A New World- Chp- 26 (Patreon)

Stannis stood on the deck of the Furious, the salt spray of the Blackwater Rush misting against his face.

He did not blink, his jaw set in that characteristic, grinding clench that Davos knew all too well.

Through the brass far-eye, the city of King's Landing looked like a sprawling, sun-bleached beast huddling behind its high walls.

"The strategy is the same as it has always been, Ser Davos," The King said, his voice as cold as the sea. "The law does not change because the wind shifts. We take the city. We execute the usurper. We restore the rightful line."

Ser Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight, stood beside him, his shorter stature making him seem almost swallowed by the heavy wool of his cloak.

He looked out at the mouth of the bay, where the royal fleet—what remained of it—was anchored in a defensive crescent.

But it wasn't the ships that worried Davos, no the royal navy was toothless, and the ships were not in any form ready to handle his king's fleet.

It was the banners.

"The Golden Rose of Highgarden flies beside the Stag and Lion, My Lord," Davos noted quietly. "The scouts were right. The Tyrells have reached the city. That means more men to fight against, and perhaps many more to follow."

Stannis lowered the far-eye. "More flowers. They will wilt under the heat of the Red God's wrath. Mace Tyrell is a man who weighs his loyalty in gold and prestige. He will find the cost of that ambition is the blood of his sons."

"And the Prince, My Lord?" Davos asked, his voice hesitant. "Prince Haridon. He is the one leading the defense. The men around the capital call him the Knight of the Whitesword."

Stannis's eyes narrowed. "He thinks to play at war as well. He has sent a parlay boat."

Indeed, a small skiff was rowing out from the Mud Gate, flying a massive peace banner.

It bobbed precariously on the choppy waters of the bay, dwarfed by the massive warships of Stannis's vanguard.

"Shall we hear them, Your Grace?" Davos asked. "A parlay might save lives. It might even lead to a surrender if the Prince sees the hopelessness of his position."

"There is no surrender in his heart, Davos. He might not side with me, but my nephew is a true Baratheon. There's no fear," The King said out loud. "He sends this boat to count my masts, to see the size of my stones, and to wait for the tides to turn in his favor.."

Stannis turned to his captains, his voice rising to carry over the creak of the ship's timbers. "Prepare the fleet for battle speed. We do not wait for the parlay to conclude to begin our maneuvers. If they want to talk, they can talk while my ships find their range."

As the parlay boat drew closer, he gripped the hilt of Lightbringer.

He felt a strange, discordant hum in the air—a tingling at the edges of his perception that matched the fire in his veins. It was the same feeling Melisandre described when the shadows grew long.

"The boy thinks he is a master of politics," Stannis muttered, almost to himself. "But the fire burns away all illusions. Let him come. Let him see what happens when a true King claims what is his."

The skiff reached the side of the Furious, and a young man in the colors of the City Watch climbed the rope ladder with practiced ease. He was followed by a herald bearing the sigil of the Hand of the King—a golden stag on the field of black. It held a hammer and a sword in each of its hoof.

The herald stepped onto the deck, cleared his throat, and unrolled a parchment.

"To Lord Stannis Baratheon," the herald read, his voice wavering slightly under Stannis's icy stare. "His Grace, Prince Haridon Baratheon, Hand of the King and Protector of the Realm, offers these terms for the cessation of hostilities."

"Lord?" He interrupted, his voice a low growl. "I am the King. Your 'Prince' is a pretender's brother. Continue."

The herald swallowed hard. "The Prince requests that you stand down your fleet and return to Dragonstone. In exchange, the Crown will grant a full pardon to all lords who have sworn to your cause. Furthermore, the Prince offers a seat on the Small Council to your daughter, the Lady Shireen, to ensure her future and the continued unity of House Baratheon."

Stannis raised a brow, but the herald continued.

"If the Princess accepts, in a few years' time, she will be betrothed to Prince Tommen and will rule Dragonstone," he continued, folding the scroll with a nervous glance around him.

Davos felt a spark of hope. It was a generous offer—more generous than anything Cersei would ever have allowed. It recognized Shireen's importance and offered a bloodless path forward.

But Stannis only saw an insult.

"He offers me my own seat, my own keep?" Stannis laughed, a dry, rasping sound. "He offers to 'pardon' the King for claiming his throne? Tell my nephew this: If he hands over the Queen and the usurper Joffrey to my justice. If he does this, I will allow him to set aside his Stark bride and marry my daughter. He will rule kingdom after me. That is my only offer."

The herald bowed nervously. "I will give him your message, My Lord. Yet, he said to tell you that if you refuse his terms then war will come to you."

His hand tightened on his sword. "Dismissed. Tell the boy to prepare himself. The next time we speak, it will be over the ruins of his gatehouse."

As the skiff rowed back toward the city, Stannis turned to Davos. "They have archers on the walls, Davos. They will try to pick off our rowers. We land the main force at the Mud Gate under the cover of the fleet's scorpions. We do not stop until the walls are ours."

"Aye, Your Grace," Davos replied, his heart heavy.

He looked at the city and felt a sudden, inexplicable chill. The air felt charged, as if a great storm was not just coming, but was already here, invisible and waiting to strike.

The rhythm of the battle began with the heavy thrum of machinery.

As Stannis's fleet crossed the threshold into the inner bay, the scorpions mounted on the decks of the Velaryon and Celtigar ships roared to life. These massive engines of war, a gift from the Celtigars, fired iron-tipped bolts that whistled through the air like screaming spirits.

Several bolts smashed into the ancient stone of the Mud Gate, sending shards of masonry raining down like shrapnel.

Others found more organic targets; a sentry was pinned to a wooden hoarding, and several archers were swept from the battlements, their cries lost in the growing roar of the surf.

But the silence that followed the scorpion fire was brief.

From the top of the walls, a new line of archers rose as if born from the stone itself. Crownland levies in their drab surcoats and Lannister longbowmen in crimson stood shoulder to shoulder.

At a barked command from the towers, they let fly.

The sky over the Blackwater went dark. It was a wall of arrows—thousands of shafts arching into the air before plunging down onto the exposed decks of Stannis's fleet.

The "thwip-thwip-thwip" of the release was followed by the wet "thud" of steel finding flesh.

"Shields! Raise your shields!" Ser Davos bellowed, ducking behind a heavy wooden bulwark as arrows rained down around him like lethal hail.

Stannis, standing stoically on the bridge of the Furious, didn't flinch as an arrow skipped off the railing inches from his hand. "Fire back!" he commanded. "Clear those battlements!"

His own archers attempted to respond, but the disadvantage was clear.

They were firing upward from swaying decks, while the defenders had the stability of the walls and the height advantage.

For every archer Stannis's men brought down, three more seemed to take their place.

Seeing his fleet being picked apart by the superior volume of fire, Davos knew they had to close the distance.

The water was the death zone; the shore was their only hope.

"Lower the boats!" Davos roared over the cacophony of whistling arrows and crashing waves. "Row, you dogs! Put your backs into it! If you stay on the ships, you're just target practice!"

The heavy landing craft hit the water with massive splashes. Infantrymen, weighed down by mail and boiled leather, scrambled into the boats.

The mounted knights—the pride of the Stormlands—calmed their terrified horses as the larger rafts were pushed toward the narrow strip of muddy beach beneath the walls.

"Faster!" Davos urged his oarsmen, his eyes fixed on the Mud Gate.

The air atop the Mud Gate was thick with the coppery tang of salt and the chilling scent of impending slaughter.

Harry stood like a statue of obsidian, his black plate armor gleaming dully under the overcast sky. The weight of it was a comfort, a physical reminder of the burden he now carried as Hand.

Beside him, his warhammer—leaned against the stone merlon.

To his right stood his guards: Ser Barristan, Ser Jon, Ser Arys, and Ser Raymond.

He had sent a parley boat for his uncle to back down; he knew Stannis was as stubborn as his father when it came to things he had made his mind up on. His elder uncle carried a pride that defined him, just as Renly did.

Their fury was famous, but so should be their pride.

And it seemed that in that pride, his uncle had refused to parley, sending the agent back.

The man on the skiff rowed back before raising a red flag—a signal that the parley was refused. His uncle wanted a war; now, he must have one.

"Ready the archers," He commanded, his voice low but carrying the absolute authority of a commander. "We do not waste a single shaft on the spray. We shoot as soon as he enters the range. Not a moment before."

"Draw!" Ser Barristan's voice thundered, a sharp contrast to Harry's quiet intensity.

Along the length of the wall, thousands of bowstrings groaned in unison—a rhythmic, predatory sound that signaled the end of peace.

Further down the battlements, at a safe distance from the most exposed sections, stood Joffrey and Tyrion.

The King looked pale, his golden armor more for show than survival, while Ser Balon and Sandor Clegane stood over him like twin towers of steel. Tyrion looked small beside them, his mismatched eyes squinting at the masts filling the Blackwater Rush, his own lannister gurads stood behind him.

The sight was breathtaking. Stannis's fleet moved with the precision of a grinding machine, the sails of the Stormlands and the narrow sea lords billowing.

But then, the air was suddenly torn apart by a sound Harry hadn't expected—the deep, mechanical thrum-crack of heavy siege engines.

His eyes widened as massive iron-tipped bolts, thick as a man's thigh and long enough to bisect a horse, shrieked through the air. They weren't arrows; they were scorpion bolts.

"Scorpions!" Harry hissed.

He hadn't known his uncle had managed to refit his fleet so extensively.

Such specialized weaponry, mounted for naval bombardment, could only have come from the ancestral stores of the Celtigars or the Velaryons.

These were the tools used to hunt dragons, now turned upon the walls of the capital.

"Duck!" Harry yelled, his voice cracking like a whip.

He didn't wait to see if they obeyed. He dropped into a low crouch behind the heavy stone merlon just as a bolt shattered the masonry three feet above his head.

Shards of stone exploded like shrapnel, peppering his black pauldron. He risked a glance to his side.

Joffrey was flat on the ground, his face pressed into the dirt of the rampart by Sandor, his regal dignity forgotten in the face of raw terror. Balon and the Hound were crouched low beside him, their shields angled to catch the smaller debris.

The bombardment was brief but devastating.

Several Gold Cloaks who hadn't been fast enough were pinned to the wooden hoardings, their bodies broken in ways that defied the healers' art.

One bolt had passed entirely through a defensive crane, sending the heavy timber crashing down into the courtyard below.

As the echoes of the scorpion fire died away, replaced by the rhythmic splashing of Stannis's oars, Harry rose. He didn't brush the stone dust from his shoulders.

He simply looked at Ser Barristan and nodded.

"Now," Harry said. "Loose!"

The command was echoed down the line by a dozen captains.

The sky above the Mud Gate didn't just fill with arrows; it vanished behind them.

A solid wall of grey-fletched shafts rose from the battlements, arcing gracefully before plunging down with the weight of gravity and vengeance.

Harry watched as the first volley struck the lead ships. He saw men on the decks of the Furious try to raise their shields, but the volume of fire was too great.

The arrows found the gaps in the pavises, the slits in the helms, and the exposed flesh of the rowers.

Stannis's own archers tried to return fire, but their shots were weak, hampered by the swaying of the ships and the sheer height of the walls they had to overcome.

"He should have taken the parlay," Harry murmured to himself, his hand tightening on the haft of his hammer.

He could see the stubbornness of his bloodline written in every mast that continued to push forward despite the rain of death.

Stannis was the rock that the sea broke upon, but today, Harry was the sea.

The Baratheon pride that made his uncle a formidable general was now the very thing blinding him to the reality of the trap.

Stannis expected a city defended by cowards and a boy; instead, he had found a fortress commanded by a stag who had learned to hunt.

The first of the landing craft hit the mud flats below the gate, the hulls groaning as they grounded.

On the battlements above, Harry watched the approach. The tingling in his fingers was no longer a hum; it was a rhythmic pulse, vibrating in sync with the heartbeat of the battle.

He could see his uncle's boats struggling through the surf, the men desperate to reach the cover of the walls.

"They're coming into the kill zone," Harry murmured, his voice calm despite the carnage.

He turned to Ser Garrick, who was overseeing the archers held in reserve. "Ser Garrick, prepare the men. The archers have already softened them, but I want your arrows to break them the moment they touch the sand."

The first of Stannis's rowboats hit the mud.

Men leaped out, water splashing to their waists, holding their shields high against the relentless arrow fire.

"Formation! Form the line!" a Stormland captain screamed, but his voice was cut short as a Tyrell arrow, fletched with green-and-gold feathers, pierced his throat.

The battle for the shore had begun.

Men began to spill out into the knee-deep muck, holding shields over their heads as they struggled toward the base of the walls.

"They're in the mud," Ser Raymond noted, his sword rasping as it left its scabbard. "They're slow, My Lord."

"Let them come," Harry said, his eyes scanning the chaos for his uncle's banner. "Let them tire themselves against the stone. Ser Garlan is waiting for the signal."

He looked back at Joffrey, who was slowly picking himself up, his face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and lingering fear.

He turned back to the battle, the tingling in his fingers now a steady, burning heat. The real war had begun, and the Blackwater would soon be renamed for the blood that was currently staining its tides.

Harry turned to Ser Barristan, the old knight's cloak now stained grey with stone dust.

"Signal Ser Garlan," he commanded. "The trap is set. Let us see if my uncle has the wit to flee before it snaps."

Ser Barristan nodded once, his eyes sharp. "Ser Arys! To the tower!"

The reachman knight didn't hesitate. He scrambled up the interior stairs of the gatehouse tower, emerging onto the highest lookout point. He was a beacon against the smoke-choked sky.

He raised a great brass horn to his lips with both of his hands and blew a single, long, piercing blast that echoed over the roar of the Blackwater.

Arrows from Stannis's ships hissed through the air toward him, one grazing his pauldron and another thudding into the wooden railing, but the knight finished the call before hastily sliding back down the steps to safety.

The signal was heard. Far to the west, near the King's Gate, Ser Garlan Tyrell—the Gallant of Highgarden—gave the order to his mounted knights.

They emerged like a sudden storm of green and gold, their lances leveled as they began their sweeping gallop toward the flank of Stannis's landing force.

On the battlements, the carnage was absolute. Harry's archers, bolstered by the Reachmen bowmen, maintained a relentless cadence.

For the Stormlanders on the beach who had managed to lock their shields into a turtle-shell testudo, there was a chance for survival.

But for the unshielded men—the sailors, the light infantry, and those whose shields had been splintered by the relentless fire of arrows—the beach became a slaughterhouse.

They were butchered where they stood, pinned to the muddy earth, or pushed into it.

"It is time," Harry said, his voice dropping an octave.

He didn't take the stairs; he practically leaped down the stone tiers of the inner wall, his black plate clattering.

In the courtyard of the Mud Gate, a great black destrier was being held by a stable boy who looked ready to faint.

Harry vaulted into the saddle, gripping the reins in one hand and his heavy warhammer in the other.

His protectors were already mounted around him. Ser Barristan on a white mare, Jon Snow on a sturdy grey, Ser Arys, and Ser Raymond. They formed a wedge of gleaming steel around the Prince.

"The gates!" Harry yelled, his voice booming through the tunnel. "Open the gates!"

The massive, iron-bound wooden doors of the Mud Gate groaned as the winches turned. The sound was like a dying god's scream.

As the gap widened, the sights and smells of the battle rushed in: the stench of salt, blood, and fear, and the sight of Stannis's men just yards away, trying to bring a ram to the threshold.

"For the Capital! For the Stag!" Harry bellowed, spurring his horse forward.

He led the charge straight into the heart of the chaos.

Behind him, the garrison of King's Landing poured out like a lanced boil.

Harry met the first line of Stormlanders with the full weight of his destrier, the horse's armored chest trampling a man in boiled leather.

He swung his hammer in a wide, punishing arc. The steel head connected with a soldier's helmet, and the man's head disappeared into his chest cavity.

There was no finesse in this—it was raw, Baratheon power.

Beside him, Ser Barristan was a whirlwind of white light, his longsword flickering out to find every gap in the enemy's mail, while Jon fought with a silent, Northern ferocity, keeping the enemy from Harry's flank.

They had caught the landing party between the wall and the water, and now, the sound of Garlan Tyrell's thundering hooves was growing louder from the side.

From the deck of the Furious, Stannis watched the Mud Gate groan open.

He saw the wedge of steel erupt from the darkness of the tunnel, led by a figure in gleaming black plate who swung a heavy hammer with the terrifying grace of a young Robert Baratheon.

The Knight of the Whitesword had finally joined the field.

Stannis's jaw tightened, the grinding of his teeth audible even over the roar of the surf.

"Free the Florent knights, Davos," He commanded, his voice a low, cold rasp. "Let them wreck havoc. They've been itching for Lannister blood since we left Storm's End. It's time they earned their keep."

His Hand looked at the chaotic shoreline, where the Mud Gate sortie was already hacking through the ram crew. "Your Grace, the beach is a morass. If we send the knights now, they'll be fighting in knee-deep silt."

"Then they shall fight in the silt," Stannis snapped, his eyes fixed on the black-armored Prince. "My nephew thinks to win this day with a single charge. He has the Baratheon fire, but he lacks the iron. We go in now."

Davos signaled the secondary landing crafts. The heavy ramps dropped, and the knights of House Florent, their bright surcoats depicting the fox-in-flowers, spurred their horses into the surf.

They were the finest heavy cavalry Stannis possessed, and they hit the muddy beach with a roar of "The Queen! The Florent!"

He himself stepped into a smaller boat, his hand resting on the hilt of Lightbringer. He didn't wait for the boat to fully beach; he stepped into the churning water, his boots sinking into the grit.

Behind him, his personal guard—the men who had survived the siege of Storm's End and the wars of the shores—followed him with grim, silent determination.

On the shore, Haridon was a whirlwind of black steel. He felt the weight of the hammer in his hand, the vibration of every impact traveling up his arms.

He had just crushed the helm of a Stormland sergeant when he heard the new thunder of hooves and the distinct cry of the Florents.

"Reform!" Harry bellowed, swinging his hammer to clear a space. "Form a semi-circle! Don't let them get behind us!"

Ser Barristan was instantly at his side, his cloak splattered with the red of the enemies. "The Florents are coming, My Lord! And look—" the old knight pointed toward the water's edge.

Through the spray and the haze of arrows, Harry saw him.

A man in plain, unadorned armor, wearing a crown of red gold. He walked with a stiff, unyielding gait, and the air around him seemed to ripple with a strange, unnatural heat.

"Uncle," Harry whispered.

The war was no longer about gates or walls or archers. It had narrowed down to this narrow strip of bloody mud.

The Florent knights slammed into the side of Harry's sortie, the impact of horse and lance throwing men back into the stone of the walls.

At the same time, Ser Garlan's cavalry finally arrived from the west, crashing into the rear of Stannis's archers.

The beach was now a chaotic three-way slaughter.

The Florent knights were causing absolute havoc, working through the Crownlands vanguard like a farmer on a field, slow but steadily.

Unlike Stormland knights, who had been battered by the initial rain of arrows and the slog of the mud, Florent's men were fresh and fueled by the desire to prove their worth to their king.

But as He swung his hammer, crushing the brigandine of a Florent man-at-arms, a cold realization washed over him.

His mind snagged on a missing detail—a hole in the tapestry of the battle.

He looked toward the shoreline and the chaotic mess of banners. He saw the fox of Florent and the flaming heart of his uncle, but he did not see the seahorse of House Velaryon, nor the crabs of House Celtigar.

He scanned the bay. Their ships were there, bobbing on the Blackwater, their scorpions still occasionally spitting bolts, but they had not landed.

"Jon!" Harry shouted, but the Stark knight was a blur of crimson-stained silver.

Jon was making a beeline for Stannis's Commander, his movements preternaturally fast. Harry had been right to give him that sword; the ritual he'd performed over the steel had bound it to Jon's vitality.

The more blood he let, the faster and stronger he became—a gruesome blood ritual, but a necessary one.

Jon was a whirlwind of death, a trail of gore following him like a serpent through the mud.

Harry looked away, his panic rising.

"Ser Barristan! To me!" He bellowed.

The old knight, breathing heavily and his cloak looking more like a butcher's apron, trudged back through the slurry of blood and silt to Harry's side.

"My Prince?" Barristan asked, his sword held low.

"The Velaryons and the Celtigars," The second prince hissed, leaning down from his saddle. "Look at the beach, Ser. Where are their banners? They haven't landed."

Barristan's eyes sharpened, scanning the line. His face went pale. "By the Gods... you're right. They are nowhere on the shore."

"How many were there supposed to be?" He demanded.

"Our informants said at least three thousand," Barristan replied, his voice tight.

Harry felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air. If they weren't on the beach, and they weren't retreating, they were heading for a different entry point.

"Ser Jaime," He gasped in understanding. "How many men does he have at the Iron Gate and the Red Keep?"

His guard's eyes widened in sheer alarm. "Fifteen hundred, at most. We stationed the bulk of the Gold Cloaks on the river walls. The landward gates are thin."

The realization hit him like a physical blow.

His uncle hadn't just committed to a frontal assault; he had used the Mud Gate as a massive, bloody distraction. He had thought about this possibility and tried to place a small force at the Iron Gate—had even planned for it—but his brother had rebuked him.

As always, he had tried to power through the opposition, but the councilors had supported his brother. Even his mother.

According to them, his uncle wasn't cunning enough to split his forces, yet he was seeing the exact contrary. He would have the hides of those two after he had finished here.

While the him and his men were busy killing Florents in the mud, three thousand Narrow Sea veterans were likely rowing for the undefended piers or the Iron Gate.

"Ser Arys!" Harry roared, beckoning the knight over with a sharp, frantic gesture.

Oakheart rode over, his horse's hooves splashing red. "My Lord?"

"Ride to Ser Garlan. Tell him the Narrow Sea lords are missing. He must detach two thousand of his knights immediately and order them to ride back into the city to reinforce the Red Keep and the Iron Gate! Now, Arys! Go!" He ordered, his voice rushed.

The knight hesitated, his eyes darting to the Florent knights regrouping nearby. "I cannot leave you unsecured, My Prince! My vow—"

"Your vow is to the Crown!" He rebuked him, his voice cracking like thunder. "Go! Ser Barristan is here, and Jon is close. If the Red Keep falls while we are out here playing hero in the mud, the war is over anyway! Move!"

Arys didn't wait for a second command.

He yanked his horse's head around and spurred the beast into a gallop, racing toward the green-and-gold line of the Reachmen.

Harry turned back to the sea, his grip tightening on his hammer. He looked at the glowing blade of Lightbringer in the distance. Stannis was a master of the grind, but he had just proven he was a master of the feint as well.

"Ser Barristan," Harry said, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. "We need to win the battle here and get back inside those walls. Now."

Stannis smirked. He parried a desperate lunge from a Lannister knight, stepped back with the precision of a experienced warrior, and thrust Lightbringer forward.

The glowing blade slid through the man's steel breastplate and into his gut as if the armor were made of parchment.

With a brutal, leftward swing, Stannis ripped the sword free, and the knight's hot steaming innards spilled onto the churning mud of the Blackwater.

He looked up, searching for his nephew through the crimson haze of the melee. The panic on his nephew's face was unmistakable. The boy was shouting orders in a frenzy, his head whipping toward the bay and then back toward the city.

It seemed the realization had finally struck him.

The absence of the Velaryon and Celtigar banners was no accident. Stannis watched as the Kingsguard spurred his horse away from the Prince, racing toward Garlan Tyrell's position.

"He's understood the feint," Stannis barked, his voice cutting through the cacophony. "I want his path blocked, Davos! Order the Florent knights to pin them. If the Tyrells retreat into the city, the feint is for naught."

His loyal hand nodded, signaling the fox-crested knights of the Reach's rival house to press the attack.

But Stannis's focus was suddenly jerked away by a sound that chilled even his iron blood—a scream so raw and visceral it bypassed the ears and struck the spine.

He turned to his left and his eyes widened.

Not fifty yards away, a nightmare in steel was carving a path through the Stormland ranks.

The knight wore armor that might have once been a proud, gleaming silver, but it was now a wet, glistening red. Blood and gore clung to the plate as if it were part of the metal itself.

The man was moving with a fluid, terrifying speed, cutting through knights and spearmen alike as if he were a butcher working on a defenseless carcass.

"Who is that?" He demanded, his jaw clenching until it ached.

"Ser Jon Snow," Davos said, his voice strained and thick with disbelief. "He seems to be in his element, My Lord. None of our knights are even touching him. It's as if he knows where the blade is coming from before it's even swung."

Stannis watched the dark grey cloak, stained almost black, fluttering behind the boy. On his surcoat was the yellow wolf with red eyes—he was surely Eddard Stark's bastard.

Robert had knighted the boy in a fit of drunken whim, but the boy was proving he was his father's son and more.

"I want him captured, Davos," He ground out. "He will prove a valuable hostage against Lord Stark and the North. Him and that sister of his already inside the walls. Capture him, or kill him. I care not which, so long as he stops butchering my men."

Davos scrambled to gather a dozen knights of the vanguard to do the King's bidding, but the effort seemed futile.

One by one, the Stormland knights fell before the silver-and-red demon.

"Uncle!" The yell made him snap his head to the other side.

Riding toward him on a black mare was his nephew. The Prince was speeding through the gap in the lines, his heavy warhammer raised high.

Ser Barristan and another knight were at his heels, their horses' hooves kicking up a slurry of gore.

Stannis squared his shoulders, a grim sense of destiny settling over him. It was time.

He wiped the glowing length of Lightbringer on his breeches to cleanse it of the thickest gore, the heat of the blade hissing against the damp wool. He raised the sword high, its orange-red light casting long, flickering shadows against the smoke-filled sky.

Haridon's small entourage was a mix of Lannister plate and Crownland infantry, but the path was being cleared by the Knights of Highgarden. The Reachmen surged forward, engaging any Stormlander who tried to block the Hand's progress.

The collision was inevitable.

However, by the time the Hand reached him, the battlefield had taken its toll. Haridon's black mare was screaming, a Tyrell arrow intended for the enemy having lodged itself deep in the horse's neck.

The Prince survived by leaping from the dying beast just as it collapsed.

Ser Barristan was gone, cut off by a surge of Stannis's own personal guard who had sacrificed themselves to isolate the old knight.

His nephew stood alone in the mud, his black armor splattered with the lifeblood of his own men.

"The throne is mine by right, Haridon," Stannis said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. "Step aside, and you may yet live to see the Wall."

Haridon gripped his hammer with both hands, his eyes burning with a light that matched the glow of Stannis's sword. "Yours?"

The Blackwater roared behind them, a chorus of screaming men and splintering wood, but for the two Stags in the center of the mud, the world had shrunk to the space between a hammer and a glowing sword.

"The crown was never yours to claim, Uncle," He spat, his voice echoing from within the depths of his black visor.

His hands, encased in articulated steel gauntlets, clenched around the haft of his warhammer. "Right now, a bastard may sit on the throne, but by right, it is mine. You are a second son trying to steal from the first-born's heir."

The stag king scowled, his face a mask of rigid, righteous fury. "Yet you allow that bastard of Lannister to sit. Like a weak-minded boy, you try to play the political game. For what?"

"To save my mother and my siblings," He replied, his stance widening. "Joffrey might be cruel, but neither Myrcella nor Tommen deserve the headsman's axe. You would burn them all to satisfy your sense of duty."

"Duty is not a choice, Haridon." Stannis said, his voice dropping to a terrifying, hollow words. "Your mother is an adultering whore, and your siblings are born of incest. They are an infection on the body of the realm."

With a sudden, explosive burst of movement, Stannis rushed forward. He did not fight like a knight of the tourney, no, he fought like a man who had survived a year of starvation behind stone walls. He swung Lightbringer in a high, shimmering arc.

The Second prince side-stepped the downward swing, the glowing blade hissing through the air where his head had been a second before.

As Stannis's momentum carried him forward, his nephew stepped in close—too close for a sword's reach—and bashed his armored shoulder into his chest.

The impact was like a battering ram hitting a door. He was propelled backward, his boots sliding through the bloody slurry.

A Crownland knight, seeing the King of the Narrow Sea stumble, tried to rush at Stannis with a spear.

"No!" His nephew bellowed, the sound vibrating through the battlefield. He didn't even look at the man. "Nobody touches him! He is mine to defeat!"

Stannis recovered his footing with a snarl. He feinted a high strike and then pivoted, his glowing sword making contact with Harry's shoulder.

The blade, supposedly magical and sharp enough to cleave stone, hit the black plate with a discordant clack, bouncing off like rubber.

He grunted in disbelief, his eyes widening.

He dropped to one knee, attempting a desperate low sweep to take out his nephew's legs, but the Hand was faster. An armored boot met his helm in a brutal front-kick, sending the elder Baratheon sprawling onto his back.

"My father had his bastards too," His nephew said, his voice cold and relentless as he advanced. "Some with wenches, some with whores, some with barmaids. And one... one he had with your goodsister, Uncle."

He brought his hammer down in a crushing vertical strike aimed at his downed opponent.

Stannis rolled back just in time, the hammer-head burying itself six inches into the muddy earth with a sound that shook the ground.

"But it doesn't forgive the crimes of your mother, nephew. Hand her over to him, and I'll spare you." He said looking up at the boy.

The stag king scrambled to his feet, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

He swung Lightbringer in a desperate, wide horizontal cut. The boy caught the blade on the haft of his hammer, the steel of the weapon sparking against the magical fire.

With a roar of effort, his nephew twisted the hammer, wrenching the sword downward and stepping into his guard again.

He delivered a punishing punch with his gauntleted left hand, the steel knuckles connecting with Stannis's jaw. His head snapped back, his helm tumbling into the muck.

"That's my answer for you, Uncle. Accept your defeat, and I'll make sure neither aunt nor Shireen is harmed." The Second prince said, his voice calm and collected.

The King of the Narrow Sea staggered, his vision blurring.

"Never," He replied.

He tried to raise Lightbringer one last time, but the weight of the sword felt like a mountain.

The Second prince didn't give him a second to breathe. He swung the hammer in a short, controlled upward arc, catching him in the ribs. The sound of cracking bone was unmistakable.

Stannis fell to his knees, the glowing sword slipping from his numb fingers. It clattered into the mud, its light flickering and dimming as it moved away from its master.

His one trueborn nephew stood over him, the warhammer held high, the head of the weapon dripping with the gore of the men he had killed to get here.

He looked down at the man who was his father's brother, a man who had been the same uncle who had tried to save him after his father death.

"You lost, Uncle," He said, his voice devoid of triumph, filled only with a heavy, ancient sadness. "The Iron Throne is not won with fire and shadows. It is won with blood and the will to protect those who cannot protect themselves."

The Stag king looked up, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth, his eyes still burning with that same unyielding stubbornness. "Then strike, boy. Finish your duty."

The Second prince looked at the hammer in his hands, then at his uncle in front of him. He saw Ser Barristan breaking through the Florent line, and he saw Jon standing over a pile of corpses, his silver armor now entirely crimson. And Ser Raymond, stood not too far.

He lowered the hammer.

"No," His nephew said. "I am not a kinslayer, Uncle. You will face a trial, and then you will take the Black. The Wall needs men of iron."

He signaled to Ser Barristan. "Secure him! Bind his wounds! The King of the Narrow Sea is our prisoner!"