"Father, let me go. I will definitely take that bastard's head for you!"
"No."
Mace refused Loras's request expressionlessly. He looked at King's Landing not far away, his thoughts seemingly returning to Storm's End.
A depressing thought echoed in his mind: Do I really have no talent for war at all?
First, Stannis held off his tens of thousands of troops with a small force. Now, Jon was reenacting that scene.
Two consecutive failures caused this man, almost old enough to be a grandfather, to suffer severe self-doubt.
"My Lord, the Lannister army has breached the Lion Gate!" At this moment, a young noble came to report to Mace.
Mace, who had been extremely depressed, sprang up, his thick neck stretching out of his collar entirely.
"Really!"
"Yes! At least ten thousand Westerlands troops have entered King's Landing."
The young noble looked very young, his face still showing unconcealable childishness.
He was Dickon Tarly, Randyll Tarly's youngest son. Randyll had driven Sam away to make room for this son.
Hearing this news, Mace was overjoyed, feeling he could do it again.
Mace drew the longsword at his waist and shouted loudly to the commander carrying four banners on the battlements: "Siege! Whoever can chop off that Northern bastard's head, I'll reward him with a hundred thousand gold dragons!"
Suddenly, the Reach army, which had been launching lazy attacks, began to attack desperately.
However, those charging at the front were all ordinary soldiers.
The knights and nobles dared not show their heads; Jon's terrifying archery had truly left a deep impression on them.
Martyn naturally took advantage of this, aiming his longbow back and forth without shooting.
He already knew about Tywin's army breaching the Lion Gate and, of course, the wildfire trap. So he frequently turned to look in the direction of the Lion Gate.
"Lord Jon, you must take the Red Keep!" Martyn prayed in his heart. Suddenly, a blinding green flame made him squint instinctively to avoid it.
The bowstring he hadn't released also snapped an arrow forward.
The arrow went ridiculously wide.
But fortunately, no one noticed; everyone saw the terrifying emerald firelight.
Boom—
An earth-shattering explosion seemed to make the ground tremble.
The direction of the Lion Gate turned into a sea of green fire.
As if the earth itself were burning.
"Kevan—" Tywin, whose face had always been cold as ice, realized they had been tricked.
Tens of thousands of Westerlands elites were swallowed by wildfire, and his brother Kevan, commanding almost at the very front, had absolutely zero chance of survival.
"My Lord, my Lord, it's dangerous!"
Tywin's guards desperately held him back. Watching the soldiers swallowed by flames, his heartache made breathing difficult.
Whether fortunate or unfortunate, some soldiers weren't at the epicenter of the wildfire explosion but were still affected.
Green flames splashed onto their armor, instantly turning them into green human torches.
They frantically tried to remove their armor, but steel conducted heat exceptionally well.
Scalding steel was in near-zero distance contact with their skin, and the air was filled with the smell of burnt flesh.
If three or four thousand out of ten thousand died on the spot, back then, Aegon the Conqueror's "Field of Fire" only burned four thousand to death or injury.
The remaining six or seven thousand soldiers surrounded by wildfire were dizzy from the heatwave, their morale completely lost.
At this moment, fewer than four thousand soldiers remained by Tywin's side. With this battle, the Westerlands elites were completely lost!
"Jon! Snow!"
Tywin looked at the green wall of fire higher than the city wall ahead. His eyes were red, but the seeping tears were quickly dried by the oncoming heatwave.
He clenched his back molars tightly, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth, a beast-like roar emitting from his chest. Supported by his personal guards, he slowly stood up and issued the order he least wanted to give:
Retreat!
Sure enough, as soon as Tywin's order was given, elite troops encircled both sides of the breached wall, completely trapping the Westerlands soldiers who hadn't been burned to death inside the city.
The wildfire hidden by Aerys wasn't as powerful as the newly produced wildfire, but fortunately, it was entirely sufficient to trap these Westerlands soldiers.
The scarlet golden lion banner on the battlements was chopped down, replaced again by Jon's black banner with the white wolf.
The massive gate of the Red Keep, just like fifteen years ago, was opened from the inside. The heavy doors made a creaking sound, like the groan of a giant beast.
Behind the door wasn't the imagined splendor, but a bottomless darkness like a dragon's gullet, emitting the scent of rust, blood, and death. Sunlight struggled to squeeze in, illuminating the dancing dust before the gate, like countless ghosts circling at the victor's feet.
High on the battlements, Ser Harrion panted heavily, his large frame trembling slightly from exhaustion and excitement. He extended an armored foot and kicked the yellow banner with the crowned stag off the battlements, followed by the red banner with the roaring golden lion. The banners fell mournfully, like two giant birds shot down, tumbling into the square below mixed with mud and bloody water.
Then, he solemnly unfurled and raised Jon Snow's banner—the direwolf on the black field, white as glacial ice, snapped in the salty sea breeze of King's Landing, as if truly alive, issuing a silent roar to this liberated capital.
"Victory!"
Harrion looked at the wildfire still burning eerily in the distance towards the river. Green flames licked the sky; even from this distance, he seemed to feel the heat searing his soul.
His thick beard covering his chest fluttered in the wind. At this moment, his chest swelled with heroic pride. Such a victory was enough to leave a significant mark in history books, and his name, Harrion, would be sung in ballads alongside Jon Snow for a thousand years!
"Bring the chaotic kingdom back on track!" he murmured, repeating Jon's words.
But immediately, a chill seized him unexpectedly. Ambitious men who shouldn't be kings declared themselves kings— Jon's other sentence echoed in his mind. He suddenly realized a terrible consequence—Jon had now achieved unparalleled merit, yet he fought under the banner of King Stannis Baratheon.
And the North, his homeland, had declared kingship under Jon's brother, Robb Stark. In the future—would Jon have to meet Robb on the battlefield?
This simple, honest rough man, who spent most of his life thinking about how to fight, was troubled for the first time by complex and headache-inducing political prospects. He looked worriedly toward the towering Maegor's Holdfast deep in the Red Keep. For Jon, who was younger than his own son, Harrion now felt a heartfelt awe, even a trace of fear. If that day truly came, he would naturally fight for Robb, but how could they defeat the Jon before him? He had no confidence.
Forget it. Harrion shook his head vigorously, as if to shake off these annoying thoughts. Jon—will definitely handle it well. He cast his gaze back to Maegor's Holdfast, happening to see through a high window, faintly spotting moving figures inside.
Inside Maegor's Holdfast, the air was thick enough to suffocate.
Compared to the clamorous victory outside the hall, this was a dead ruin. The former luxurious furnishings lay askew; broken wine goblets and scattered swords told of the final panic.
Jon Snow stood in the center of the drawing room. His armor was covered in blood and soot, but his posture remained as upright as an icicle on the Wall. Opposite him was the completely collapsed Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, and beside her, the "King" Joffrey, curled into a ball and trembling all over from extreme fear.
Cersei's golden hair was messy, her gorgeous gown full of wrinkles. Those emerald eyes that had fascinated countless people now held only emptiness and madness. Joffrey's face was pale as a frightened rabbit, showing none of his usual cruelty.
Jon's gaze passed over them and landed in the corner of the room. A Kingsguard—his white cloak filthy—held a longsword against a thin girl's neck. It was Sansa Stark, his sister. She was emaciated, her chin sharp, her large eyes filled with numb fear, like a fawn walking alone in a wasteland.
"The Lannisters are finished." Jon's voice was calm but carried unquestionable authority, echoing in the silent room. "Release my sister. I swear on my father, Eddard Stark's honor, to spare your life."
This sentence was like a final judgment. The Kingsguard's hand trembled. He looked at the mad-like Queen Regent, then at the murderous Jon, and the white wolf banner fluttering outside the window. The instinct for survival overwhelmed all loyalty.
Jon didn't remember if this white cloak was Meryn Trant or Boros Blount. It didn't matter; the current Kingsguard was filled with people seeking fame without ability. Presumably, Stannis wouldn't use them in the future either.
Clang! The longsword fell to the ground with a crisp sound, like shattering the invisible shackles binding Sansa.
Sansa froze for a moment, then burst forth with all the strength in her life. Like a fledgling finally finding its nest, she lunged at Jon. Her thin arms tightly hugged her brother's cold breastplate, her sharp chin hooking onto his pauldron, her whole body trembling violently.
"Jon—Jon—" she repeated incoherently, tears soaking his neck. "I was so scared—I was really so scared—every day, every moment—"
Although Jon and Sansa weren't deeply attached, and even somewhat disliked each other, at this moment, his heart felt gripped by a cold hand.
Jon sheathed his sword and gently patted Sansa's back with his gauntleted hand. This girl of only twelve still retained a faint scent of lemons—the last trace of Winterfell and a happy past life, completely out of place with the surrounding despair.
Heh, this little sister. Jon sighed inwardly. Nothing aroused a man's protective instinct more than a weak sister or daughter.
Watching Sansa throw herself into Jon's arms, Cersei understood she had lost her last chip. A complex expression mixed with despair, pride, and maternal instinct flashed across her face. Suddenly, with astonishing speed, she pulled a small glass vial from her sleeve, uncorked it, and moved to pour it into her mouth—it was the last dignity she reserved for herself as Queen Regent.
"Drink it."
Jon's voice rang out again. No scolding, no stopping, calm as if stating a fact.
"Drink it, and Myrcella and Tommen will officially become motherless children."
Cersei's movement froze in mid-air, her lips already feeling the cold bitterness from the bottle's rim.
"I grew up without a mother," Jon continued, taking a step forward, his gaze piercing Cersei like an ice pick. Now was the best moment to crush Cersei's psychological defense! "Those days were like a winter that never ends. You hate Tyrion because he took your mother. Do you want your children to spend the rest of their lives hating you?"
Every word was like a dull knife, slowly and precisely cutting through Cersei's psychological defense. She remembered her mother, Lady Joanna, who died in childbirth, and how that grief swallowed her entire childhood.
She thought of her endless resentment towards Tyrion—how much of it stemmed from the pain of losing her mother transferred onto him. If she died, what would happen to Myrcella and Tommen? Not only would they lose their mother, but they would also be branded "bastards," struggling to survive amidst humiliation and danger, perhaps... not even living to adulthood.
Maternal instinct finally triumphed over pride and despair. With a clatter, the exquisite glass vial slipped from her trembling hand, rolling away on the floor, the lethal liquid slowly spilling out. Cersei Lannister, the Queen Regent who once held power over the Seven Kingdoms, collapsed to the ground as if all her bones had been removed.
She was no longer a ruler high above, but a mother beast trying to protect her cubs. She crawled on her knees, her gorgeous skirt dragging across the cold floor, to Jon's feet, grabbing his trouser leg with hands stained with tears and dust.
"I beg you—I beg you—" She looked up, tears ruining her exquisite makeup. "Spare Joffrey! He didn't mean it—he's just a child—let him go to the Wall, let him take the black! Spare his life! Spare his life! Spare his life!!!" Her pleading was hoarse and exhausted, filled with utter collapse.
The Kingsguard witnessing this lowered his head in shame. The former Queen Regent now groveling at the feet of a Northern bastard—what irony.
Sansa had calmed down slightly. She silently left Jon's embrace and stood behind him. Looking at Cersei begging for mercy, her eyes were complex. Before today, she might still have harbored fear, or even a twisted envy, for this woman's superficial elegance and power.
But now, she saw only ruins. She also remembered her past attitude towards Jon. Because of his bastard status, she always deliberately emphasized he was only a "half-brother" to draw a line. At this moment, standing behind this "half-brother," she felt an unprecedented sense of security.
"He didn't give my father a chance on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor either, did he?" Jon's tone was as cold as the eternal ice of the North, continuing to destroy Cersei's sanity.
He crouched down, meeting Cersei's pleading green eyes at eye level.
"I am already very merciful, Your Grace. Think of Tommen and Myrcella. As long as you cooperate, King Stannis might show extra mercy and grant you a quiet tower to live in. Myrcella can marry safely, Tommen can live out his days in peace. In the future, you could even be an ordinary grandmother, enjoying your grandchildren. Perhaps—just as my father privately suggested to you—you and your children could take a ship together, go to the Free Cities of Essos, and leave the strife of Westeros forever."
Jon used low, clear words to paint the only possible future for Cersei in her despair, bit by bit dismantling her last resistance.
But she suddenly shuddered, catching unusual information in his words: "You—how do you know what Eddard Stark said to me?" It was an extremely private conversation. Under the moonlight, by the weirwood, Cersei had proposed Eddard become the "Lord Protector and Regent."
Cersei wasn't stupid; she knew only with Eddard's affirmation could Joffrey's crown sit securely.
Thus, she didn't hesitate to offer herself.
Tsk, slipped up. A nearly imperceptible fluctuation flashed in Jon's eyes, but under the absolute power of the moment, it was insignificant. "Because he was my father," he explained quickly and naturally. "Lord Eddard Stark upheld honor and justice all his life. He opposed King Robert hunting down Daenerys Targaryen back then. Presumably, he also felt a trace of pity for you. Don't forget, there's Jaime. You can leave together and start a new life."
"Jaime..." Cersei murmured the name absently, the figure of her twin brother seeming to appear before her eyes. All her strength was finally exhausted. She slumped completely onto the cold floor, her eyes unfocused, no longer struggling, no longer speaking. She acquiesced.
Jon signaled the soldiers behind him. Two Northern soldiers stepped forward and, reasonably politely, lifted the dazed Cersei and dragged her out the door.
"No—!" When dragged to the doorway, Cersei seemed to wake from her numbness, screaming shrilly and kicking her feet. "Spare Joffrey! Don't kill him! Please—don't!"
Her crying faded into the corridor but lingered like background noise.
Jon knew Cersei had accepted his proposal; those screams were merely maternal instinct.
Now, only Jon, Sansa, and Joffrey, who was limp on the floor covered in snot and tears, remained in the room.
"I am the King! I am the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms!" Joffrey screamed, trying to maintain his last dignity, but his trembling voice and flailing limbs like a reptile betrayed him. "Jon! Snow! I can make you Duke of the North! No, Hand of the King! What do you want? Gold? Castles? Women? I'll give you everything! Please—don't kill me—I'm willing to go to the Wall! I'm willing to swear!"
Jon didn't even bother to look at him again, let alone waste words.
He had achieved his goal of capturing Cersei alive. As for Joffrey, he had to die. Just as Jon drew his sword and walked towards Joffrey, Sansa stopped him.
Just when Jon thought Sansa was going to plead for Joffrey, Sansa said seriously, "Jon, can I do it?"
Okay, she's got some Stark in her. Jon gave her an approving look, but Sansa couldn't even lift the sword.
So Jon placed the hilt into Sansa's slender hands, covering her hands with his own. Guided by Jon, Sansa felt they were performing an ancient and solemn ritual, holding the longsword together, walking step by step toward Joffrey.
The sword tip reflected the firelight outside, the cold glint dancing on Joffrey's face twisted by extreme fear. His golden curls were soaked with sweat and tears, his green eyes holding only primal fear of death. He curled backward, waving his arms futilely. Begging turned into meaningless howling, and a foul stench spread from beneath him.
"For Eddard Stark!" Jon guided Sansa's arms, gathering all her grief and indignation, and swung down with force!
A flash of cold light! It wasn't a clean cut; the blade met bone resistance as it hacked into the neck, making a teeth-grinding dull sound. Jon deliberately controlled the force so the process wouldn't be too "quick."
Blood, like the richest wine, sprayed out violently, dying the gorgeous carpet red and splattering onto Sansa's pale cheek and plain dress. A head full of golden hair rolled onto the floor, covered in dust, mouth frozen in a scream, those once-malicious green eyes wide open, seemingly unable to comprehend the eternal darkness before them.
Outside, Cersei's heart-wrenching screams seemed to resonate with the spurting blood inside, gradually fading until swallowed by the silence of death.
Everything returned to dead silence.
Sansa let go of the hilt, her hands still trembling uncontrollably. She stared blankly at the headless corpse still twitching slightly on the floor and that once-arrogant head. No screaming, no vomiting, just crying with abnormal calm, tears washing away the blood spots on her cheeks.
"Jon," she asked softly, her voice drifting like a breath in winter, "is this revenge? Why—why do I feel empty inside, as if a part of me died too?"
That's good. Stark children aren't bad at heart. Jon pulled her gently into his embrace, letting her face rest against his cold, hard breastplate, shielding her from the bloody scene.
Jon sheathed his sword and ruffled her hair like he did with Arya.
"Revenge doesn't bring happiness, Sansa." Jon guided this girl who had once yearned for court life. "It just... crosses out a blood debt in the ledger. It can't bring Father back, nor erase the harm we suffered. Father wouldn't be satisfied by our killing today, but he would be gratified that we are still alive and can reunite like a wolf pack."
He put his arm around Sansa's shoulder and walked step by step out of this room filled with the scent of blood and death. Outside the door, the black banner with the white wolf flew high under the sky of King's Landing.