Chapter 194

What Robert’s will said, or who he ultimately intended to pass the throne to, was something the people of the Seven Kingdoms neither knew nor needed to know. With both brothers offering conflicting accounts, it would either remain a mystery lost to history or be written by the eventual victor. Even if Eddard Stark took the genuine will to the streets of King’s Landing for public viewing, who could claim to recognize Robert’s handwriting? One thing, however, was certain—no matter how many crowned themselves kings, the one who controlled King’s Landing held the greatest political and military advantage and was the most likely to gain widespread recognition.

Eddard Stark understood this, which was why he sent out a flock of ravens and dispatched swift ships to find Stannis and summon him back to claim the throne.

Stannis understood it as well. The moment he received the message, he abandoned his pursuit of pirates and rushed to King’s Landing, not even stopping at Dragonstone on the way.

Renly, too, was keenly aware: as long as his elder brother held King’s Landing, he remained a pretender. Winning the realm’s loyalty—let alone convincing a Night’s Watchman to join his cause—was a near-impossible challenge. Every day Stannis sat on the Iron Throne, Renly’s claim grew weaker.

Thus, barely half a day after surrounding the capital, Renly hastily launched his attack.
----


Outside the King’s Gate, the combined armies of the Stormlands and the Reach were assembling. Waves of voices rippled through the air as Renly Baratheon, clad in his signature green armor and wearing a golden antlered helm identical to Robert’s but slightly smaller, rode along the ranks of his soldiers. In a loud, commanding voice, he promised them the spoils of victory: gold, titles, land, and honor.

For every reward he mentioned, a cheer erupted. Though it was an old trick, it was unfailingly effective. Renly had never imagined himself delivering such speeches, and it had taken him half the night to memorize his lines. Yet he needed to bolster his soldiers’ courage. Only by drawing enough of the defenders to the walls could his allies inside the city enact their plans.

“And when my brother is taken down, let no one insult his corpse. He is my flesh and blood, and I will not allow anyone to mount his head on a spike to flaunt their glory!” Renly swallowed hard after his long speech and cast a glance at the towering walls of King’s Landing. Then he declared the ultimate prize: “To the first man who mounts the walls, I promise a white cloak of the Kingsguard or an earldom of their choosing!”

“Long live King Renly!” Thousands of men roared, their cheers mingling with the blare of horns and the beat of war drums. Smoke from cooking fires rose into the air, mingling with the murderous energy that seemed to coalesce over the camp.

Renly’s words about his brother’s corpse sounded noble, but to the clever listeners among his men, the implication was clear: no quarter was to be given to Stannis. Only if Stannis died on the battlefield could Renly avoid the stigma of kinslaying. In the pursuit of the throne and the stability of his rule, no one could afford mercy. Compared to the riches and honors that awaited, who cared about the fate of the grim-faced Stannis?
----


As the sun passed its zenith and afternoon arrived, Renly took a swig of water, drew a deep breath, and waved his hand decisively. “There’s no time to waste. Sound the horns—begin the assault!”
----


The blaring horns marked the start of the attack. On the walls, Stannis Baratheon had just finished a similar pre-battle speech. However, many of the City Watch soldiers seemed distracted, frequently glancing westward at the familiar crowned stag banner flying among the enemy ranks outside the walls. The black stag of Stannis’s own banner, encased in flames, was a stark contrast, almost unrecognizable in its confinement.

Ser Barristan Selmy noticed the unease among the Gold Cloaks. Turning to glance at the newly raised banners on the walls, he shook his head with a sigh.

Technically, a new king had every right to change the banners, but Stannis should have known better than to introduce such reforms before solidifying his rule. The City Watch had long fought under the crowned stag of House Baratheon, and now they were being asked to turn their blades against a banner they had followed for years. How could anyone, even the most loyal, immediately shift their allegiance without hesitation?

Fortunately, Stannis had brought his own loyal troops, who seemed more disciplined. These men had grown accustomed to the flaming heart banner and trusted their king’s leadership. Stannis, after all, was a man of strict justice, a commander who rewarded loyalty and punished betrayal. Fighting to defend the Iron Throne was a rare opportunity for glory.

As Selmy pondered this, the new king’s commanding voice rang out: “Ser Barristan Selmy!”

“Your Grace, I am here.”

“Take all the cavalry stationed at the King’s Gate and prepare them behind the gates. The moment the enemy falters in their assault and begins to retreat, open the gates and charge them. I will lead the infantry to follow.”

“Your Grace, as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, my place is by your side.”

“You’re of no use standing beside me. I give you my word—no one will breach the walls I personally defend. This is a royal command—carry it out immediately!”

The old knight, bound by duty, could not defy the order. “As you command.”

“Remember, if you encounter my foolish brother and he surrenders, do not harm him. Though misled by the Tyrells into raising his rebel banners, he is still my last living brother. I will ensure he receives a fair trial.”

With a heavy heart, Selmy led the cavalry down from the walls. Behind him, Stannis’s booming voice rang out once more: “Archers to your positions! Prepare to engage!”
----


The siege weapons came first, their arrival heralded by the continuous blare of horns. Renly, consciously or unconsciously, mimicked Robert’s early tactics during the failed assault on the Bloody Gate, using ranged weapons to cover his infantry’s advance. The flat plains outside the King’s Gate were ideal for deploying siege engines, but Renly’s forces lacked the preparation to build large-scale equipment. His makeshift siege weapons were far from sufficient against the high, heavily fortified walls of King’s Landing, equipped with numerous defensive devices.

The attackers suffered heavy casualties as flaming pitch and stone projectiles rained down. With no means to suppress the defenders, Renly’s rams and siege towers couldn’t reach the gates. However, Renly’s numerical superiority allowed him to disperse his troops into smaller groups, each carrying simple ladders to storm the walls. Wave after wave of attackers surged forward like a relentless tide.
----


Arrows darkened the skies, filling the air with the sound of their flight. Screams of pain and defiance echoed across the battlefield. The siege of King’s Landing had begun.
----


Sansa was terrified.

Arya, watching her sister clasp her hands in silent prayer, couldn’t help but feel a mix of disdain and schadenfreude. Renly’s army was still outside the walls, after all. With their father and Stannis—no, the king—defending the city, there was no way they could break through. Even if they somehow breached the gates of King’s Landing, they’d still face the towering walls, bronze gates, and massive iron portcullises of the Red Keep. It was impossible.

Impossible.

Arya repeated the thought to herself. Yet, unlike Sansa’s fear, her own nervousness was mixed with excitement. Being so close to war for the first time, her thrill outweighed her fear.

Unable to sit still, Arya alternated between pacing and peeking out the window. The Red Keep’s courtyard was eerily quiet. Eddard Stark had taken most of the guards, and those who remained were stationed on the walls. The castle was practically deserted, save for the nobles taking shelter inside, likely as scared as Sansa.

Hmph, cowards. Arya darted to the window again before running back to sit on the bed. Her movements eventually irritated Sansa, who snapped, “Arya! Father is fighting on the walls, and you can’t even stay quiet for a moment to pray for him?”

“I don’t believe in prayers. I believe in swords!” Arya lifted her chin, parroting what she thought was a cool line. “I’m the apprentice of the White Walker Slayer, a swordswoman praised by the Red Viper himself! I’m nothing like you, a spoiled little lady.”

“Pfft.” Sansa rolled her eyes and returned to her prayers. “Oh, mighty swordswoman, where is your sword?”

“My sword is…” Arya paused, her confidence faltering as she remembered. Jon had given her a sword, but she had left it at the Night’s Watch office. Aegor had forbidden her from training with live steel and confiscated it, claiming he’d keep it safe. Her sword was still locked in the backroom there.

“Damn it!” Arya jumped off the bed and bolted for the door.

“Where are you going?” Sansa demanded.

“To get my sword!” Arya yelled over her shoulder as she vanished into the hallway. Her voice echoed faintly down the corridor.

Sansa sighed in frustration. “Where is she going to get a sword…?” She shook her head, assuming Arya was heading to her room or their father’s chambers. Resigned, she returned to her prayers.
----


“Miss, where are you going?” A Stark guard stationed at the base of the tower stopped Arya in her tracks.

She couldn’t possibly tell him she was going to the Night’s Watch office to retrieve her sword. Thinking quickly, Arya’s eyes darted. “I’m hungry. I’m going to the kitchens to get some food!”

“I’ll fetch it for you, miss. Please, return to your chambers. What would you like?”

Arya rattled off a list of Sansa’s favorite pastries. As soon as the guard turned toward the kitchens, she pretended to head back upstairs. The moment he disappeared, she slipped away, weaving through the gaps between the Hand’s Tower and the adjacent halls.
----


Navigating the Red Keep’s labyrinthine corridors and courtyards, Arya eventually reached a familiar hidden drainage outlet on Aegon’s High Hill. It led to the Night’s Watch office. This was her secret route.

Brushing dirt off her tunic, Arya peered through the shrubbery and began her descent toward the city streets below. The office—and her confiscated sword—awaited.