The news of the fall of Duskendale, the execution of the Mountain, and the capture of Cersei and Tyrion flew across the fields and hills of The Crownlands like poisoned arrows, shooting straight into King's Landing and into the Throne Room deep within the Red Keep.
When the news arrived, Joffrey Baratheon, who had been fretful beneath the iron throne because the rebels had yet to be suppressed, suddenly stood up from that bone-chilling throne forged from countless sharp swords.
"What?!"
His shrill, adolescent voice was distorted by fury, echoing harshly beneath the high dome of the Throne Room:
"That Dwarf! That worthless monster! It would have been one thing if he had gone to his own stupid death, but he actually dragged the Queen Regent into danger? Useless! An absolute waste! A disgrace to House Lannister!"
He paced frantically across the high platform before the throne, his gold-trimmed crimson robes kicking up as he moved, his face flushed red and twisted with violence.
"I want his head! Once he is brought back, I will personally cut off that deformed head and mount it on a spike of the Red Keep for the crows to peck at! Let everyone in King's Landing see the fate of the waste who defied the King's command and brought disaster upon the Queen Regent!"
He roared, spit flying, like a provoked lion cub with nowhere to vent its rage.
His gaze swept over the empty council table below, and that silence stung his fragile nerves all the more.
Once upon a time, his mother Cersei and a host of ministers—some shrewd, some cunning—all sat here. Even though they argued incessantly, the kingdom seemed to function, and power still surrounded him.
But now? His mother was captured, Tyrion was a prisoner... and where were those ministers?
"Where is everyone?! Where have they all died off to!" Joffrey stopped abruptly, his bloodshot eyes glaring at the few people standing below with bowed heads.
"Where is my Master of Coin? Where is that smiling Littlefinger, Petyr Baelish? And Varys, that eunuch Master of Whispers—which rat hole has he crawled into? In the kingdom's hour of peril, have they all fallen into a deep sleep!"
Grand Maester Pycelle took a trembling step forward, his elderly body hunched like withered wood. His face, covered in age spots, still wore that drowsy and indifferent expression, his tone as flat as if he were recounting daily trivialities:
"Your Grace may have forgotten in your worry for the state. Lord Petyr left King's Landing several days ago on the pretext of an embassy to the Vale to contact Lady Lysa and discuss strategies to resist the rebels from the Stormlands."
"Lord Varys also claimed he needed to reorganize the intelligence network and wished to accompany Lord Petyr to look out for one another... Your Grace... agreed quite readily at the time."
Joffrey was momentarily stunned.
His furious roar caught in his throat, and a flash of bewilderment crossed his face.
He stood frozen, trying hard to remember... there did indeed seem to be such an occurrence.
A few days ago, Littlefinger had come for an audience, his mouth full of the Vale's importance and the possibility of persuading them to send troops.
The eunuch had chimed in from the side, saying the intelligence network needed to be linked with the Vale... He had been annoyed at the time because his favorite hand crossbow was broken, and being irritated by their chatter, he had waved them away and granted their request.
Now, under the thunderclap of Duskendale's fall and his mother's capture, the chaotic memories suddenly became clear, stringing together into a bone-chilling line.
An embassy? Contact? Looking out for one another?
They clearly saw that the tide was turning and had found grand excuses to flee in advance!
He had been played for a fool.
The two small men he had viewed as only capable of wagging their tongues and playing at intrigue had easily deceived him with airy lies.
They had long since glimpsed the threat and seen the precarious situation of King's Landing. Before the danger truly arrived, they had packed their belongings and flown far away.
"Fled..." Joffrey squeezed the words through his teeth, his voice trembling with extreme humiliation and rage. His face turned from red to green, then from green to white. "They... fled! Betrayal! Blatant betrayal!"
"A pack of cowards! Shameless wretches! To dare deceive the King and flee privately! To abandon the safety of the kingdom! To abandon their sovereign!"
He erupted into a shrill roar mixed with a sob, like an injured, trapped beast:
"I swear! I swear by the honor of Baratheon and Lannister! Once I stabilize the situation and put down the rebellion, I will hunt them down one by one! I will cut off their heads and mount them on the gates of King's Landing! Let the crows peck out their eyes! Let everyone in Westeros see the fate of those who betray me, Joffrey Baratheon!"
He screamed himself hoarse, the veins in his neck bulging, his knuckles white as he gripped his sword hilt.
But aside from his impotent rage, he could not issue a single practical order.
His mind was a mess, with only the humiliation of betrayal and the fear of an unknown, powerful enemy churning within him.
Fury and fear clouded his already shallow intellect. Joffrey suddenly unsheathed his sword, "Lion's Tooth," the tip trembling as he pointed it toward the exit of the Throne Room, roaring:
"The cowards have fled, but the King remains! I am the King of the Seven Kingdoms! I will not be a deserter like them! I shall lead the army myself! I will lead the host to Duskendale, crush the rebels, cut off the head of that Targaryen bastard Aegon, and rescue the Queen Regent!"
He shouted with great momentum, his posture incredibly fierce, as if he were about to charge down from the iron throne and ride to the battlefield the next moment.
But his feet were as if rooted, firmly nailed to the obsidian floor before the throne, without moving a single inch down the steps.
He only knew how to bluster, only daring to vent his rage at his subjects within the safety of the Red Keep, enjoying the pleasure of holding the power of life and death.
As for mobilizing troops, gathering provisions, planning march routes, or even dealing with legendary dragons and a host of tigers and wolves... he was completely at a loss, never having given it a moment's thought.
Below, Janos Slynt, Commander of the City Watch, whose fat face was already covered in greasy sweat, was scared out of his wits by these words. He scrambled forward, his voice terrified and out of tune:
"Yo-Your Grace! You must not! You must not!"
"The Gold Cloaks are demoralized, their equipment is old, and many Soldiers don't even have proper spears or swords! Guarding the city to intimidate commoners is one thing, but to march out and face the rebels, especially with... a dragon ahead, is no different from a sheep entering a tiger's mouth—it is suicide! I beg Your Grace to reconsider. Holding King's Landing and waiting for reinforcements from the Westerlands is the best course!"
"Coward! You dare speak!" Joffrey was in the height of his fury and wouldn't listen to a word of dissuasion. He barked sharply, his spit nearly spraying onto Janos's face. "I see you are just afraid of death! You are birds of a feather with Baelish and Varys—all cowards! Traitors!"
He continued to wave his sword and bluster about marching out to crush the rebels, yet his feet remained motionless, and his face grew even redder from excitement and lack of oxygen.
Just then, a guard rushed into the Throne Room, pale-faced and scrambling, completely ignoring etiquette. His voice trembled with a sob as he cried out:
"Your Grace! Disaster! Outside King's Landing, on the south bank of The Blackwater Rush, a massive enemy force has appeared! The banners are... the three-headed red dragon on a black field! They are forming ranks, and their numbers... are countless! And, and that giant beast... is circling above the enemy army!"
With a loud hum, Joffrey's mind exploded. The arrogance and bluster he had just been forcing out vanished instantly, like a bladder pricked by a needle.
A bone-chilling cold shot from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, and the hand holding his sword began to shake uncontrollably.
The army is at the gates... the dragon... has really come...
Fear gripped his heart tightly, nearly suffocating him, yet what remained of his thin pride and violence made him unwilling to show weakness before his subjects.
He suddenly puffed out his chest and used all his strength to raise his voice, trying to mask the tremor in it, and shrieked:
"Co-come just in time! Saves me the trouble of going myself! Open the gates! Assemble all units! I will personally ride out to meet them! I'll let these rebels, let that bastard, see the majesty of the iron throne—see a true King!"
He again struck a charging pose, even swinging his sword at the air as if the surging enemy were right before him.
But his legs were as if filled with lead and bound by invisible chains, heavy and stiff. No matter what, he could not step down from those stairs that symbolized royal power.
Fear, like cold vines, coiled around his heart and froze his steps.
As he continued to bluster, his voice grew weaker and weaker until only a helplessness and panic that even he could detect remained.
He stood alone before the high iron throne, the ornate longsword in his hand drooping weakly. His face was pale, his eyes hollow as he looked down at the kneeling, trembling ministers and the unknown terror beyond the open doors. His mind was a blank, with no idea where to go or what to do.
Grand Maester Pycelle's cloudy old eyes took all of this in. He gave a soft cough, breaking the suffocating silence.
Stroking his long white beard, he maintained his air of experienced gravity and concern for the realm. In a gentle tone that seemed entirely for the sake of the kingdom and the sovereign, he spoke slowly:
"Your Grace, please calm your anger first; preserving your health is most important. The rebels come with great force, and they have that monster aiding them. To open the gates now and go out for a hard fight might not be a wise move."
"In my humble opinion, we should still rely on the high walls of King's Landing. The walls are so high and the moat is wide; it won't be so easy for the rebels to break in."
He paused, appearing to ponder carefully, then continued in an even more "sincere" tone:
"However... defending the city requires manpower. With the number of Gold Cloaks we have, there will inevitably be places we cannot cover while defending such a large city."
"I do have an unrefined idea: You see, there are so many smallfolk living in King's Landing, and they have always been loyal to Your Grace and the kingdom."
"Now that the kingdom has encountered a difficulty, shouldn't they also contribute? If we can mobilize all the able-bodied men in the city to help defend the walls—plant more banners on the battlements and have more people standing there—it will make us look numerous and our defenses tight. That Aegon... when those rebels see it, they'll have to think twice. Perhaps they won't dare act rashly."
"This way, we can also buy some time for Your Grace to wait for the reinforcements from the Westerlands. Does that not make sense?"
His words were seamless, gentle, and respectable, packaging the cruel and poisonous scheme of driving commoners to defend the walls as a fine strategy of mobilizing civilians to resist foreign aggression and defend their homes. He showed not a hint of ruthlessness, appearing exactly like a loyal old minister laboring for his King and people.
Joffrey's originally hollow and vacant eyes lit up instantly upon hearing this, like a drowning man catching a final straw.
He didn't think for a moment about the respectable rhetoric of "assisting in defense" or "resisting foreign aggression," nor did he care about the lives of those commoners.
He only understood one thing: someone could stand in front of him! He could fill the walls with those ant-like commoners to soak up the rebels' arrows and fury, buying him time, and even... dying in his place!
This was simply a brilliant plan! He hadn't even thought of it just now!
Immediately, a look of mingled cruelty and relief reappeared on Joffrey's face, as if he had found a perfect solution to the problem.
He raised his head and issued a sharp command in his usual contemptuous and brook-no-argument tone:
"The Grand Maester is right! Those commoners are protected by the kingdom in normal times; now that the kingdom is in trouble, it's time for them to repay it! Pass my command!"
He pointed at the kneeling Janos Slynt and several nearby attendants who were pale with fright:
"Immediately! Drive everyone in the city who can move—regardless of gender or age—onto the walls! Especially the walls facing the Blackwater! Tell them this is a royal command, to show their loyalty to the kingdom! Anyone who dares not go or hides out of laziness will be charged with treason and executed on the spot!"
His voice echoed in the Throne Room, filled with a coldness that treated human life like grass.
The order was quickly transmitted.
In an instant, King's Landing, already anxious due to the news of the siege, fell completely into a hell of wailing and chaos.
The fierce Gold Cloaks, themselves deep in fear, could only vent their aggression on those weaker than them. They charged into the narrow, winding alleys, smashing open worn wooden doors, using spear shafts to beat and the backs of blades to herd the terrified commoners out of their filthy rooms.
"Move! Move! By royal command, everyone onto the walls! Death to those who disobey!"
"Faster! Old man! What are you dawdling for!"
"The children have to go too! Enough talk!"
Cries, pleas, curses, the shouting and whipping of Soldiers, the shrill weeping of children... all sorts of sounds mixed together, echoing through the streets and alleys of King's Landing.
Old people were pushed to the ground, no longer able to get up; women held their young children, their tears long since dried; sallow and emaciated commoners were like lambs for the slaughter, being brutally driven, forming a stream of despair surging toward the high city wall steps that looked like the entrance to a tomb.
And deep within the Red Keep, in the ornate and empty Throne Room, Joffrey Baratheon had long since thrown his grand words of personally leading the host and riding out to meet the enemy to the back of his mind after issuing this cruel order.
From beginning to end, he huddled on the iron throne forged of swords. He had neither the courage to climb the towers to gaze at his subjects and the enemy, nor the guts to take a single step out of the Red Keep.
He only waited fretfully for news, occasionally flying into a rage at the empty hall and his trembling attendants, as if by doing so he could drive away the deepening shadow called fear.
...
Outside King's Landing, on a high ground overlooking The Blackwater Rush and the city walls.
Aegon stood silently, his pitch-black armor gleaming with a cold, hard luster in the afternoon sun.
He gazed from afar at this city, which appeared vast and cluttered in the afternoon sunlight, his gaze finally landing on that high, rough stone city wall.
At this moment, the walls of King's Landing were not bristling with armored Soldiers and weapons as he had expected, but were instead densely packed with people.
They were not disciplined Soldiers in mail, but commoners who had been forcibly driven onto the walls.
Old men, women, sallow-faced men, and even children being held in their mothers' arms crying in confusion... they were like lambs driven onto a rack, or rows of pale, fragile scarecrows, brutally pushed behind the battlements and into the wall walkways.
Their faces held none of the determination to defend the city to the death, only endless fear, bewilderment, and despair. Their faces were ashen, their eyes hollow as they looked at the silent, elite army outside the city, and at the terrifyingly large shadow circling in the sky further away.
A wall built of flesh and blood, ugly and pathetic.
Aegon watched all this quietly, his violet eyes beneath the dragon-winged helm cold and deep, without a single ripple of emotion.
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