Chapter 239: Chapter 240: The Sea Boils, The City Burns
The waters of Blackwater Bay echoed with the rhythmic chant of rowers and the constant splash of thousands of oars.
Stannis Baratheon stood on the deck of Fury, his flagship, his gaze fixed on the distant outline of King's Landing, his expression resolute.
The city loomed larger as they approached, with the Red Keep crowning Aegon's High Hill, casting its shadow over the mouth of the Blackwater Rush. The fortress overlooked the river cliffs, treacherously steep and strewn with moss and thorns. To enter the harbor and lay siege, the fleet would need to sail directly beneath the Red Keep.
"Your Grace, do you see that?" asked Alester Florent, breaking Stannis' concentration.
Following his Hand's gesture, Stannis noticed something glinting beneath the waters near the mouth of the river.
"It's an iron chain," Stannis observed, tracing the massive chain along its length to the banks. There, he saw new stone towers had been constructed on either side.
"What is the Lannisters' plan?" Alester wondered aloud. "Do they intend to raise the chain and block our entrance?"
But he quickly realized that wasn't their intention; the rising tide had already brought the first line of ships into the river, and the chain remained lowered.
"Maybe they plan to split our fleet into sections," Alester guessed.
Stannis snorted. "A pointless trick. Send men to the banks and dismantle those towers."
"Yes, Your Grace."
But Stannis didn't order the fleet to halt. Even if the chain did divide his forces, it wouldn't change the outcome. At sea, his advantage was undeniable.
As a former Master of Ships, Stannis had kept the royal fleet firmly under his command. His forces now outnumbered the enemy's tenfold, with ships that dwarfed the Lannisters' in both size and firepower.
He didn't expect any real threat from the enemy fleet. His true challenge would begin once they secured the harbor and commenced the land assault on the city itself.
And Stannis felt prepared. He knew King's Landing was vulnerable. The Lannisters were stretched thin, defending against the Northern army, meddling in the Reach's invasion of the Stormlands—meaning they couldn't have left many troops in the capital.
He also knew King's Landing's greatest weakness—its lack of provisions. Without grain from the Riverlands and the Reach, the city could not hold out long.
Storm's End was the true stronghold; if the Reach wanted it, let them break their teeth on its walls. King's Landing, by comparison, was ripe for the taking.
Stannis was confident he'd soon be seated upon the Iron Throne, the seat that rightfully belonged to him.
He saw the enemy fleet attempting to retreat upriver against the current and sneered at the obvious attempt to draw him in.
Taking a deep breath, he gave the order, "Attack!"
Horns blared across the Blackwater Rush, drums pounded furiously, oars dipped and rose in unison, and warships surged forward in battle formation, closing in on the fleeing enemy vessels.
From the Red Keep, catapults began firing, launching barrels of burning pitch down onto the ships near the north bank. Crew members screamed, though they quickly doused the flames under the captains' commands.
Fury moved into position to retaliate with its own catapults, though their range fell short, and stones merely thudded against the city's outer walls.
Stannis showed no expression, his focus unwavering, until he saw the Courageous reach the shore on the north bank. Its knights and soldiers poured onto the beach, forming ranks on the narrow strip of land. Nearby, Devotion careened toward the shore, its archers disembarking.
Then, the Black Betha rammed the enemy flagship, Valiant Joffrey, splitting it in two with a resounding crash.
But instead of spilling soldiers and sailors, the wrecked enemy vessel leaked a thick green liquid, foul and unnatural, seeping into the river like rotting fruit.
"What is that?" Alester asked, confused.
Stannis watched the sickly green liquid, a chill running down his spine as he murmured, "Wildfire."
Just then, he saw Swordfish charging forward, its prow ablaze from pitch barrels, yet speeding recklessly towards another Lannister ship—the Sweet Cersei—which was drifting downstream too slowly to escape.
"No!" Stannis shouted.
But his voice was lost to the captain of the Swordfish, who was single-mindedly intent on ramming the Sweet Cersei. As the prow struck, green liquid poured from the broken hull, ignited by the burning pitch—
BOOM!
The explosion shattered the air. Stannis was thrown by the force, his world spinning, sound fading as he tumbled. For a moment, everything was silent, yet unbearably loud.
When he regained his senses, he was in the water, clutching a piece of driftwood.
The Swordfish was gone, obliterated. A towering green inferno roared skyward from where it had been, casting a sickly, unholy light over the waters of Blackwater Rush. Stannis clung tightly to his makeshift raft, watching as the flames danced higher, their green glow transforming the river into an inferno.
Around him, ships blazed as the wildfire spread, jumping from one vessel to the next. Devotion, Courageous, Royal Might, Red Raven—each was engulfed as the flames crawled through rigging, crept across decks, and devoured wood and sail with terrifying speed.
Stannis, shivering despite the heat, knew the wildfire had turned his fleet into a floating funeral pyre.
The chain across the river had been raised, trapping any vessels attempting to flee. There was no escape from the burning water, from the horrific, emerald flames that consumed everything. The once-powerful royal fleet was now no more than a river of death.
---
"Could it be that something's happened in the Reach?"
Atop the walls of Bronzegate, Lord Ralph Buckler squinted down at the sight of the retreating Reach soldiers, his brow furrowed.
"Could it be that King's Landing has already fallen to King Stannis?" Ser Brus Buckler, his cousin, asked with a hopeful glint in his eye. "If so, then I imagine the Reach forces will be forced into negotiations soon enough."
"There's a chance of it." Lord Ralph slowly nodded, allowing himself a slight smile.
Though Ralph Buckler had little personal regard for Stannis Baratheon, the fact that Stannis carried the Baratheon name meant the Buckler family would at least avoid the scorn of being labeled as traitors for surrendering.
Seeing that the enemy appeared to be halting their attack on the walls, Ralph turned away and started down the staircase. "Send a messenger out and ask—"
He had only begun to issue the order when an alarmed shout interrupted him:
"A dragon!"
Lord Ralph froze in place, then turned back to find that a white dragon had emerged from the Reach camp, gliding swiftly toward Bronzegate.
Despite the sight, he didn't feel threatened. After all, it was only a young dragon—hardly something that could actually breach their walls. It's not as though it were Balerion the Black Dread.
"Prepare the crossbowmen," Ralph ordered his officer. "Ready the scorpions as well. If that dragon flies too close, it might just give the Buckler family a dragon-slayer to boast of."
"Yes, my lord."
As soon as the officer left, Ralph's eyes returned to the dragon, now soaring toward the walls. To his surprise, the creature didn't climb higher; instead, it dropped into a sudden dive toward the wall's base.
The area it was approaching was the scorpions' blind spot, where any shot from their mounted crossbows would be wasted. Archers fired a round of arrows, but the shots fell short, unable to reach the dragon before they lost momentum.
To the astonishment of the defenders, the dragon swept close to the ground, becoming a white streak that skimmed along the outer wall as it released a jet of orange-red flame from its mouth.
Its target was revealed as the strange carts abandoned by the Reach soldiers against the walls.
The dragon's fire spread across the carts, its intense heat melting the metal sheeting that covered them.
"What in the world are they doing?" Lord Ralph mumbled in bewilderment. "Are they actually trying to melt the walls with dragonfire? The Reach forces must have lost their minds…"
Suddenly, BOOM!
A massive explosion shattered the air, drowning all sound as the ground quaked. The entire battlement rattled, and the terrified warhorses on the wall whinnied and reared in panic.
Descending the stairwell, Lord Ralph Buckler missed a step, tumbling headlong down the stairs. His guards, momentarily stunned, did not rush to help.
Blood streaming down his face, Lord Ralph staggered to his feet, ready to roar in fury. But when he glanced around, he saw that all his men were frozen in shock, their eyes riveted to the northern wall.
Ralph's gaze followed theirs, and he, too, froze in horror.
For where there had once stood a proud northern wall, now there rose a massive cloud of smoke and dust. The once-sturdy battlements crumbled like children's toys, leaving a gaping hole nearly a hundred feet wide.
As a cool autumn breeze cleared the smoke, sound began to return to his ears—but the minds of the defenders had yet to recover.
No one could comprehend what they had just witnessed.
Could dragonfire really be this powerful?
Beneath the collapsed wall, hundreds of soldiers lay moaning in pain, buried in rubble. But at that moment, they were forgotten.
Both Stormlands and Reachmen soldiers alike stood transfixed, their minds reeling at this impossible sight. It was as though the world itself had been twisted.
Even the white dragon seemed startled by the destruction it had unleashed and appeared ready to swoop down for another round—until Samwell, who rode atop it, tugged on the reins, pulling it back in check.
The silence stretched on for what felt like both an instant and an eternity. Finally, cries of fear began to rise from Bronzegate. Panic and confusion spread like wildfire, plunging the city into the chaos of a besieged camp. All semblance of discipline crumbled, and terrified men fled in every direction, cowering from the dreadful creature that loomed above them.
"The walls have fallen," said Lord Randyll Tarly, his voice filled with a mixture of triumph and shock, though the shock outweighed the triumph.
The famed general of the Reach understood that this victory was not due to the dragon alone—it was the power of black powder.
The new "invention" that the maesters had provided was far beyond anything he'd anticipated. It stirred in him an odd feeling of uncertainty, almost a sense of dread for what such weapons meant.
Whatever the future held, Randyll knew one thing: from this day forward, the rules of siege warfare on Westeros were changed forever.
Around him, the Reach nobles and knights struggled to calm their warhorses, their own faces mirroring the awe and fear of their soldiers.
"Is this the power of dragons?" they murmured among themselves, grateful they stood beside the dragon rather than against it.
Members of the "Stag Party" Houses, those originally loyal to Lord Mace, exchanged uneasy glances, feeling suddenly relieved that no blood had been shed during the recent hunting incident. If they had provoked the dragon's rider into conflict back then, the outcome might have been disastrous.
Randyll Tarly took a deep breath, forcing himself to set aside his astonishment. He gave a crisp order to the messenger:
"Relay the order—attack!"
The horn blew once again, this time ringing out the call to charge.
Awakening from their stupor, the Reach soldiers let loose a jubilant cry, rallying at the sight of the breach.
"The walls have fallen! The walls have fallen!"
Their cries swept across the plains, a resounding echo of victory.
Seeing the white dragon circling above the ruined wall, a mixture of reverence and fear filled their hearts.
At that moment, the rider of the white dragon—Caesar—seemed an invincible symbol to them.
Shield-bearers, pikemen, axemen, archers—all surged toward the gap like a flood, converging on the fallen wall, driven by a devotion and fervor that bordered on worship.
"Lord Ralph Buckler is up on the wall! Capture him! Capture him!" shouted Ser Armand Peake as he charged forward, eager to greet his prospective father-in-law with a "warm" welcome.
"Hurry! Hurry! Keep up!" The knights waved their swords excitedly, urging their men forward.
Above them, Samwell circled on the dragon's back, surveying the shattered defenses of Bronzegate from above.
Looking down from the dragon's back, he saw Reach banners waving as troops poured over the plains, pressing forward toward the ruined walls with an unstoppable force.
Even the rear lines of support troops and camp laborers had rushed out from the camp, as if enchanted, joining the tidal wave.
The Stormlands defenders, overwhelmed by this wave of attack, had no stomach left for a fight.
Seeing the defenders on the wall scatter, Samwell finally released his dragon, allowing it to dive down in exhilaration, filling the air with the sulfurous scent of its roar.
Woosh!
A stream of dragonfire rolled over the battlements, engulfing those few Stormlanders who hadn't fled in time.
Leaping down from the dragon, Samwell stood tall atop the walls, pulling out his greatsword, Dawn.
The flaming sword blazed brightly, a radiant beacon guiding the Reach forces forward.
"Charge!" Samwell roared, his sword pointing forward.
In that moment, he seemed the master of the battlefield.
All at once, the army's fervor erupted, voices rising in unison, merging into a single cry:
"Forward!"
"Forward!"
"Forward!"
The Stormlanders broke and ran, fleeing in all directions from the dreaded beast, the dragon they could not defeat.
Above them, Cleopatra beat its smoky wings, circling over Samwell, casting a vast shadow that seemed to shroud all of Bronzegate.
The air was thick with dust, the clashing of steel, the scent of blood, and the glow of fire.
Bronze Gate had fallen.
(End of Chapter)
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