"The seventh day."
Thoros watched the Westerlands army struggle and roar in the wildfire, like insects thrown into a fire. A number suddenly popped into his mind.
Today was the seventh day since they broke into King's Landing, from the brink of disaster, holding off the Tyrell army outside the River Gate, to now leading Tywin's army into a trap.
He looked towards the Red Keep. The banners on the city walls had already changed. Thoros knew that the crown of victory had found its owner.
"Long live Jon—kill!"
Thoros suddenly heard a shout. Soldiers who had been ambushed jumped out, heading straight for the still-burning wildfire.
Perhaps due to time, or perhaps due to the spell, Aerys's wildfire was not as powerful as Tyrion's, but it still clung to the army that had stepped nearby like a venomous snake, causing their morale to collapse.
And at this moment, Soldiers from all directions, from the Riverlands, the North, and the Mountain Clan Tribes, were ready to deliver the final blow.
An organized army against a disorganized one was a one-sided slaughter.
Thoros had also seen many scenes of the Westerlands army ravaging fields and villages along the way, so he had no pity.
He drew his longsword, wiped his hand over it, and flames enveloped the blade as he charged into the battle.
The Soldiers of the Westerlands had to deal with the wildfire clinging to them and face the attacking ambush, so they were no match.
Encirclement, division, annihilation—under Dondarrion's command, he seemed to be butchering and dismembering prey.
Two or three hours later, the battle was nearing its end. Of the more than ten thousand Westerlands Soldiers who had charged into the city, nearly five thousand were captured, and over three thousand had died directly in the first wave of explosions.
"Long live Jon!"
"Long live the North!"
"Long live the Riverlands!"
Just as everyone was celebrating victory, the sky began to rain again, a heavy and sudden downpour.
The rain extinguished the green wildfire that was still burning like wildflowers by the roadside, washing away the blood and mud from the Soldiers' faces, like a mother's gentle caress.
"Is this the mercy of the gods?" Thoros reached out to catch the rain, surprised to find that it was still raining on their battlefield, while not far away, the sun was still shining brightly.
Thoros was already a follower of the lord of light, and seeing such a sight immediately triggered his devout instincts. He even closed his eyes and looked up at the sky, begging for forgiveness.
He believed that perhaps the gods were disgusted by their excessive slaughter, and so sent rain to soothe the pain of the world.
Thoros suddenly remembered that not long after the Battle of the Blackwater that day, heavy rain also fell over the Blackwater Rush.
Two consecutive coincidences made him uneasy.
If Jon were here, he would tell him it was merely a physical effect.
King's Landing is located by the sea with ample moisture, and the burning of wildfire was equivalent to prematurely inducing rainfall.
"Lord! Lord!" Thoros turned around to see a young man with brown hair approaching him.
It was Mond. At this moment, Mond was also covered in grime, but his eyes were astonishingly bright.
"Lord, Tywin's army has withdrawn!"
"Withdrawn?!" Thoros snapped out of his sorrow, feeling a bit puzzled.
Logically, Tywin had not yet received news that the Red Keep had been captured by Jon, so he should have stopped attacking and then prepared.
However, it could also be Tywin's intuition.
Since Jon had a weapon like wildfire, using it to attack the Red Keep was reasonable.
It also could not be ruled out that Tywin realized his heavy losses, saw no hope of taking the city, and suspected that Tyrell might defect, so he withdrew to preserve his strength as much as possible.
But now, in his opinion, none of those situations mattered. What was important was that they had defended King's Landing, the Lannister had withdrawn, and the Tyrell could not continue their attack.
Next would be the tug-of-war negotiations between various factions, and the reason for the war, at least the biggest one, had already dissipated. The war-weary commoners of the Seven Kingdoms might finally get a moment of respite.
Indeed, the news of Tywin's golden lion army scattering and fleeing west like melting snow spread like wildfire through the military camps outside King's Landing.
And the first person to ignite this fire and precisely control its direction was Jon Snow.
Only he, with the lingering power of an astonishing victory, could make those disheartened remnants of the Westerlands army obey orders in the shortest time, fleeing back to their homes in disarray, abandoning their armor and weapons, without even the courage to look back.
The second to receive this news was Lord Mace Tyrell, commander of The Reach army, who had just been an "ally." When the scout brought news that Tywin had fled and Jon had taken control of the Red Keep, Mace felt as if he had returned to Storms End—once again, he had meticulously prepared and given his all, only to find that he hadn't even touched the edge of the stage. All the spotlights and applause fell upon someone he had never truly considered.
Last time it was Stannis, this time it was Jon Snow. Lord Mace gloomily chugged a large cup of Arbor gold wine, but the bitter liquid could not wash away the vexation in his throat.
Tens of thousands of his Soldiers were arrayed outside the city, consuming money and provisions, only to end up purely serving as a stepping stone for others, building the formidable reputation of a Northern bastard.
One could only say that Lord Mace was truly a "loyal and honest man."
Compared to Mace, who only felt frustration and defeat, Petyr Baelish was experiencing a cold, needle-at-the-throat kind of fear.
Mace had the vast fields of Highgarden and tens of thousands of Soldiers as his backing. No matter how much Stannis or anyone else disliked him, they couldn't shake the foundations of the House Tyrell.
But what did Littlefinger have? A few bags of gold, a title as empty as a blank sheet of paper, and a pile of unsavory schemes. Under Stannis's hammer, which emphasized "absolute justice," a "disloyal subject" like him was the perfect sacrifice. Opportunism was outdated; the question now was: how to survive.
He had to squeeze into a crack before the new regime completely closed its doors and windows, offering a sufficiently weighty "pledge of allegiance" to secure his survival.
"Lord," Petyr entered Mace's tent, which reeked of wine and a Dejectedatmosphere, wearing his most practiced mask of concern and humility, "the situation is now clear. Jon Snow has taken the Red Keep, and Joffrey, I presume, has met his end. The Westerlands' elite are all lost, and Lord Tywin is like a stray dog. Now is the time to demonstrate Highgarden's strength and foresight."
Mace waved his hand impatiently, his belly jiggling with the movement: "Demonstrate? Demonstrate what? Return to Highgarden! Stannis has suffered heavy losses in his forces, does he dare to attack me? At worst, I'll acknowledge him as king." He thought simply, retreat to the South, and he would still be his Lord of The Reach and Warden of the South.
Seeing Mace in this state, Petyr felt his stomach churn, but his smile grew even more earnest: "My Lord, Stannis naturally wouldn't dare to openly oppose Highgarden. But have you considered what happens after he sits on the iron throne? The Florent Family of Brightwater Keep, Queen Selyse's kin, have always prided themselves on possessing a purer 'Gardener bloodline.' At that time, if His Majesty, under the guise of 'treason,' were to bestow parts of the Riverlands' fiefdoms upon the Florents as a reward for their loyalty—wouldn't that be an endless stream of trouble?"
Mace's eyes widened, as if he had considered this for the first time. Petyr silently prayed: Gods bless, this dull lion has finally caught a whiff of blood.
"My Lord means—"
"Pursue Tywin!" Petyr's voice was lowered, yet carried a seductive power, "Use the submission of the entire Westerlands—or at least Tywin's head—as the House Tyrell's coronation gift to His Majesty Stannis. This will not only resolve previous misunderstandings but also show Stannis who is truly capable of pacifying the Seven Kingdoms and bringing him prosperity. This is not fear, My Lord, this is immensely brilliant foresight, to keep Highgarden forever away from unnecessary strife."
Mace stroked his double chin, lost in thought. Plundering the wealthy Westerlands certainly sounded tempting, and it would save him a lot of face.
Just then, the tent flap was abruptly thrown open, and his second son, Loras Tyrell, strode in, his handsome face covered in a frosty expression. "Father," his voice was tight, "Joffrey is dead. That—Jon Snow, sent his head."
Looking at the exquisite wooden box Loras held, a chill instantly ran down Petyr's spine. Jon's actions were too swift, too ruthless! He immediately raised the stakes: "My Lord! The moment is fleeting! Tywin hasn't gone far! If we send troops now, we can still catch his tail!"
"We attack the Lannister?" Loras immediately turned to Petyr, his eyes full of a knight's sense of honor, "They are our allies! How can the House Tyrell do such a treacherous thing?"
Petyr inwardly cursed this pretty fool whose brain had been ruined by chivalry. His mind raced, and he immediately found a breakthrough. He turned to Mace, speaking in a tone purely for the other's benefit: "My Lord, for such a significant decision, shouldn't we—consult Lady Olenna as soon as possible? Her wisdom always guides us in the brightest direction."
He looked at the Red Keep. The banners on the city walls had already changed. Thoros knew that the crown of victory had found its owner.
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