They’d turned Flea Bottom into a funeral pyre.
The fire had started during the sack, the exact reason why unclear and unimportant.
Randyll Tarly had smartly sent teams of men to contain it as best as they could when he saw the smoke billowing, eventually committing most of the loyalist force to the task once the serious fighting had died down.
The bodies of the Lannister dead, lord and levy alike, were carted to the raging bonfire that had engulfed half the slums from wherever they had died across the city.
There were thousands of bodies and bodies bred disease and illness, so the men were stripped of their armor and weapons and thrown into the fire, the smell of burning flesh engulfing the already stinking city.
Several septons, tougher of heart and stomach than most of their brethren, repeated death rites for hours, a communal prayer over a communal end.
The armor and swords that could be identified as belonging to lords—Brax, Falwell and Jast had been recovered already, and more were sure to be found—were set aside to be returned to the dead men’s families, per the orders of King Rhaegar Targaryen.
The rest—spears of levies, swords and armor of knights and retainers—were sorted and distributed among the loyalist forces, per the orders of Aelor Targaryen, Hand of the King.
King’s Landing was a massive, sprawling city of thousands.
Many Lannister men had used that to their advantage, discarding their weapons and armor for stolen or stripped civilian garb once it was clear the day was lost.
There were dozens throughout the city, Aelor knew, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it.
He was much more concerned with the fortress inside a fortress Tywin Lannister and his retainers had made of the Great Sept of Baelor.
The Ruthless lion had realized rather quickly that his men were too disorganized and focused on pillaging to throw Aelor and his attackers back.
Instead, the Lord of Casterly Rock had rallied close to seven hundred of his men, stripped the Street of Steel for all the weapons they could carry, and pulled back to the top of Visenya’s Hill.
He’d charged the Mud Gate, being thrown back by infantry under Lord Cleyton Byrch, but it was soon discovered that it had been a diversion.
Fishmongers Square, a maze of a market selling everything from wine to animals located just inside the Mud Gate, had been picked clean of food and drink.
The bakeries along the Street of Flour were also barren, the Lions using the chaos to carry as many rations as they could to the home of the High Septon.
They’d even had the audacity to hoist a roaring lion banner over the sept.
The sight of it nearly drove Aelor back into his battlerage.
“Strong shield,” Renfred Rykker greeted his old friend and his squire, clasping forearms with Aelor once he’d dismounted Warrior.
The Lord of Hollard Hall had taken an arrow to the shoulder during the attack but had rode on as if it wasn’t there.
Even now he paid no mind to the bandages wrapped around the wound, face showing not an ounce of discomfort.
“You look like hell.”
“Stronger sword,” Aelor responded as Alaric took Warrior and his own horse towards the temporary stable.
“You look worse.” It wasn’t true of course; Aelor’s eye was a red gash and he had a knot on his head from where he’d slammed into the wall of Aegon’s nursery.
However bad he looked he felt even worse; his body was terribly sore from head to toe, and it had taken all he had to dismount Warrior.
“How’s the face feel?
It looks like it will make for an impressive scar.”
“It hurts.
How’s the arm?”
Renfred grinned. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
“I don’t feel a thing.”
Aelor raised a skeptical eyebrow even as he brushed by Rykker into the abandoned blacksmith shop they were using as a temporary headquarters.
“Really?
Then why are you favoring it like a child with scrape.
I’ve seen Rhaenys handle injuries better.”
Aelor stepped into the simple, one story building that still smelled of steel and the fire of billows even after the Lannisters had cleaned it out.
A table of rough wooden planks had been moved in as well as chairs of all different makes, a ramshackle headquarters if ever there was one.
Several lords were huddled around it, a map of King’s Landing in front of them.
Flags, red for Lannister and black for Targaryen, showed the positions of men in the city.
There were a few other Lion holdouts, one at the Dragonpit and another on the Street of Silk, but those were minor and being methodically overrun.
Tywin was the one that mattered, so it was to Tywin Aelor had gone.
Lord Randyll Tarly, lean and beginning to bald, had been given command of the city while the Targaryen brothers had gotten reacquainted.
He’d restored order quickly and capably, implementing frequent patrols that kept looting to a minimum as well as isolating the Lannister resistance.
The man himself stood up straight as Aelor entered, his massive greatsword of Valyrian steel— Heartsbane— sheathed across his back.
Tarly’s face was grim, his jaw hard-set.
“Prince Aelor,” he said more in acknowledgement than greeting, hard grey eyes meeting the Prince’s violet ones and holding them.
“Lord Tarly,” Aelor nodded in return.
“You’ve done an impressive job.
King’s Landing hasn’t been this orderly in a century.” Tarly nodded but said nothing, never one for pleasantries.
That was fine with the Dragon of Duskendal; he was sore and tired, and wasn’t in a mood to be pleasant anyway.
“How long can he hold out?”
“We’re unsure, my lord,” said Lord Cleyton.
“We have no way of knowing how much food and water he managed to steal.”
“We do know he can’t escape,” Tarly said, pointing towards the black flags at each gate.
“My men aren’t letting anyone in or anyone out.
The city is locked down.”
Aelor stroked his beard as he stared at the map.
“Seven hundred you say?
“They have plenty of archers as well, Lord Hand,” piped in Jon Connington, Rhaegar’s protégé and lord of Griffin’s Roost in the Stormlands.
Aelor wasn’t overly fond of Connington, finding his obsession with Aelor’s brother as offputting as Rhaegar’s prophecy, but as a man who was in love with his brother’s wife he supposed he didn’t have much room to judge.
“Our skirmishers have been trading shots with them for hours.”
“We have the numbers to storm it, Prince Aelor,” Tarly said.
“There will be heavy casualties, but they have nowhere to flee to.
A few hours bloodshed and it will be over.”
“As will the lives of hundreds of our men,” Aelor pointed out, eyes hard.
“We’re going to need every man we have to fight the Rebellion’s true strength.”
“We can’t leave a hostile force inside our city’s gates,” Tarly countered.
“Of course not.
If we have to storm it, we storm it.
But the army won’t be moving out for several days anyway; we need to rest, resupply and keep the city under control from the aftermath of the attack, as well as affirm Rhaegar is king.
We can at least try and think of another way.”
“But Lord Hand,” Connington began, “The traitors—”
“Don’t have the strength to attack King’s Landing.” Aelor shook his head.
“Scouts put Prince Oberyn a mere two days away, while Baratheon has reunited with Stark and Arryn at Riverrun just three days ago.
Oberyn will beat them here with days to spare.
The Lannisters gained the gates through deception; the rebels have no chance of that.
They can’t take King’s Landing, and they won’t try.”
Aelor stretched, trying to work the soreness from his joints.
If I do have to storm a fortress, I don’t want to be slow.
A sept would be a hell of a place to die.
“Give me time, my lords.
An opportunity will arise, and we will take it.”
…
A/N: I have some bad news… From now on, there will be 1 chapter every 2–3 days instead of daily updates.
However,