[72] The Battle of Blackwater
Chapter 72: The Battle of Blackwater
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The acrid stench of burnt hair and melted steel filled Tyrion’s nostrils as cheers erupted along the battlements.
Gold cloaks pounded spears against stone, their laughter sharp and giddy. Below, the bay writhed like an emerald serpent. Ships crackled in the grip of wildfire, their masts clawing at the smoke-choked sky. Tyrion leaned over the parapet, bile rising in his throat.
Too explosive. Too quick.
He was the one to prepare the wildfire, but he hadn't realized how insane the effects would be. This… this was what pure destruction looked like.
“They’re breaking!” a guardsman crowed, spittle flying. “Look at the bastards run!”
Tyrion squinted through the haze. Amid the floating pyres, dark shapes bobbed in the water—men. Hundreds of them. No, thousands. They flailed toward shore like rats fleeing a burning granary.
His stomach dropped.
Somehow, a considerable number of those bastards were alive. Like cockroaches!
“Archers!” Tyrion barked, voice raw. “Loose at the shoreline! Now, you fools!”
The order came too late. Figures already scrambled onto the mudflats south of the Lion Gate, armor glinting wetly in the hellish glow.
A banner rose from the chaos—a fiery heart stitched onto night-black cloth.
Stannis.
Stannis Baratheon, the Mannis.
The usurper’s men moved with the grim efficiency of cornered wolves. Tyrion’s heart dropped as they formed ragged squares, shields overlapping as they advanced toward the city’s weaker eastern gates.
Tyrion’s fingernails bit into the damp stone. The Mud Gate’s defenses were a joke—rotting timbers manned by green boys and greybeards.
“My lord!” A gold cloak captain skidded to a halt near Joffrey, who was frozen behind Tyrion. In the meantime, the city’s army rushed out the gate to fight. “It's bad news!”
“Wha-” his nephew cleared his throat. “What happened?!”
Tyrion was also curious what the fuck else could be so important as a time like this? The guard answered soon. “The- the Flea Bottom mobs—they’re tearing down the Street of Steel barricades!”
Joffrey froze and stuttered while Tyrion’s brows somehow tightened more than they already were. “...Why?”
“Some fool shouted the gates fell.” The man swallowed. “They’re dragging chests through the alleys. Furniture. Dead horses. Gods know what else.”
Sevensdamn it. His mind raced while the actual King of this city remained frozen. What should he do now? Let Stannis take a gatehouse, and the city would flood with panicked smallfolk and enemy soldiers.
He seized the captain’s gorget. “Take twenty men. Kill anyone blocking the approaches. Anyone.”
As the man fled with nods, Podrick somehow materialized with a dented breastplate. “Your armor, my lord!”
The dwarf waved him off. “Fetch me a crossbow. Be fast about it! We–”
A clatter of metal echoed across the yard, and the crowd of gold cloaks parted suddenly, revealing Sandor Clegane.
The Hound shoved past them, soot and blood streaking his battered armor. His eyes looked wild, and there was a tremor in his hands.
Sandor’s voice rasped. “Someone get me a drink. Where’s the bloody wine?”
Tyrion blinked, stepping forward as some bastard did hand over a bottle of wine to the man. His eyes twitched. “Can I get you some iced milk, too? And some raspberries too?”
The Hound took a sip and scoffed. “Eat shit, dwarf.”
Tyrion’s fingers flexed, but he held back the anger. “You’re on the wrong side of the wall.”
“For who?” the Hound cut him off, gaze skittering around like he was looking for threats. “Your precious boy king? Let him find himself another dog.”
A shrill cry echoed from behind Tyrion as Joffrey stepped forward, face red in anger. “You useless dog! I command you to go out there and fight! Defend me!”
Sandor’s head jerked up, and something in his expression snapped. He stared at Joffrey’s face amid all this chaos. “Defend you? Blackwater is burning. Half my men are dead. Why don’t you grab a sword yourself, fucker?”
Joffrey’s shriek rose, cracking on the last syllable. “You dare talk— I’ll have your head, dog! I’ll—”
“You’re Kingsgaurd, Clegane,” Tyrion cut over Joffrey and spoke. “Stannis’ men are trying to take the city. Your King’s city. You have to fight them.”
The Hound sighed, too tired to deal with this. “Fuck the Kingsguard,” he said, ripping off the burnt, half-melted gauntlet on his right hand and flinging it aside. “Fuck the city. Fuck the King.”
His voice shook. And the way it did convinced Tyrion that it was too late.
A stunned silence fell over the gold cloaks. Even Tyrion’s throat felt dry. “Sandor,” he tried anyway, more softly, “the city needs—”
“Let it burn,” Sandor growled. Then he stormed past them, shoving aside anyone in his path. Joffrey’s shrill voice howled curses and commands, but the Hound never looked back. He vanished into the smoke.
Tyrion let out a shaky breath. “Seven hells.”
Podrick stood there, breastplate still in his arms, blinking like a startled deer. Tyrion wrenched it free, strapping it on himself. “All right, Pod, help me with the buckles. Quick.”
Pod’s hands shook as he fastened the straps, eyes flicking to where Sandor disappeared. “Should… should we go after him?”
Tyrion grimaced, checking his short sword. “No time. We have bigger problems right now. The Mud Gate—”
A meaty hand yanked him backward, pulling him amid the crowd of soldiers, and taking him to an alley. Tyrion’s boots scraped stone as a shadow resolved into Varys’ moon-pale face.
The eunuch wore beggar’s rags that smelled like sour ale.
Tyrion's eyes saw red. “Unhand me, you—”
“The riverfront’s lost, my lord,” Varys said, grip iron-strong. “No reinforcements will be coming. You understand what that means, right?”
“....”
“It's alright. The Blackwater has tunnels even Cersei doesn’t know.”
Beyond the walls, a rhythmic thud shook the air—rams pounding wood. Tyrion wrenched free. “That’s the Mud Gate! I designed those reinforcements!”
“You also designed a plan that worked wonderfully, my lord.” Varys’ smile didn’t reach his eyes. “And yet here we are. It's a failure in the end.”
A section of the wall exploded.
Not fire. Not steel. Men.
Stannis’ vanguard poured through a shattered postern gate, their shouts merging with the city’s dying screams. Tyrion saw the exact moment his gold cloaks broke—a boy no older than Tommen dropping his spear to puke, then falling with a crossbow bolt in his neck.
Joffrey shouted and turned to his heels. Tyrion's brain throbbed in anger.
“Now, now,” Varys insisted, wrapping a reeking cloak around Tyrion’s shoulders. “Before they light the siege towers.”
The dwarf hesitated.
Somewhere far, Podrick stood guard over the crossbow he’d never fired. Somewhere above, Joffrey’s panicked yelling mixed with the roar of flames.
The first ladder clanged against the battlements.
****
Stannis Baratheon strode through the shattered Mud Gate.
The stench of burning pitch and spilled bowels clung to the air as his boots crunched on charred wood and broken arrowheads, the red heart on his surcoat glistening with flecks of blood not his own.
Around him, the remnants of Joffrey’s gold cloaks fled like rats into the maze of alleys, their gilded armor discarded in the gutters.
“Press the advance!” Stannis barked, his voice raw from smoke and shouted orders. Ser Richard Horpe raised the flaming heart banner higher, its fabric snapping like a whip in the scorched wind.
For the first time in his thirty-odd years of life, Stannis Baratheon tasted true triumph in his veins.
Not the hollow satisfaction of duty fulfilled nor the bitter aftertaste of grudging alliances.
This was victory, hot and metallic on his tongue. He could feel it in his grasp.
The walls were breached. The defenders were broken, and their King nowhere to be seen. Somewhere in this stinking cesspool of a city, that bastard Joffrey cowered while true steel carved a path to the throne that should’ve been his by rights.
Stannis was sure victory would be his very soon. Anytime now. These scared soldiers, praying for their lives, they'd surrender anytime now!
The trembling commoners within the city wouldn't even bother to fight.
So, Stannis was convinced victory was already his.
Until… a strange roar split the sky—deep and resonant, like a thousand forge bellows pumping at once. He barely registered it until he saw the men falter.
“You there!” He, not realising the sound was an announcement of death, seized a fleeing spearman by the gorget. “Eyes forward! The city is—”
The second roar shook the very stones beneath their feet. Stannis turned his head upward, squinting through the veil of smoke. For a heartbeat, he thought it another wildfire explosion, some Lannister trickery left to boil in its own poison.
Then the clouds parted.
A Gold Dragon’s wingspan blotted out the moon.
Men screamed. Stannis did not—could not—as the dragon banked sharply, its golden scales reflecting the hellish glow of burning King’s Landing.
The creature’s rider sat astride its neck like some vengeful god, silver hair whipping behind a helm fashioned in the shape of snarling dragon jaws.
“...Archers!” Stannis roared, though his voice sounded distant, tinny. “Loose! Loose, damn you!”
The first volley fell like pathetic rain. The dragon swooped lower, jaws gaping wide, and Stannis’ world became fire.
Not green wildfire. Not the hungry orange flames devouring the city. This was liquid sunlight made manifest—a river of gold that washed over his vanguard. Men burned where they stood, steel melting to slag in their gauntlets.
A knight of House Morrigen vanished mid-swing, his ancestral two-handed greatsword dripping molten metal onto the cobbles. The stench of cooked meat overwhelmed even the smoke.
“Hold the line!” Stannis bellowed, though the line had disintegrated. He saw Ser Godry Farring stumbling blindly, face reduced to red pulp beneath a half-melted helm.
The dragon banked again, its shadow swallowing whole companies of men.
Melisandre’s warnings. The visions in the flames. A golden beast with wings of flame. Dammit. His teeth ground so hard his jaw ached. “Rally to the—”
Another shower of flame. The street exploded in a shower of shattered stone. Stannis staggered, his ears ringing, as a hand yanked him backward into the relative shelter of a collapsed stable.
“Your Grace, we must retreat!” A voice shouted, and Stannis wished it was Davos. But it was not. It was Ser Richard Horpe, his face streaked with soot and blood. The banner he’d carried lay trampled in the mud, its flaming heart blackened beyond recognition.
“Retreat?” Stannis shoved him aside, still unsure if his eyes were playing tricks. “We hold this ground or die upon it!”
But even as he spoke, the truth unfolded before him.
Where moments ago a conquering host had stood, only charred skeletons remained—some still standing in macabre formation, clutching weapons fused to bony fingers.
The dragon circled overhead, its shrieks piercing the cacophony of screams.
Then came the horns.
Not the deep-throated blasts of Stannis’ own reserves nor the panicked trills of Lannister stragglers.
These were bright and mocking, a chorus of arrogance carried on the wind. Through the haze, banners emerged—endless rows of golden roses on green fields.
The Tyrell host advanced with the crisp precision of a tourney parade, untouched by fire or steel. At their head rode a knight in emerald armor, his lance-tip pointed casually at the sky. Behind him came thousands—tens of thousands—of fresh soldiers, their armor gleaming as though they’d marched through a sunlit meadow rather than a burning city.
As if on cue, the Golden Dragon landed with an earth-shaking thud between the two forces, wings folding like an executioner sheathing his blade.
The rider removed his helm, revealing a face that might’ve stepped from the pages of some ancient Targaryen artworks. Silver hair. Violet eyes. A smile sharp enough to draw blood.
“Stannis Baratheon,” the dragonrider said, “this is your end, usurper.”
Stannis’ sword arm trembled, not from fear but pure, incandescent rage. Every muscle screamed to charge—to bury his blade in that smirking mouth, dragon or no dragon. Yet his legs refused to move.
Before him lay the smoldering remains of his life’s work.
Behind, the relentless tide of Highgarden’s finest.
The man, Viserys Targaryen, raised a gloved hand. The Tyrell ranks halted as one, the sudden silence more terrifying than any war cry.
The Battle of Blackwater had come to a halt. And Stannis the Mannis had not won.
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