"Where are you going?!"
During a lull in arranging the city's defenses, Tyrion glanced at his good nephew, Joffrey, and saw that the boy was stealthily getting up and leaving the position Tyrion had assigned him.
Tyrion quickly went to him and, with his small hand, grabbed the long wrist of his king-nephew.
"I, I'm going back to the Red Keep!"
"What if I don't allow it?!"
"I am the King, it's not up to you to command me. If you stop me, I, I'll—"
"You'll what? Condemn me? Wait until Stannis is gone before you do that! Now, get back to your post immediately!"
Tyrion threatened him sternly, even raising a hand as if to slap Joffrey.
Seeing Tyrion's raised palm, Joffrey instinctively flinched.
He looked at Tyrion's large forehead, deep-set eyes, and a nose so short it was almost non-existent. The Imp lived up to his name.
Joffrey had no choice but to obediently follow him back. After ensuring Joffrey was watched, Tyrion returned to his command post.
The bronze spyglass in his hand seemed to be welded to his head. He saw that most of Stannis's fleet had already entered the Blackwater Rush.
Many ships were even slowly approaching the shore, attempting to land. During this process, he naturally organized men for a symbolic counterattack.
However, the scattered arrows were less than mosquito bites to the massive fleet, and the enemy's "fleet commander" also seemed very experienced, with all sails lowered to prevent fire attacks.
Tyrion turned the spyglass towards the small boats upstream.
That was his biggest trump card: over a dozen modified fast boats.
Each boat was laden with wildfire. Tyrion still remembered the alchemists from the Guild demonstrating the power of wildfire to him.
They had experimented with houses and armored pigs and sheep.
The result was that the flames, seemingly from hell, would absolutely not extinguish until everything that could be ignited was burned to ashes.
"The spell for making wildfire seems to be more effective," the words of the pyromancers who made the wildfire echoed in Tyrion's mind. Although he didn't know what influenced the power of the spell, Tyrion felt very lucky.
By now, the sky had darkened, and the ships were gradually visible only in outline.
Tyrion kept his eyes fixed on those small boats, the wildfire-laden boats like arrows poised to strike. He constantly calculated and estimated the distance between the "wildfire boats" and Stannis's fleet.
"My Lord Hand, fewer than thirty of Stannis's ships have yet to enter the Blackwater Rush," Podrick reported to Tyrion.
This was another personal guard he had found for himself. Tyrion simply did not trust his safety entirely to the Kingsguard sent by Cersei.
"Understood. From now on, you stay with me," Tyrion commanded. Then he turned to a blond soldier, as if making a decision, and said in a grim voice, "Give the signal! Burn them all!"
The soldier, having received the order, stood on the parapet, waving a torch at the wildfire boats on the river.
Upon receiving the signal, the small boats raised their sails and drifted downstream, like sharp arrows shot towards Stannis's fleet.
"Faster, faster, faster, faster."
The spyglass in Tyrion's hand moved with the small boats.
Five hundred feet — three hundred feet — two hundred feet — fifty feet —
Tyrion swallowed, sweat constantly breaking out on his body.
Not just him, but every pair of eyes on the city walls moved with the small boats.
It was as if their gaze could add a few more speeds to those wildfire-laden boats.
When the men on the boats were still twenty or thirty feet from the small boats, they threw their torches into the holds and then jumped into the water.
Immediately after, only a flash of white light shone.
No, that wasn't white light; it was emerald green fire, only it was too dazzling.
Everyone's eyes were momentarily blinded by the sudden explosion.
Green flames erupted one after another. The warships advancing at the forefront were instantly ignited, and green wildfire splattered everywhere.
The greedy green fiery python swallowed an entire front row of twenty warships in the blink of an eye!
The suddenly attacked warships tried to retreat, but behind them were more and larger warships.
The green ritual of fire officially began. Aided by the strong wind, the green flames quickly spread to the second row of warships.
At this point, the emerald green flames began to show a faint yellow glow.
By the third row, the yellow light was even more noticeable, and it was only then that the warships at the very rear of the fleet realized what was happening ahead and began to try to retreat.
But for some unknown reason, after retreating for a short while, the fleet stopped there. The massive fleet writhed and struggled in place, like eels doused with a ladle of hot oil.
As the fire spread wildly, countless sailors and soldiers scrambled to jump into the icy water.
"Let me see!" Joffrey, who had appeared from nowhere, snatched the spyglass from Tyrion's hand.
The green fire cast a greenish hue on his face, but the smile on his lips was hard to conceal.
He continuously adjusted the spyglass's focus, as if to savor the sight, and soon, he locked onto the Fury, Stannis's command warship.
He had once ridden the Fury to conquer Dragonstone, the last Targaryen stronghold.
Joffrey wanted to see the Fury also consumed by wildfire, but the Fury's position was somewhat to the rear, and it wouldn't burn for a while.
But it didn't matter, it was surrounded by ships.
The winch tower behind had already raised its chains. The yellow-hulled Fury was like a beast trapped in a cage, unable to advance or retreat.
Tyrion looked at Joffrey, who was grinning foolishly through the spyglass. He had intended to push him aside.
But he looked at his thirteen-year-old nephew and his crown, hesitated, and decided against it. At least he wasn't afraid now and could focus on being a mascot.
"Alright, go back. When this war is won, people will remember that King Joffrey I led us to victory over the usurper Stannis," Tyrion said in a coaxing tone, urging him to leave his side.
When Joffrey returned to his position, he even preened, adjusting his armor.
Tyrion knew that although Stannis had fallen into the trap, the real battle had not yet begun.
Soldiers had already landed on the north bank of the Blackwater Rush and were preparing to begin the siege. In the forest north of King's Landing, Solla and a group of Northern soldiers looked south, craning their necks.
By now, even the sky was illuminated green by the wildfire. Such a spectacle reminded Jon of the aurora he had once seen.
"Jon," Solla quickly said upon seeing Jon wake up.
"Order the soldiers to bring the siege ladders. We're attacking!"
Although Jon had volunteered for the vanguard mission, he was usually a "vanguard officer," not necessarily meaning he had to be at the very front.
But to boost morale, he rushed to the front. The reason was that those carrying the siege ladders were common soldiers, specifically, soldiers of House Bolton commanded by Jon.
Their numbers were not large, but there were six or seven hundred. This was also to conserve the strength of the truly armored soldiers, the main force for breaching the city.
To show them that he wasn't treating them as cannon fodder, Jon carried a ladder with them, rushing forward. This changed the attitude of some Dreadfort soldiers who had previously resented him.
The sudden explosion attracted not only the Northern soldiers hidden in the forest.
The gold-cloaked defenders on the city walls were also drawn to it. At this moment, they were all looking up at the sky, not a single one maintaining vigilance.
Because Tyrion had anticipated that Stannis's main attack would be on the River Gate, he had drawn off a considerable portion of the soldiers from other gates and directions.
Through God's Perspective, Jon could sense that the Old Gate's garrison was only about six or seven hundred men.
And the quality of these six or seven hundred defenders was also very ordinary. Most were newly recruited gold cloaks.
Not long ago, they might have been blacksmiths, tanners' apprentices, or tailors' accountants.
Therefore, their battlefield vigilance was extremely poor.
Jon ordered each soldier to hold a stone in their mouth, ensuring they made no sound until they were as close to the city wall as possible.
'Closer, closer still!'
As Jon and the army approached, the city walls of King's Landing grew even taller.
This was not comparable to a small city like Rosby.
The Dreadfort soldiers leading the way wished they could disappear into the darkness.
To quickly approach the city walls, Jon hadn't even made them wear armor.
This meant that once discovered, they would have to face rolling stones and arrows with their flesh and blood.
Thud—
When the first siege ladder was placed against the city wall, a soldier finally reacted.
A soldier who had once been a tailor looked down and saw a group of soldiers carrying dozens of feet long siege ladders surging towards the base of the city wall.
And behind them was a group of soldiers dressed in white armor.
The white armor was very conspicuous in the dark, like scales on a silverfish.
"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!!!"
The tailor-soldier cried out in panic. These soldiers, temporarily used to augment the defense, fumbled with their bows, arrows, and weapons.
But in that short moment, four or five siege ladders had already been erected.
The scattered arrows were also difficult to aim in the dark.
After a long fight, only a dozen people were hit by arrows.
And at this moment, Jon was already preparing to climb the siege ladder.
"Lord Jon, let me go first!" Martin vied for the position beside him.
"Get out of the way!"
There was no time for gentle words on the battlefield. He had to take the Old Gate as quickly as possible. Ideally, he would seize it before the defenders could send word.
He held his sword in one hand and climbed with the other, ascending at a nearly constant speed, quickly surpassing all the other soldiers.
His prominent position naturally attracted the attention of the soldiers on the city walls.
Arrows and rolling stones began to concentrate on Jon.
But he deflected them all.
"My lord—"
Martin, seeing this, almost popped his eyeballs out.
Was this even human?
He saw Jon not even slow down while parrying, but instead climbed towards the city wall even faster.
Realizing what was happening, Martin, along with the heavily armored soldiers behind him, shouted, "Did you see that! The lord is at the front! Go! Go! Everyone, hurry up!"
Inspired by Jon, the soldiers, relying on their sturdy and thick armor, began to scramble up the city walls one by one.
In just a few minutes, the city walls were covered with soldiers in white armor.
"Quick! Report to the Hand, tell him there's an enemy attack on the Old Gate! Tell him there are about a thousand, no, a thousand men!"
By now, the sky had completely darkened, and the officer couldn't accurately estimate how many attackers there were.
He could only estimate the number "high."
He would never have imagined that the so-called thousand men were not even a fraction of the enemy's true numbers.
Just as he was about to organize a counterattack, a young soldier climbed up.
He shouted at this group of clearly new recruits, "I am Jon Snow, son of Eddard Stark! The Mountain was killed by me! Those who don't want to die, drop your weapons and surrender immediately!"
Jon shouted loudly at these new recruits. If he could scare the enemy with his reputation, that would naturally be for the best.
But clearly, the officer was unwilling to give up easily.
He drew his sword and said, "What nonsense! This bastard is lying! Kill! Kill him, and he'll be rewarded five hundred gold—"
The officer hadn't finished speaking when a grey-white shadow flashed past.
A Direwolf suddenly leaped out and bit him on the neck.
A tearing sound, like cloth being ripped, echoed, and hot, crimson blood began to spray from the officer's neck.
Soon, more and more heavily armored soldiers jumped onto the city walls.
Facing these elite soldiers, they didn't even have the courage to fight.
Some timid soldiers threw down their spears and ran wildly in the direction of their homes.
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