The river chain, raised by the winch tower, had already been torn apart.
But Stannis was almost completely annihilated.
Out of an army of twenty thousand, only three thousand ultimately escaped.
Out of more than two hundred warships, only twenty survived.
Stannis looked at the fallen chain, grinding his teeth with a grating sound.
It was as if he wished he could bite the chain to pieces, chew it up, and swallow it.
"If only I had one more hour," Stannis thought, looking at the still burning wreckage of the fleet.
But now the army was exhausted, and morale had plummeted to rock bottom.
According to news from the Kingsguard, Stannis had heard a ridiculous story: the so-called ghost of Renly.
Some said Renly had resurrected and was leading an army in a charge.
Stannis, of course, scoffed at this.
He knew he had personally executed his usurper brother, and there was no way Renly could have survived.
"As long as I live, there will always be a way," Stannis thought, a teaching from Maester Cressen, who had watched him grow up.
"Maester Cressen." Somehow, Stannis suddenly missed the kind old maester very much.
According to the Citadel's rules, once a maester was assigned to a castle, he was to serve the lord of that castle—or, more accurately, the castle itself—until the end of his life.
Maesters, to some extent, could be called the "software" or "wetware" of a castle.
But Maester Cressen, upon learning that Stannis was granted Dragonstone, went with him to the castle on Dragonstone.
This was the old maester's silent love for this man of steel. Stannis knew that once he left, he didn't know when he would be able to return.
He looked at the wreckage of the warships covering the river, like his shattered victory, and finally, with difficulty, turned his back and left the battlefield.
Atop the city walls, the defending Gold Cloaks and mercenaries finally celebrated their victory.
Watching Stannis's army gradually retreat, they cheered loudly.
"Hear Me Roar!!!"
Tyrion, using all his might, shouted this Lannister house motto towards the direction of Stannis's retreat.
He stepped on a helmet, in a victor's pose.
The dented helmet under his foot was like his prey.
"This is my victory," Tyrion thought, hands on his hips, looking at the messy battlefield, a surge of emotion finally released from his chest.
He truly wished his father, and all the Lannisters, could see that with Jaime in the Kingsguard, he was the only one truly qualified to inherit Casterly Rock.
Somehow, a hint of melancholy suddenly crossed Tyrion's face.
He looked at Stannis's fleeing warships, and suddenly felt a sense of empathy.
He had studied all the battles of Robert's Rebellion that overthrew the Targaryens and concluded that Stannis was an outstanding commander.
But Robert had been somewhat harsh on his brother.
According to Stannis's accomplishments and the order of succession, he should have inherited Storms End and the title of Duke of the Stormlands.
But Robert had given what rightfully belonged to him to the superficial Renly.
Tyrion could understand Stannis's feelings. At this moment, he felt a certain kinship.
However, in this battle, only one of them was destined to obtain what rightfully belonged to them.
Sorry, victory belonged to Tyrion.
A bitter warmth surged in his heart, making his lips curl into an uncontrollable smile.
However, before this smile could fully bloom, a huge shadow silently enveloped him from behind and to his side. He didn't even have time to think what it was, only feeling a heavy blow to his face. The celebratory flames and the myriad stars in his vision instantly shattered, dissolving into boundless darkness. All his ambition, calculations, and grievances came to an abrupt halt at this moment.
Podrick was stunned to see a Kingsguard attempt to murder the Hand of the King. Just as the Kingsguard was about to deliver a killing blow to Tyrion, he plunged his weapon into the Kingsguard's body, buying Tyrion a chance at survival.
=
=
=
=
=
=
At this moment, Sansa and Cersei were in a room.
Though she was a duke's daughter, she was now terrified of making even the slightest sound.
Sansa watched the restless Cersei pacing back and forth, not even daring to breathe too deeply.
But even though she wished she could become transparent, Cersei still occasionally looked at her, as if deep in thought.
"Your Grace, Your Majesty the Queen Mother, His Majesty the King has returned."
"Joffrey."
Upon hearing that Joffrey had returned, Sansa felt even more nervous.
Ever since her father Eddard was executed, Sansa had become Joffrey's punching bag for his anger.
He had personally said he would strip Sansa naked and throw her into Flea Bottom, and she didn't believe it was an empty threat.
Therefore, she spent entire nights unable to sleep, and even when she did, she would wake up in fright from nightmares.
And Cersei, hearing her son had returned, hurried over to check on him.
One minute, two minutes, five minutes—.
Sansa closed her eyes and pricked up her ears, trying to overhear their conversation as much as possible.
Why had Joffrey returned?
Had the battle at the front gone badly?
Had Stannis broken through?
Was she—was she going to be saved?
"Take the King to rest."
Finally, Sansa only heard this one sentence, and the returning Cersei became even more agitated.
She came to Sansa's side, and Sansa instantly jumped up from the chair where she had only been sitting on the edge, her slender body like a reed in the wind.
"Your, Your Majesty the Queen Mother."
Cersei was thinking about something, and Sansa didn't dare to meet her eyes.
Sansa felt her body trembling.
"Keep an eye on her for me."
Cersei said to the handmaiden beside Sansa.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The handmaiden, or perhaps a septa, Sansa didn't know. Ever since Eddard's death, everyone around her who had once been friendly had become monstrous.
The handmaidens were like this, the guards were like this, and those so-called septas even more so.
"Perhaps Stannis has broken in?"
Sansa secretly encouraged herself.
"Will he save me?" Sansa wasn't sure. Although she had seen Stannis, they had never spoken.
After an unknown amount of time, a knight rushed back to the castle and loudly reported to Cersei: "Your Majesty the Queen Mother, Stannis's army has left!"
"Are you sure?!" Cersei asked eagerly.
This time, Sansa heard Cersei's words clearly.
But that so-called "victory report" pushed her into an abyss deeper than deep.
She didn't know when she would be able to leave this court she had once longed for so much. Now she only wanted to go back, back to Winterfell to continue her needlework. She missed Arya, she missed Bran, she missed her mother, and she even missed Jon.
Suddenly, Sansa felt her hand moisten, and only then realized they were her own tears.
Suddenly, Sansa thought of her Direwolf, Lady.
It was Arya's wolf that had bitten Joffrey, but in the end, her own Lady had been the scapegoat.
A thought appeared in Sansa's mind: if she were like her Direwolf, would she not have to suffer here?
This young girl, in her despair, thought of death.
Once this thought was born, it was hard to shake off.
It was dark, yet warm.
Just as Sansa was contemplating the possibility of this idea, Cersei's scream suddenly echoed in her ears.
Sharp, piercing, like the sound of a shattering crystal glass.
"Where did this Northern army come from?!"
"Where did this Northern army come from!!!"
"The North? She just said the North!" In an instant, Sansa felt light and warmth pour into her dark world.
Although it was only a little, it was enough to make her shake off that dreadful thought.
On the other side, Bronn, who had temporarily taken over command in Tyrion's absence, also couldn't understand: where did this Northern army come from?
Shouldn't they be in the Riverlands?
"Get up! All of you, get the hell up, the enemy is attacking again!"
Bronn shouted, looking at the mercenaries and Gold Cloaks sprawled on the ground.
Although this suddenly appearing contingent of soldiers was not large, they had clearly arrived from another city gate.
More enemies must be on their way.
And like them, they were also on the city walls. Without the terrain advantage, and with their Gold Cloaks exhausted.
But Bronn still wanted to hold on, because he knew reinforcements were already crossing the river.
If he could repel these soldiers and hold the city gate, it would be another great achievement.
Thinking this, Bronn felt a surge of excitement.
He pulled and dragged the soldiers lying on the ground, barely managing to construct a defensive line.
Bronn's eyes widened, trying to see what banner the opposing force was flying.
But because the light was too dim, he could only make out a white pattern on a black background.
"Karstark?"
As a mercenary, Bronn naturally understood heraldry. He had even read a couple of books on it recently at Tyrion's suggestion.
"Hold them! Our reinforcements are crossing the river, there aren't many of them, we mustn't be afraid!" The Gold Cloaks, who had thought they had already won, were pulled to their feet, but the arms that had just been able to wield longswords now felt incredibly heavy.
Some could only barely hold their spears by wedging them under their armpits.
Bronn took off his glove and tossed it aside, to get a better grip on his sword hilt.
He spoke words of encouragement while looking at the approaching banners in the distance.
"It's not the sun?"
Bronn realized it wasn't the House Karstark's Winter Sun banner, but a somewhat familiar one.
When he saw the "running and roaring" white Direwolf on the banner, his thoughts immediately returned to the battlefield of the Green Fork that day.
Not only that, but a large head was even hanging from that banner.
"The Mountain!"
Bronn instantly recognized the owner of the head and the symbol on the banner.
Eddard Stark's bastard son, the madman who had flooded the battlefield that day, Jon Snow!
Tyrion hadn't stopped talking about him since he brought Bronn back to King's Landing.
And Bronn had personally witnessed Jon's skill on the battlefield.
Not to mention he had also killed The Mountain.
"I am not his match." Suddenly, Bronn lost all will to fight, feeling his courage draining from his body.
It was just that the soldiers he had rallied were still foolishly standing there, and he felt too awkward to leave immediately.
Indeed, as the Northern army drew closer, Bronn gradually made out the face of the leading commander.
He was clad in white armor, a longsword in his right hand, and the greatsword of the Mountain in his left.
Bronn recognized it again; that greatsword belonged to The Mountain! Yet he wielded it with ease with one hand.
As an expert swordsman, Bronn instantly recognized Jon's terrifying skill.
Bronn wanted to flee, but he knew that if he ran, he would have no chance of survival.
As he hesitated, Jon, leading the charge, shouted loudly at the Gold Cloaks standing in his way:
"I am Jon Snow, son of Eddard Stark!"
"I am Jon Snow of the Green Fork!"
"I am Jon Snow, who slew The Mountain!"
"Those who stand in my way shall die!!!"
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)