Chapter 77: Blackwater Smoke
Stannis Baratheon came before dawn.
His ships slid up the Blackwater like burned things dragged out of some drowned hell. Green fire clung to their prows, hissing in the salt wind and painting the dark water with a sickly light. The crowned stag and fiery heart moved together on black sails, which said enough about Stannis’s position. A king with one god too many was still a king with ships, and ships had a way of making theology very practical.
The first bells rang too late.
King’s Landing had expected threats, yes. Every city expected threats when the realm had taken to eating itself. But the harbor defenses were in a poor state, caught between Tyrell command, royal suspicion, and that old friend of all doomed cities: confusion. Lord Mace Tyrell had sent much of the old Blackwater fleet away under the excuse of deterring the Westerlands and guarding against Ironborn movement. The main strength brought from the Reach had not fully arrived. What remained in the harbor was a sad little collection of old galleys, patrol boats, and crews who had likely hoped their shift would involve shouting at smugglers rather than facing a king with wildfire.
They broke quickly.
A few ships tried to meet Stannis’s line and were rammed, burned, or forced back into the docks. Others fled deeper into the harbor, where panicked sailors collided with merchant vessels and fishing boats. Green flame leapt from hull to hull. Men jumped into the water and discovered, as men often did, that the gods had not made burning and drowning mutually exclusive.
“Loose! Loose! Keep them from the docks!” shouted a Tyrell captain from the walls.
The archers obeyed, but too few had gathered and too many were still half-dressed, half-awake, and wholly terrified. Arrows fell among the advancing ships, more annoying than deadly. A handful of scorpions and ballistae fired from the harbor walls and the piers, striking one ship near the bow and another through its mast, but the rest kept coming. Stannis’s fleet drove into the harbor like a wedge forced into rotten wood.
His soldiers shouted as they came.
“For the true king!”
“For the Lord of Light!”
The words rolled over the water with the crash of oars and the groan of hulls. They did not wait for the ships to settle properly against the docks. Men leapt into waist-deep water with swords, axes, shields, and the bright fever of belief in their eyes. Some wore mail. Many wore boiled leather or rough cloth. Faith had armed them better than their quartermasters had, which was a problem for everyone near them.
They charged through the filthy shallows toward the piers, the warehouses, and the nearest gates.
The first clash at the docks was a butcher’s greeting. Gold Cloaks and Tyrell men had formed barricades from carts, barrels, and dock timbers. Spears met Stannis’s men at the ends of gangplanks. Crossbowmen fired from warehouse roofs. Hot oil, pitch, and stones began falling once the defenders remembered that city walls were not decorative. Stannis’s men had surprise, fury, and faith. The defenders had walls, numbers gathering behind them, and homes at their backs. That last part mattered more than banners. Men fought harder when the fire behind them might reach their children.
Stannis stood at the prow of Fury, his face as still as the stone of Dragonstone itself. His eyes followed the fighting without visible anger or fear. Davos Seaworth climbed aboard beside him, soaked, breathing hard, and already marked with blood that was not all his.
“Your Grace,” Davos said, “the docks are holding harder than expected. The first wave is taking losses. If we send the reserve—”
“No,” Stannis said.
Davos stopped. He had known the man long enough to hear a door shut in a single word.
Stannis looked toward the walls beyond the harbor. “The docks are not the city. We strike where the city is weakest. Mud Gate.”
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Davos followed his gaze. The old gate sat low on the southeastern wall, ugly, ancient, and neglected. The stone around it had weathered badly, and the ditch before it was more sewer than moat. It was not a place singers named. That alone made it useful. The proud gates received attention. The ugly ones were left to rot until they ruined someone’s day.
“The red woman said the wall there is weak,” Stannis said. “Old damage. Poor defenders. We concentrate there. All ships with engines turn to the Mud Gate. You take men at the docks and make noise enough to keep the Tyrells looking the wrong way.”
Davos glanced toward the burning harbor. “A feint.”
“A necessary one.”
Davos bowed his head. “As you command.”
Stannis turned his flagship while arrows and stones hissed around it. Several struck the rail. One killed a sailor two steps behind him. Stannis did not look back. Men died near kings all the time. It was almost part of the office.
Melisandre stood behind him in red robes, her hood drawn low. Harbor fire reflected in her eyes until they seemed lit from within. She watched the smoke as if reading a book written by flames and idiots. Westeros had enough of both.
“What else did you see?” Stannis asked quietly. “The usurper?”
“His shadow wavers,” Melisandre said. “But darkness gathers behind him. I saw a lion’s low growl, a rose with thorns, and a snake waiting beneath warm stone. The city is a cup already cracked. Strike before the pieces settle.”
Stannis’s jaw tightened.
That was close enough to counsel to be useful, and vague enough to be called prophecy afterward. He hated such things. He used them anyway.
“Then we strike.”
The order moved from ship to ship. Stannis’s main force turned from the dock struggle and began hammering the Mud Gate with every engine that could be brought to bear. Fire jars, stones, and heavy bolts crossed the pale morning light. The defenders saw the shift too late and began shouting for reinforcements.
Inside the Red Keep, Queen Cersei watched the harbor burn.
She did not hide in the cellars with the other noblewomen. She stood on a balcony in Maegor’s Holdfast, dressed in dark green and gold, the wind moving her hair around a face too calm for the hour. Smoke lifted from the Blackwater. Bells rang. Men screamed far below. The city was being cut open, and Cersei’s emerald eyes reflected the flames with something close to satisfaction.
Stannis had come. Faster than expected, but direct. Brutally direct. Stannis had always lacked the courtesy to be subtle when blunt force might do.
Good.
The muddier the water, the easier it became to drown enemies.
A Kingsguard hurried in and knelt. “Your Grace, the rebels are attacking the Mud Gate in strength. Lord Tyrell requests that you remove yourself to the cellars for safety.”
“The cellars?” Cersei said. “I would rather not be buried before I am dead. Where is Joffrey?”
“In the Tower of the Hand, Your Grace. Under heavy guard.”
“Keep him there. If any man attempts to move him without my command, kill him.”
The Kingsguard hesitated only long enough to be noticed. “Yes, Your Grace.”
When he left, Cersei turned to the maid waiting in the shadows and spoke softly. The woman lowered her head and vanished.
A short while later, several men were brought into the chamber. They wore plain clothing, but their eyes were too sharp for common servants. Some were lower officers of the City Watch. Some were broken knights with old Lannister ties. Some were men who had learned that loyalty was most sincere when paid in advance. Cersei had reactivated what little remained of her father’s hidden influence in the city, and bought what could not be remembered into obedience.
“The rebels are striking the Mud Gate,” Cersei said. “The wall there is poorly held. The Tyrells have their best men at the docks and the larger gates. I want confusion.”
The men listened carefully. Fear made men attentive. Coin helped.
“A winch may jam,” she continued. “A commander may vanish. A gate may fail to close fully. A helpful voice may point rebels toward a weakness in the wall. Accidents happen often in battle. It would be rude of us not to allow a few.”
One of the men swallowed. “Your Grace, if the rebels enter—”
“If the rebels enter, the Tyrells bleed,” Cersei said. “If the Tyrells bleed, the throne breathes. You need not understand more than that.”
They looked at the heavy purse on the table, then at her face. The purse was kinder.
“We understand, Your Grace.”
“Good. Do this well, and you will be rewarded. Fail me, and your families will learn how expensive failure can become.”
They left quickly.
Cersei returned to the balcony.
She was borrowing Stannis’s sword to cut the Tyrell shield. If he broke into the city, he would fight Mace’s men street by street. If he failed, the Tyrells would still bleed. If he won, his harsh justice and red god had no roots in King’s Landing. A queen mother could still maneuver around a victorious man with no friends in the city. Perhaps. It was madness, but Cersei had not been left many sane tools.
A second messenger arrived soon after, quieter than the first. He brought news from the streets.
Oberyn Martell had entered King’s Landing in secret.
He had not come to her.
He had sent feelers toward the Tyrells instead.
Cersei’s fingers closed on the balcony rail.
The viper was waiting for the better price. Naturally. Snakes rarely bit for free when they could be paid.
“Then the fire must burn hotter,” she murmured.
Below, the Mud Gate shook beneath stone and flame.