Chapter Text
THE MANNIS POV
Storm's End, 282 AC, fourth moon
Two weeks after the Red Crossing
He held.
Against all odds, he held.
Every wall of the castle, every single window, he arranged to be as defensible as possible. Every weak point secured, every bridge raised, every moat filled with water. Every single preparation had been done.
Grinding his teeth, he held.
Steadfastly, loyally, he held.
Stannis heard the roars of the thunder and the pattering of the rain with the howling wind, and the distant sounds of heavy stones crashing into the castle walls. Sometimes entire rooms would shake in the impact, sometimes the castle itself when enough stones collided with it at the same time.
He could hear the people in the walls, of barked commands and agonized cries. Some would be killed, and he could see bodies of archers and other defenders lying before open windows, arrows and other projectiles in their chests and throats, pools of blood. Sometimes they decorated the window, and it was clear that they had fallen from them. The same was happening in the ramparts of the castle, where he could see people running with more projectile ammunition, or else whatever they could find, from rocks to the tricks of the Pyromancers. Fires would be ignited at parts of the castle, either unwanted ones from the impact of the weapons, or fires that people lit with the intent to keep warm from the horrible wind and cold.
There was no escape. For twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, these people continued their Siege.
Occasionally the castle shook, like right now. Stannis felt the ground rise under him, and jumped away rapidly just in case. The loyalists were using battering rams that crashed into the castle, coupled with their stone-throwing catapults and projectiles.
From the lower levels of the castle the wails of babies could be heard. After all, Stannis had a duty to his people, and that duty meant that those who sought refuge from the pillage and plundering of the Reach, whose villages and towns were raided, could seek refuge in Storm's End. People had flocked there, men, women, and children, thousands of them. Storm's End, steadfast and spacious as it was, held them all. They loved him for it, but he replied with what he oft said: it was his duty as their acting Lord-Paramount.
And the smallfolk had done their duties as well. The able-bodied men took up weapons and helped in the defense of the castle. Some went into the occasional charges outside of the castle, knowing that they would never return, harassing the enemies and whittling down their strength as much as humanly possible. Sacrificing their lives for the cause. The older men or the men who were skilled took up their trades here, helping the warhorses by feeding and breeding them, forging weapons for the war effort, helping in the castle defense from simple tasks like carrying arms and supplies, and helping organize and stockpile food. The women cleaned up the debris and put out the fires and cooked the meals to feed them all, because after all feeding everyone was a task that was a difficult task.
Stannis was satisfied with this. This meant more to him than the compliments of the smallfolk, because they were doing their duty.
Food stockpiles were fast dwindling, however. Within two months of siege the storages would be gone. After all, the Rebellion was not an expected event, so they had not stocked up on food before the siege began, and most food tended to rot a lot anyway, especially in a climate such as this, where half the walls and floors were wet. The cost of feeding thousands was great.
"Maester Cressen," he nodded, as he saw the aged man coming towards him at full tilt.
"My Lord, there is a raven from Harrenhal. It is of urgent importance that you read it."
"Harrenhal?" Stannis' interest was piqued, "Finally--- I hope some good news..."
He tore open the seal, and saw the unruly handwriting of his older brother.
To
Stannis
Storm's End
Brother,
Harrenhal is ours. We write from a position of great victory. Twenty thousand Reachers are either dead or prisoners. Several Lords and their families are awaiting freedom by ransom. Randyll Tarly lies buried beneath six feet of charred, barren soil and horse-dung. Do not lose hope, Brother. We are coming. Soon Mace Tyrell will join his fellow Lord six feet under.
Regards,
Robert
Short, curt, straight to the point. No beating around the bush, that was certainly like him. Stannis hated people who beat around the bush like idiotic, sycophantic numbskulls. Then he was horrified at the thought of sharing something in common with his brother whom he was supposed to be furious at.
But he could not be furious at his brother. Because Robert was coming. He was not there during the shipwreck yes, but now he was coming. He was not going to leave them again.
A certain someone ran out, Measter Cressen at his heels in hot pursuit.
"Renly, stop!" shouted the aged Maester, as he ran after him.
Renly barreled into Stannis, knocking the wind out of him, leaving him sprawling in an undignified manner on the ground.
"Is he coming?" Renly asked with shining, hopeful eyes. "What did he say? What did he say?"
"Forgive me, my Lord..." The old man looked apologetic, "He heard there was a message from Lord Robert and came running. He's too excited."
"No, it's alright." Stannis lifted himself to his feet, in a good mood for once, as he knelt down beside Renly, "Yes, Renly. He's coming. He's coming to save us."
"YAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!"
"Ow, you're going to make me deaf," Stannis winced, rubbing his ears and the proximity and volume of Renly's yell.
JAIME POV
King's Landing, the Red Keep, 282 AC, fourth moon
"HE WHAT?!" roared the King, as the Master of Whispers broke the news.
"They are amassing troops outside King's Landing, Your Grace." Varys simpered.
The reactions of the Council were different: Pycelle, the old Grand Maester, looked like usual. The Master of Ships, Monford Velaryon, raised his eyebrows. Some looked rather terrified, like Lord Qarlton Chested, the Master of Coin, and Lord Symond Staulton, the Master of Laws. Jon Connington, the Hand of the King, showed no reaction, but Jaime could see the fear in his eyes.
"How dare he!" The Mad King shouted, "Burn him! Burn them! BURN THEM ALL! Out, all of you, out!"
Jaime did not leave with the rest of the Council. He had tried, but the Mad King would not let him out of his sight, convinced that the traitor Tywin (in his words) was planning something. The last time he had tried the King had almost had him burnt alive--- not exactly the best way to be...
As the Small Council filed out, the King raised his voice: "And summon the blasted Rossart!"
The King seemed to have forgotten about his presence, and was stroking one of the dragon skulls in his room lovingly, as he seemed to be rambling to himself.
"We are the blood of the dragon... They think they can defeat us? They will see... I will rise... reborn... stronger... stronger than a dragon... rebirth... renewal... the rise of House Targaryen... greater than ever. Traitors... traitors everywhere! Treacherous Tywin... that Tywin planned it all along... he stole from me Joanna, he stole from me everything else, he stole from me my Throne in all but name! He will pay... they will pay... they will pay... I will burn them... I will burn them all! They will see... fire and blood... fire and blood... fire and blood!"
His mutterings and comments about Joanna made his blood boil, but he held his tongue, letting the King ramble, to make sure the latter was not aware of his presence. A few moments later, Lord Rossart entered, the Chief Pyromancer and Alchemist, but he was such a common presence that the man did not bat an eye at his conspicuous presence there (conspicuous for someone who was not insane, that is). It also helped that there was a dragon skull right behind him, which again did not have the King's attention.
Well--- Rossart was insane, but he was the smarter kind of insane, unlike the delusional King.
"Your Grace..." simpered the Pyromancer in his raspy voice, "What am I summoned for? You wish is my command."
"The time has come. I will be reborn as a dragon from the ashes. Burn them all. The wildfire under the city... set it all off."
Wait, what?! Jaime's mind ground to a halt, Was he insane? Half a million people including them all. The dawning horror on Jaime's face was not concealed, and it appeared that the King had finally noticed him, because he let out another leery grin.
"Don't balk at it all, cub. It's for the glory of House Targaryen, and the death of all traitors. I've seen it in the flames, I'll rise and be reborn as a dragon, and House Targaryen will rise as never before!" The King cackled like a lunatic (which he was), and traced his fingers around the knight's jaw.
I have to stop this. Somehow, I have to stop this. He thought, the voice making his skin crawl. He flinched at the old man's touch. The nerve.
But how?
Then he noticed an interesting detail: there was just the three of them.
This was the only way it could be done, but it would mean going back on his vows.
As the King continued his mad monologue, he debated his mind:
What vows? What do you still serve? A rapist and a murderer and a tyrant and an abuser. Is that what your vows are for? You were meant to protect the honor of women, yet you were forced to watch as the Queen was abused like an animal and the Princess was scorned and flogged. You were meant to bring justice to the children and the innocent, yet you watched them being burnt alive. Is that justice? If that is your vow, then you have taken either a lie or a vow of evil!
Follow the light. This is your last opportunity. Do it.
"And House Tar--- ACK!" The King looked down at the sword embedded in his stomach, before his face morphed into furious hatred, spittle flying from his mouth, his eyes blazing. "Traitor! Kingslayer! Vile Lion Cub, just like his father---"
He could no longer speak, as Jaime stabbed him again and again, picking up the frail body and throwing it at the foot of the Throne. The old man, for his credit, did the one good thing in his life: he died, choking and gurgling on his blood--- his eyes blazing in hatred to the very last, trying to hurl obscenities he could not because his throat had been skewered from top to bottom.
The Pyromancer, shocked and terrified by the sudden death, turned to flee, but Jaime's aim was true and the sword, thrown at the man, quickly impaled the man, killing him on the spot.
Shocked by the commotion, Lewyn Martell and Jonothor Darry, the only two members of the Kingsguard in King's Landing, rushed in, followed by the Small Council.
Lewyn Martell had only a moment to process before he shouted: "KINGSLAYER! TRAITOR! OATHBREAKER!" and lunged at him, Darry following him.
While the three locked blades, Darry and Martell combined were no match for Jaime, and he moved with such speed and skill, moving so fast that he was a blur, cutting Darry in half and causing Martell's head to roll off his shoulders in a devastating duel (one would debate whether to call it a duel because it was an execution).
With them thrown from the stairs of the Iron Throne, clearly dead, Jaime ascended the steps and took the coveted seat of power.
The Small Council members looked horrified. Varys in particular.
"Open the gates of King's Landing and welcome the rebels," Jaime commanded, to no one in particular: the rush of adrenaline had not yet worn off.
"How dare you? You killed our King and broke your oath, and now you usurp his Throne---" Jon Connington step forward, furious, but was interrupted.
"OPEN THE FUCKING GATES BEFORE I MAKE YOUR CORPSE HANG OVER THEM!" Jaime roared. "And bring me all the Pyromancers now, before I send you to join the King you so love!"
The Lords looked ready to argue, but they realize that none of it would work since none of them would stand a chance against the Lannister. Most people would be relieved after the death of the King and would have no problems with Jaime's Decisions, especially because the Pyromancers had overstepped boundaries a lot during their time in power.
That was called, later, the Hour of the Lion: after the brutal execution of the Chief Pyromancer, the King and some of his Kingsguard, several Pyromancers were judged, every one privately interrogated. A few who were innocent of the wildfire plot were let go, the rest of the Guild executed. Other men who were executed was the Hand of the King, Jon Connington, though for what reasons none would know, and the Master of Whispers, Varys. The rest of the Small Council was dismissed on the spot, except Grand Maester Pycelle, and told to leave the city immediately to prevent execution. The gates were opened and a missive was sent to Robert Baratheon.
Jaime Lannister would later be found brooding on the Iron Throne, very bored with life.
[A/N:
- A Mannis POV is crucial to the development of a healthy society. As we see, The Mannis is one of the few people who would help the commoners because it is his duty. He would also like being helped in the Siege rather than endless compliments. The Mannis might have grudges... but he is, he was, and he will be Robert's goodest boi as long as Robert is alive. I do intend more Stannis Siege POVs in later chapters.
- The Mannis' stockpiles are running out as well: sure, Storm's End is a massive place, but nobody really expected all this to happen, did they? Plus feeding thousands. Plus from all the damp floors and no fridges, I expect a lot of food to rot.
- Jaime found out about the wildfire plot early because they are attacking King's Landing directly from Harrenhal, and then marching into the Stormlands. Instead of sacking the capital later they are doing it much earlier. So with rebel forces in the capital obviously Aerys acts sooner. Yes, Aerys is a mad, old, disgusting slob. Ded. Bye. I hope Tywin comes and pisses on your ashes and your grave later in Frank Underwood style (though technically he is more likely to do it to Tytos)-- - because Aerys and the Reyne-Tarbeck Rebellion are the only places I unironically rooted for Tywin (because he was in the right in those two, unlike the canon Sack and the Red Wedding and everything that happened with Tyrion). MAYBE you could make an argument for Tyrion being taken prisoner, because Cat acted like an idiot there and Tywin did what anyone would technically do in Westeros.
- The Hour of the Lion IS inspired by the Hour of the Wolf, in case anyone asks. Jaime is able to take control because of the Lannister men like Pycelle in King's Landing and for the fact that everyone hated Aerys. And adrenaline, along with the fact that Jaime looks like mini-Sanguinius should work on the average person. The adrenaline wears off, and Jaime is, well, BORED.
- As for why Jaime executed Varys and Con Jon, we will see his reasons. The fight between the three Kingsguard, I regret I could not embiggen it. I sort of wanted to save the literary vocabulary for the Tower of Joy.]