The Usurper's Dirge, Played by Aerys Targaryen

The waves of the Blackwater Rush battered the southern shore, churning up murky foam.

As far as the eye could see, the once-prosperous riverbank had vanished without a trace.

Every pier, jetty, and even the wooden stakes extending into the water had been torn away completely, leaving behind nothing but a stretch of charred mudflats.

Stannis Baratheon sat astride his warhorse, narrowing his dark blue eyes.

His gaze crossed the broad river and fixed unrelentingly on the towering city on the far bank.

King's Landing.

The capital of House Baratheon.

The walls of the Mud Gate were packed with people, as dense as maggots swarming over rotten flesh.

They were not soldiers.

Even across the wide Blackwater Rush, Stannis Baratheon could make out the weapons in their hands.

Sharpened sticks, rusty pitchforks, not even matching leather armor.

They were the Poor Fellows, a mob, expendable tools in the hands of that madman Suleiman.

"They burned the docks."

Stannis Baratheon's voice was dry, like two grindstones scraping together.

"More than that."

At his side, Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight, reined in his horse. He stared at the empty riverbank, his brow tightly furrowed.

"They even drove hidden stakes into the riverbed to prevent landings, my lord."

Stannis Baratheon ground his teeth, producing a grating sound.

"That is mud, Davos."

He raised his whip and pointed at the exposed mudflat on the opposite shore.

"Without docks, large ships cannot come ashore. The soldiers would have to slog through waist-deep silt for hundreds of yards before reaching the foot of the walls."

"During that time, they would be living targets."

A stir ran through the nobles around them, and the warhorses snorted uneasily.

Twenty-five thousand troops stood ready, their banners snapping in the wind and rain.

Everyone watched the far shore, the longing