while the walls were splattered with results of their gruesome efficiency. Bodies lay piled three and four deep in some places, creating obstacles that the Phalanx simply stepped over, never breaking formation.
The Stormlanders had tried everything—charging in groups, attacking from the sides, even attempting to climb over their own dead in a futile attempt to engage the guards from above. Nothing worked.
It was as if the phalanx was a machine of death, and it ground forward with relentless, mechanical precision.
As they stood at the entrance, the front line braced themselves, waiting in absolute silence as they remained in formation.
A scarred Royal Guard sergeant spat into the mud, his voice cutting through the din of clashing steel.
"Hold the line! Let these southern cunts break themselves against the steel!"
He didn't have to wait long. The desperate, uncoordinated waves of the breaking Stormland vanguard came screaming forward
The front line held their shields steady, spears pointed outward through the gaps. Behind them, the second and third lines stood at the ready, their eyes scanning for any threat. Fear had begun to grip the enemy forces as they looked around at the scores of their dead comrades all around them.
The beach was carpeted with corpses. Bodies floated in the Blackwater, some still burning from the wildfire. The trench blazed with unnatural fury. And now, standing in the gate entrance like demons from the seven hells, the black-armored Royal Guards waited for more victims.
The Stormlanders could now see that climbing the walls was impossible. The only way forward was through the wall of black demons in front of them.
The futility of the attack settled over them like the shroud of the Stranger.
There was no path forward. No clever flanking maneuver, or secret entrance. Just an unbreakable wall of shields and spears that meant certain death for anyone who approached it.
They were rapidly losing heart as the inevitability of their defeat became clear. They were completely spent, bone-weary from combat and hollowed out by the sudden crash of the adrenaline that had fueled their initial battle rage
They had been exhausted and sleep-deprived before the battle had even begun. None of them had enjoyed a peaceful night's sleep for the past week. Now after hours of fighting, their bodies were starting to give out.
Men swayed on their feet. Some sat down on the sand, too tired to care if an arrow found them. Others simply stared at the gate with hollow eyes, knowing they were being asked to march into death itself.
The Royal Guard felt no such weariness.
"Formation B!" their commander shouted out.
They moved out of the tunnel in full force and then switched from their phalanx formation into the Tortoise. The transformation was seamless, practiced a thousand times in the training yards.
First the front line of men kept their shields out and interlocked, creating an impenetrable wall. While the second line brought their shields up and covered the front line's heads, protecting them from arrows and projectiles from above. Then the third line did the same, their shields covering their comrades in the second line.
The effect of all the raised, interlocking shields was an overlapping roof of steel, protected on all sides like the formation's namesake.
When the formation came together, it presented an impenetrable shell with spears extended in all directions out through the small gaps between the shields in all directions.
It was like a fortress that could move, spears jutted out from every angle—front, sides, even the corners. Any man who approached from any direction would be met with a forest of spear points.
The formation stepped forward in unison and as they did, Stannis's men stepped back. The psychological effect of the formation was immediately apparent.
Seeing their comrades were losing the will to fight, a small group of loyal knights charged forward in a rough V formation attempting to break through.
These were the best that the Stormlands had to offer—knights who had fought in Robert's Rebellion, who had held Storm's End during the long siege, and who had proven their courage a hundred times over.
They wore proper plate armor, carried castle-forged swords, and rode massive destriers bred specifically for the violence of war. If anyone could break the Tortoise, it would be them.
But the terrain was a nightmare of their own making. As the heavy warhorses charged off the slippery, moss-covered hull planks of the makeshift bridge, their iron shoes screamed and slithered, desperately fighting for purchase on the wet, rotting timber.
Dropping down onto the beach, the few remaining bear traps that were not sprung by the infantry, took out a number of the horses. The treacherous footing also served to choke the momentum of the charge.
The great beasts churned up heavy sprays of crimson mud and wet, shifting sand, their legs sinking deep into the bloody mire.
It was an incredible feat of sheer horsemanship and fanatical willpower that the knights even managed to keep their mounts upright, forcing the struggling destriers forward through the slough toward the waiting wall of black steel.
As they lunged through the mud, the Tortoise opened momentarily to allow the guards to launch their spears at the attacking cavalry.
The effect was devastating to the charging knights. Spears flew in a coordinated volley, twenty or more at once, arcing over the shields and coming down like a rain of steel.
Knights were punched from their saddles, spears driving through gaps in their steel plates and ring mail. Horses screamed and fell, their riders crushed beneath them.
And just as quickly, the Tortoise closed.
The Cavalry wavered, gaps appearing in their charge.
Those that made it through clashed against the interlocked wall and were nearly knocked off their feet. The impact was tremendous—warhorses at full gallop crashing into the shield wall with bone-jarring force.
But the Tortoise held. The shields absorbed the impact, the men behind them bracing with their entire bodies.
Some knights managed to stay mounted, hacking at the shields with their swords. Others were thrown from their horses by the collision, landing hard on the sand.
Those that fell to the ground never got the chance to get up again, as they were mercilessly impaled.
The Royal Guards showed no mercy and gave no quarter. A knight in full plate, worth a fortune in ransom, was simply another corpse to be stepped over for their king.
If the Stormlanders had felt the chill of fear before, the soup in their bellies turned to water now. More than a few men soiled their breeches where they stood, their hands shaking so violently they could scarcely grip their swords.
They watched in horror as the elite of their army was cut down like swine right before their eyes. These were the men who were supposed to save them, the knights who were supposed to break through and open the way.
But they had been slaughtered in seconds, their bodies now adding to the piles of dead that littered the beach.
Some of the men threw down their weapons, turned and dove into the Blackwater. It seemed they would rather take their chances in the burning water than face the black armored demons.
Men splashed into the river, swimming desperately for the far shore, not caring that patches of wildfire still burned on the water's surface.
Some made it, but most didn't.
Though even drowning seemed preferable to facing that wall of shields again.
o-O-o
On the other side of Blackwater Rush, Stannis watched on with shock.
The unstoppable host he had commanded just moments before vanished before his eyes, systematically slaughtered like cattle.
Twenty thousand men had crossed that makeshift bridge. Now, looking at the beach, he could see thousands of bodies. The water was choked with corpses. The sand was red with blood. And his men—those still alive—were breaking.
He didn't know how to make heads of the sudden turn of events as he watched these strange black-armored soldiers fight in ways that he had never seen before.
Stannis had fought in Robert's Rebellion. He had held Storm's End against the Tyrells. He had crushed the Greyjoy Rebellion at sea. He knew war and tactics better than any of the pretender kings.
But this... this was something else entirely.
These formations, these coordinated movements, this brutal efficiency—it was like watching a completely different kind of warfare, one he had no answer for.
And despite his forces still outnumbering the enemy, he could see with his own eyes that his men were literally ready to jump into the sea and swim back to Storm's End to avoid the battle.
Numbers meant nothing when the men had lost their will to fight. He could see it in their posture, in the way they hesitated, and how looked at each other with fear in their eyes.
They had come here expecting an easy victory, expecting to storm a city defended by a boy king and his corrupt court. Instead, they had found hell itself waiting for them.
"Was she wrong?" he asked himself. "Am I really going to lose here?"
Doubt had begun to seep into his heart as he watched his men's slaughter.
This was supposed to be an easy victory, and when the sun rose on the morrow, he had anticipated sitting on the Iron Throne. This was what Lady Melisandre had promised him, her Lord of Light had shown it to her in her visions.
His victory was preordained by the gods themselves. Yet, in the blink of an eye, all of that seemed to change.
Stannis then thought back on the two futures his lady Melisandre had given him before he marched toward the capital.
In the first, he was sitting atop a bloody throne with the head of a lion and a wolf on spikes beside him, a golden lion pelt at his feet. The throne room had been painted red with blood, and he sat there crowned and victorious, the rightful king at last.
The second was a golden lion standing atop a pile of his bannermen with an emerald stag kneeling at his feet. In that vision, he had been the one defeated.
He had been certain that the first future was the one that would come to pass, but now he didn't know.
He paused and thought back on the words of his Red Priestess.
"You are Azor Ahai reborn."
She had whispered it into his ear, her red eyes gleaming in the firelight.
"You are the prince that was promised. The red comet is your herald. The long night comes and death comes with it. Only you can stop it, my prince. Only you can unite the realms of men and lead the way to victory."
Remembering her words, Stannis steadied his heart. He remembered that the emerald stag was supposed to be his brother Renly, and his brother was long dead.
Renly had died in his tent at Storm's End, killed by his and Melsiandre's shadow child. The emerald stag couldn't kneel since it had already fallen.
There was only one future possible now.
Which to Stannis meant that his victory was guaranteed. There seemed to be only one path left for that to happen now.
He dismounted his war horse and removed the dark cloak from his neck. The heavy fabric fell to the ground, forgotten. He unsheathed his magic bastard sword, Lightbringer.
The large blade had a square-cut ruby in the hilt the size of a plum. Its blade glowed orange, yellow, and red, with the air shimmering around it. The sword seemed to pulse with inner fire, casting dancing shadows across Stannis's grim face.
As Stannis stepped forward, he turned his head and addressed the old commander who had sat beside him throughout the battle, Lord Bryce Caron.
"If I should fall, get word to Dragonstone and tell my lady, my wife, and my daughter of my fate."
"Yes, Your Grace," he said with a nod.
Stannis returned the informal salute and turned making his way towards the makeshift bridge.
As he walked away, the old commander called out to him.
"Your Grace."
Stannis turned to look at his old trusted comrade.
"It has been my greatest honor fighting by your side."
The king thought back and remembered that this commander had been with him since the rebellion, and unlike his other bannermen, his loyalty had never wavered, even when tested by his younger brother's claim.
When Renly had declared himself king, and the rest of the Stormlands had flocked to the younger brother's banners, Lord Bryce Caron had stayed true to his oaths.
A small smile broke out across Stannis's face.
"The honor was mine, Ser."
He then turned and continued to walk out toward the battlefield. As he slowly made his way up the slick wood, his boots gripping against the blood-soaked planks, he eventually stopped and stood at the very center of the bridge.
Taking a deep breath, Stannis filled his lungs with air before shouting out his next words.
"JOFFREY LANNISTER!"
His voice bellowed across the battlefield, drawing the attention of all those on both sides. Men stopped fighting. Archers paused mid-draw. Even the dying seemed to quiet, as if the very gods themselves wanted to hear what came next.
"YOU SIT BACK AND HIDE BEHIND YOUR HIGH WALLS LETTING YOUR MEN FIGHT AND DIE IN YOUR STEAD!"
The words carried across the water, across the beach, up to the walls themselves. Every man heard them and understood their meaning.
"COME OUT HERE AND FACE ME YOURSELF, YOU COCKLESS BASTARD!"
A collective intake of breath from both armies. On the walls, the Royal Guards exchanged glances. On the beach, Stormlanders looked up at their king with renewed hope.
"LET THE GODS DECIDE WHICH ONE OF US BELONGS ON THE IRON THRONE AND WHICH OF US IN THE GROUND!"
Men began to mutter in both armies. On the beach, Stannis's soldiers straightened, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten. Here was their king, standing alone on a bridge, challenging the enemy to single combat.
On the walls, the muttering was different.
The Royal Guards looked at each other, then up at their king. Would he accept or would he refuse?
Back on top of the wall, Joffrey's expression became still, but his eyes narrowed, becoming filled with cold fury.
"You sly old bastard," he thought to himself.
His hands balled into fists, his nails digging into his palms. Sweat dripped from his clenched fists, falling to the stone at his feet, but he didn't notice. He could not look away from Stannis. There he stood on the improvised bridge with his supposed magical sword glowing in his hand.
Around him, Joffrey could feel the weight of every eye. Tyrion was watching him. Barristan was watching him. Every Royal Guard on the wall was watching him. And below, his entire army was watching him.
He could see it in their faces—the question forming, the doubt creeping in. Their king, who had led them so brilliantly, who had orchestrated this entire defense and turned certain defeat into glorious victory; was he brave enough to face Stannis Baratheon in single combat?
If he refused, what would they think? Was all his tactical genius nothing more than the cleverness of a coward? That he was willing to spend their lives but not risk his own?
He had spent months building their loyalty. Training them. Leading them. Showing them that he was different from the monster they had all expected. That he was a king worth following and dying for.
And now, in one moment, with a single challenge, Stannis threatened to tear all of that down.
If he refused, he would win the battle but lose the war. His men would obey him, but they would never look at him the same way again.
Every order he gave would be questioned, every decision doubted.
The cult of loyalty he had built, and the trust he had earned—all of it would crumble like sand.
But if he accepted...
Stannis Baratheon was a seasoned warrior who had fought in two wars, while to the outside world, Joffrey was just a seventeen-year-old boy who had fought in only one real battle.
But in reality, he wasn't. He was a decorated combat veteran with years of experience in modern warfare and close quarters combat. The question was, would it make a difference?
He was trapped.
Stannis had done to him exactly what he had done to Stannis's army—forced him into a position where every option led to defeat.
Accept the challenge and possibly die.
Or refuse the challenge and lose everything he had built.
His hands shook and his jaw clenched. His eyes burned with cold fury as he stared down at Stannis Baratheon, standing there on that bridge, waiting for his answer.
"You fucking bastard." He repeated.
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