"The seventh day."
Thoros looked at the Westerlands army struggling and howling in the wildfire, like bugs thrown into flames, and this number suddenly popped into his mind.
Today was the seventh day since they broke into King's Landing. From blocking the Tyrell army outside the Mud Gate in the nick of time, to now luring Tywin's army into the trap.
He looked toward the Red Keep; the banner on the battlements had already changed. Thoros knew the laurel of victory had found its owner.
"Long live Jon—kill—"
Thoros suddenly heard a shout. Soldiers who had been lying in ambush jumped out, rushing straight toward the still-burning wildfire.
Perhaps due to time, or perhaps due to spells, Aerys's wildfire wasn't as potent as Tyrion's, but it still coiled around the army that stepped near it like a viper, causing their morale to collapse.
And now, soldiers from the Riverlands, the North, and the mountain clans came from all directions to deliver the final blow.
An organized army against an army that lost its organization meant a one-sided slaughter.
Thoros had seen many scenes of the Westerlands army ravaging fields and villages along the way, so he felt no pity.
He drew his longsword, swiped his hand across the blade to ignite it with flames, and charged into the battle formation.
The Westerlands soldiers, having to deal with the wildfire sticking to them while facing the ambushers' attacks, were no match at all.
Outflanking, dividing, annihilating—under Beric's command, it was like butchering and dismembering prey.
Two or three hours later, the battle neared its end. Of the more than ten thousand Westerlands troops that rushed into the city, nearly five thousand were captured, and over three thousand died directly in the first wave of explosions.
"Long live Jon!"
"Long live the North!"
"Long live the Riverlands!"
Just as everyone celebrated the victory, rain fell from the sky again, heavy and urgent.
The rain extinguished the green wildfire still burning like roadside wildflowers and washed away the blood and grime on the soldiers' faces, like a mother's gentle caress.
Is this the mercy of the gods? Thoros reached out in surprise to catch the rain, suddenly realizing that while it was raining on their battlefield, the weather not far away was still sunny.
As a believer in the Lord of Light, seeing such a scene triggered Thoros's believer instinct directly; he closed his eyes, looked up at the sky, and begged for forgiveness.
He thought perhaps the gods were disgusted by their excessive slaughter, so they sent rain to soothe the pain of the mortal world.
Thoros suddenly remembered that shortly after the Battle of the Blackwater ended that day, heavy rain also fell on the Blackwater Rush.
Two consecutive coincidences made him feel uneasy.
If Jon were here, he would tell him this was merely a physical effect.
King's Landing was located by the sea with ample moisture; the burning wildfire effectively catalyzed the rainfall in advance.
"My Lord! My Lord!" Thoros turned back to see a brown-haired young man coming to his side.
It was Munda. Munda's face was also blackened with soot, but his eyes shone surprisingly bright.
"My Lord, Tywin's army has retreated!"
"Retreated?!" Thoros recovered from his sorrowful mood, feeling somewhat puzzled.
Logically, Tywin hadn't received news that Jon had captured the Red Keep yet, so he should have stopped the attack first and then made preparations.
However, it could also be Tywin's intuition.
Since Jon had a weapon like wildfire, using it to attack the Red Keep was also reasonable.
It also couldn't be ruled out that Tywin realized the heavy losses, saw no hope in the siege, and suspected the Tyrells might defect, so he retreated to preserve his strength as much as possible.
But in his view now, whichever case it was didn't matter. What mattered was they held King's Landing. With the Lannisters gone, the Tyrells couldn't continue the attack.
Next would be the pulling and negotiating among various factions. And the reason for the war, at least the biggest reason, had dissipated. The war-torn commoners of the Seven Kingdoms might get a respite.
Sure enough, news that Tywin's Golden Lion army had melted away and fled west spread like wildfire among the military camps outside King's Landing.
And the first person to ignite this fire and precisely control its burning direction was Jon Snow.
Only he could use the lingering might of a shocking victory to make those demoralized Westerlands remnants obey orders in the shortest time, fleeing home in panic, abandoning helmets and armor, without even the courage to look back.
The second person to know this news for sure was Duke Mace Tyrell, commander of the Reach army, who was an "ally" just moments ago. When scouts brought news that Tywin had fled and Jon controlled the Red Keep, Mace felt as if he had returned to the foot of Storm's End—once again, he had prepared meticulously and put in all his effort, only to find he hadn't even touched the edge of the stage. All the spotlights and cheers fell on someone he had never truly taken seriously.
Last time it was Stannis; this time it was Jon Snow. Duke Mace sullenly downed a large goblet of golden Arbor wine, but the bitter liquid couldn't wash away the frustration in his throat.
With tens of thousands of troops stationed outside the city, consuming money and food, he ended up purely paving the way for others, achieving the illustrious name of a Northern bastard.
One could only say Duke Mace was truly a "loyal and honest man."
Compared to Mace, who only felt frustrated and defeated, Petyr Baelish was experiencing a cold fear like a needle against his throat.
Mace had the vast fields of Highgarden and tens of thousands of troops as backing. No matter how much Stannis or anyone else disliked him, they couldn't shake the foundation of House Tyrell.
But what did Littlefinger have? A few bags of gold coins, a title like a piece of waste paper, and a pile of unspeakable conspiracies. Under Stannis's hammer of "absolute justice," an "unloyal subject" like him was the best sacrifice. Speculation was outdated; the problem now was: how to survive.
Before the new regime completely closed its doors and windows, he had to squeeze into a crack and exchange a weighty enough "certificate of allegiance" for the right to survive.
"My Lord Duke," Petyr walked into Mace's tent filled with the smell of alcohol and despondency, wearing his best mask of concern and humility. "The situation is now clear. Jon Snow has taken the Red Keep. Joffrey... has likely met with misfortune. The Westerlands elites are lost, and Duke Tywin is like a stray dog. Now is the time to demonstrate Highgarden's strength and foresight."
Mace waved his hand grumpily, his belly shaking with the movement. "Demonstrate? Demonstrate what? Go back to Highgarden! Stannis has suffered severe troop losses; does he dare come attack me? At worst, I'll just acknowledge him as King." His thinking was simple: retreat to the South, remaining the Duke of the Reach and Warden of the South.
Seeing Mace like this, Petyr felt his intestines twitching, but his smile became even more earnest. "My Lord is wise. Stannis naturally dares not confront Highgarden directly. But have you thought about after he sits on the Iron Throne? House Florent of Brightwater Keep, Queen Selyse's maiden family, has always prided themselves on having purer 'Gardener blood.' If His Grace, under the name of punishing 'treason,' transfers parts of the Reach's fiefs to the Florents to reward their loyalty—wouldn't that be endless trouble?"
Mace's eyes widened, seemingly thinking of this layer for the first time. Petyr prayed silently: Gods bless, this dull lion finally smelled some blood.
"You mean—"
"Pursue Tywin!" Petyr's voice was low but carried the power of seduction. "Use the submission of the entire Westerlands—or at least Tywin's head—as a congratulatory gift from House Tyrell for King Stannis's coronation. This will not only resolve previous... misunderstandings but also let Stannis see who is the true pillar capable of pacifying the Seven Kingdoms and bringing prosperity for him. This is not fear, my Lord; this is immensely brilliant foresight, to keep Highgarden forever away from unnecessary disputes."
Mace stroked his double chin, falling into deep thought. Plundering the wealthy Westerlands sounded very tempting and could salvage a lot of face.
Just then, the tent flap was violently lifted, and his second son, Loras Tyrell, strode in, his handsome face covered in frost. "Father," his voice was tight, "Joffrey is dead. That—Jon Snow sent someone to deliver his head."
Looking at the exquisite wooden box in Loras's hands, a chill instantly swept down Petyr's spine. Jon's actions were too fast, too ruthless! He immediately increased the stakes: "My Lord! The opportunity is fleeting! Tywin hasn't gone far! Sending troops now can still catch his tail!"
"We move against the Lannisters?" Loras turned to Petyr immediately, eyes full of knightly honor. "They are our allies! How can House Tyrell commit such an act of treachery?"
Petyr cursed inwardly at this pretty fool whose brain was spoiled by chivalry. His mind raced and immediately found a breakthrough. He turned to Mace and said in a tone purely considerate of the other party: "My Lord, for such a major decision, should we... ask Lady Olenna for instructions as soon as possible? Her wisdom always guides us to the brightest direction."