Wolf Hour-The False King's Death

"Father, let me go! I will definitely take that bastard's head for you!"

"No."

Mace rejected Loras's request without expression. He looked at King's Landing in the distance, his thoughts seemingly returning to Storm's End.

A disheartening thought echoed in his mind: Do I really have absolutely no talent for war?

First Stannis held off his tens of thousands of troops with a small force, and now Jon is replicating that scene.

Two consecutive failures caused this man, who was almost old enough to be a grandfather, to develop serious self-doubt.

"Men, the Lannister army has breached Lion Gate!" A young nobleman reported to Mace.

Mace, who had been feeling dejected, suddenly stood up, his thick neck sticking out of his collar.

"Real!"

"Yes! At least ten thousand Westerlands troops have already entered King's Landing."

The young nobleman looked very young, with an undeniable childishness on his face.

He was none other than Dickon Tarly, the youngest son of Randyll Tarly Randyll Tarly had ousted Sam to make way for this youngest son.

Upon hearing this news, Mace was overjoyed, feeling like he was back in the game.

Mace drew his longsword and shouted at the general carrying four banners on the city wall, "Attack the city! Whoever cuts off that North bastard's head, I'll reward him with 100,000 Gold Dragon!"

Suddenly, the Reach army, which had been lazily launching its offensive, began to attack with all its might.

However, those charging at the forefront were all ordinary soldiers.

Those knights and nobles didn't dare show their faces at all; Jon's terrifying archery skills had truly left a deep impression on them.

Martin, of course, took advantage of this, aiming his longbow but not shooting.

He already knew about Tywin breaching Lion Gate, and of course, he also knew about the Wildfire Trap, so he frequently turned to look in the direction of Lion Gate.

"Lord Jon, we must take the Red Keep!" Martin prayed silently, when suddenly a blinding green flame made him instinctively squint to avoid it.

An arrow was released from the bowstring that had been held in his hand the whole time.

The arrow was wildly off course.

Fortunately, no one noticed; everyone saw the terrifying emerald green flame.

A deafening explosion shook the earth, as if the ground beneath their feet trembled.

The direction of the Lion Gate transformed into a green sea of flames.

It was as if the earth itself was on fire.

"Kevan" Tywin, who had always been as cold as ice, realized they had fallen into a trap.

Tens of thousands of elite troops from the Westerlands were consumed by Wildfire, and Kevan, the younger brother of Jipin who was commanding at the forefront, had absolutely no chance of survival.

"My lord, my lord is in danger!"

Tywin's guards desperately tried to stop him. He looked at the soldiers being consumed by flames, his heart aching so much that he could hardly breathe.

Whether it was fortunate or unfortunate, some soldiers were not at the very center of the Wildfire explosion, but were still affected.

Green flames splashed onto their armor, instantly turning them into green, humanoid torches.

They desperately tried to remove their armor, but steel has excellent thermal conductivity.

The scorching steel was in almost direct contact with the skin, and the air was filled with the smell of burnt flesh.

If only three or four thousand out of ten thousand people die on the spot, then even Aegon the Conqueror's "Battle of the Field of Fire" only burned four thousand people to death or injury.

The remaining six or seven thousand soldiers, surrounded by Wildfire, were disoriented and demoralized in the heat.

At this point, Tywin had less than four thousand soldiers left. After this battle, the elite of the Westerlands were wiped out!

"Joan Snow!"

Tywin stared at the green wall of fire that was now taller than the city walls, his eyes bloodshot, but the tears that welled up were quickly dried by the heat wave that hit him.

He clenched his teeth, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth, and a wild roar emanated from his chest. Supported by his guards, he slowly stood up and gave the order he least wanted to give:

Retreat!

Sure enough, as soon as Tywin gave the order, elite troops surrounded the city walls they had breached, completely trapping the Westerlands soldiers who had not been burned to death inside the city.

The Wildfire that Aerys hid wasn't as powerful as the newly started Wildfire, but it was more than enough to trap these Westerlands soldiers.

The scarlet lion banner atop the city walls was cut down and replaced with Jon's black White Wolf Banner.

The massive gates of the Red Keep were opened from the inside, just as they had been fifteen years ago, the heavy doors creaking and groaning like the groans of a giant beast.

Behind the door was not the magnificent gold and splendor I had imagined, but a bottomless darkness, like the esophagus of a dragon, exuding the stench of rust, blood, and death. Sunlight squeezed in, illuminating the dust swirling in front of the door, as if countless ghosts were hovering at the feet of the victor.

On the high battlements, Sir Harrion, panting heavily, his tall frame trembled slightly with exhaustion and excitement. He stretched out his armored foot and kicked the yellow Crowned Stag banner down the battlements, followed by the red banner with a roaring golden lion. The banners fell with a mournful cry, like two giant birds shot down, crashing into the muddy, blood-soaked square below.

Then, he solemnly unfurled and raised Jon Snow's banner Direwolf direwolf on the black background was as white as Ice, fluttering in the salty sea breeze of King's Landing, as if it had truly come alive, roaring silently at the reclaimed capital.

"We've won!"

Harrion gazed at the Wildfire still burning eerily in the direction of the Reach in the distance. The green flames licked at the sky, and even from this distance, he seemed to be able to feel the heat that scorched his soul.

The wind ruffled his thick beard that covered his entire chest, and he was filled with boundless pride. Such a victory was enough to leave a lasting mark on history, and his name, Harrion, would be sung in songs for a thousand years, alongside Jon Snow!

"To bring this chaotic nation back on track!" he muttered to himself, repeating what Jon had said.

But then, a chill suddenly gripped him. "He shouldn't be king—" Jon's other words echoed in his mind. He suddenly realized a terrible consequence— Jon had now accomplished unparalleled feats, yet he was under the banner of Stannis Baratheon.

Meanwhile, in the North, his own homeland, Jon was ruled by his brother Robb Stark. In the future—would Jon and Robb one day meet on the battlefield?

This simple, straightforward man, who had spent most of his life contemplating warfare, was for the first time troubled by a complex and troubling political prospect. He gazed worriedly at the towering Maegor's Holdfast deep within the Red Keep. For Jon, younger than his own son, Harrion felt a deep-seated awe, even a touch of fear. If that day ever came, he would naturally fight for Robb, but how could he possibly defeat Jon before him? He had no confidence whatsoever.

"Never mind, "Harrion shook his head vigorously, as if trying to shake off these annoying thoughts. "Jon —he can definitely handle it." He turned his gaze back to Maegor's Holdfast, where he could vaguely see figures moving inside through a tall window.

Maegor's Holdfast, the air was so thick it was almost suffocating.

Compared to the boisterous victory outside the hall, this place was a desolate ruin. The once luxurious furnishings were scattered and broken, and the shattered wine glasses and scattered swords told tales of the final chaos.

Jon Snow stood in the center of the drawing room, his armor stained with blood and soot, yet his posture remained as upright as an icicle on the Wall. Opposite him was the completely devastated Queen Mother Cersei Lannister, and beside her, the "King" Joffrey, huddled in a ball, trembling with extreme fear.

Cersei's blonde hair was disheveled, her gorgeous robes were wrinkled, and her once captivating blue eyes were now empty and filled with madness. Joffrey the other hand, was deathly pale, like a frightened rabbit, all traces of his usual cruelty gone.

Jon's gaze passed over them and landed in the corner of the room. A Kingsguard, his white robes tattered and stained, held a longsword to the neck of a thin girl. It was Sansa Stark, his sister. She was emaciated, with a pointed chin and large eyes filled with numb fear, like a fawn wandering alone in the moors.

"The Lannister are finished." Jon's voice was calm, yet carried an undeniable authority, echoing in the silent room. "Release my sister, and I swear on the honor of my father, Eddard Stark, I will spare your life."

These words were like a final judgment. The Iron Guard's hands trembled as he looked at the seemingly insane Queen Mother, then at the murderous Jon, and at the White Wolf Banner fluttering outside the window. The instinct for survival overwhelmed all loyalty.

Jon couldn't remember if the white-robed man was Meryn or Boros, but it didn't matter. The Kingsguard was now filled with self-serving opportunists, and Stannis probably wouldn't use them in the future anyway.

With a clang, the longsword fell to the ground, the sound crisp and clear, as if shattering the invisible shackles binding Sansa.

Sansa paused for a moment, then burst forth with all the strength in her life, like a fledgling bird finally finding its way home, and pounced on Jon. Her thin arms clung tightly to her brother's cold breastplate, her pointed chin resting on his shoulder armor, her whole body trembling violently.

"Jon — Jon— " she repeated incoherently, Tears soaking his neck, "I'm so scared—"

I'm so scared—every day, every moment—"

Although Jon and Sansa didn't have a deep relationship, and even disliked each other somewhat, his heart felt as if it were being gripped tightly by a cold hand.

Jon sheathed his longsword and gently patted Sansa's back with his hand clad in iron gauntlets. The twelve-year-old girl still carried a faint scent of lemon, the last trace of Winterfell and the beautiful past, a stark contrast to the surrounding despair.

"Hey, this little sister." Jon thought to himself, nothing stirs up the protective instincts of the heart more than a frail younger sister or daughter.

Watching Sansa throw herself into Jon's arms, Cersei knew she had lost her last bargaining chip. A complex expression, a mixture of despair, pride, and maternal instinct, flashed across her face. Suddenly, with astonishing speed, she pulled a small glass vial from her sleeve, uncorked it, and was about to drink it—it was the last vestige of dignity she had reserved for herself as the Queen Mother.

"Drink it."

Jon's voice rang out again, without scolding or obstruction, as calm as stating a fact.

"If you drink it, Myrcella and Tommen will officially become motherless children."

Cersei froze in mid-air, her lips already feeling the cold, bitter taste emanating from the bottle.

"I've never had a mother," Jon continued, taking a step forward, his gaze piercing Cersei like an icicle. Now was the perfect moment to break down Cersei defenses! "Those days were like an endless winter. You hate Tyrion because he took your mother. Do you want your children to spend the rest of their lives hating you?"

Each word was like a dull knife, slowly and precisely cutting through Cersei's psychological defenses. She remembered her mother, Lady Joanna, who died in childbirth, and how the grief of that time had consumed her entire childhood.

She thought about how much of her endless resentment towards Tyrion stemmed from the pain of losing her mother. What would happen to Myrcella and Tommen if she died? They would not only lose their mother, but also be branded as "bastards," struggling to survive in humiliation and danger, perhaps not even reaching adulthood.

Maternal instinct ultimately triumphed over pride and despair. With a clatter, the exquisite glass vial slipped from her trembling hand, rolled far away on the ground, and the deadly liquid inside slowly oozed out. Cersei Lannister, the once all-powerful Queen Mother of the Seven Kingdoms, collapsed to the ground as if all her bones had been removed.

She was no longer the high and mighty ruler, but merely a mother beast trying to protect her cubs. She crawled on her knees, her magnificent skirt trailing across the cold ground, until she reached Jon's feet and grasped his trouser leg with her tear-stained and dust-covered hands.

"Please—please—" she looked up, tears blurring her delicate makeup, "Let Joffrey go!"

He didn't do it on purpose—he's just a child—let him go to the Wall, let him wear black, spare his life! Spare his life! Spare his life!!!" Her pleas were desperate, filled with utter despair.

The Kingsguard standing nearby, witnessing this scene, lowered their heads in shame. The former Empress Dowager was now groveling at the feet of a bastard from the North, begging for mercy—what an irony!

Sansa had calmed down a bit by now. She silently left Jon's embrace and stood behind him. She looked at Cersei, who was kneeling and begging for mercy, with a complicated expression. Before today, she might have felt fear or even a twisted envy because of this woman's outward elegance and power.

But now, all she sees is ruins. She also recalls her past attitude towards Jon, because of his status as a bastard, she always deliberately emphasized that he was only "half a brother" to draw a clear line. At this moment, standing behind this "half a brother," she feels an unprecedented sense of security.

"Back on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, he didn't give my father a chance either, did he?" Jon's tone was as cold as the Ice of the North's eternal winter, continuing to erode Cersei's sanity.

He crouched down, looking directly into Cersei's pleading green eyes.

"I have been very merciful, Your Majesty. Think of Tommen and Myrcella. If you cooperate, His Majesty Stannis may grant you a quiet tower to live in. Myrcella can marry peacefully, Tommen can live a peaceful life, and you can even become an ordinary grandmother, enjoying your grandchildren. Perhaps—as my father once privately suggested to you, you and your children can sail away together to the Free Cities of Essos, forever escaping the strife of Westeros."

Jon, in a low but clear voice, painted a picture for Cersei of the only possible future amidst her despair, gradually eroding her last resistance.

But then a sudden realization struck her. "You—how do you know what Eddard Stark said to me?" It was an extremely private conversation, under the moonlight, by the Tree of Souls, where Cersei proposed that Eddard become the Regent.

Cersei wasn't stupid; she knew that only with Eddard's approval could Joffrey's crown be secure.

Therefore, he did not hesitate to offer himself as a bedmate.

"Tsk, you let it slip." A barely perceptible flicker crossed Jon's eyes, but under his absolute power, it was insignificant. "Because he is my father," he explained quickly and naturally, "Lord Eddard Stark upheld honor and justice throughout his life. He opposed His King Robert's pursuit of Daenerys Targaryen, and he must have shown you a sliver of pity. Don't forget, there's Jaime too. You can leave together and start a new life."

"Jaime—." Cersei murmured the name absently, the image of her twin brother seemingly appearing before her eyes. All her strength finally gave way, and she collapsed completely onto the cold floor, her eyes glazed over, no longer struggling, no longer speaking. She acquiesced.

Jon gestured to the soldiers behind him. Two North soldiers stepped forward and, to a reasonable degree, lifted the distraught Cersei and dragged her toward the door.

"No—!" As she was dragged to the doorway, Cersei seemed to snap out of her numbness, letting out a piercing scream as she kicked her legs wildly. "Spare Joffrey! Don't kill him! Please—no!"

Her cries faded into the distance in the corridor, yet lingered like background noise.

Jon knew that Cersei had accepted his proposal, and those screams were merely a mother's instinct.

Now, only Jon, Sansa, and Joffrey, who was slumped on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, remained in the room.

"I am the king! I am the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms!" Joffrey screamed, trying to maintain his last shred of dignity, but his trembling voice and reptilian limbs betrayed him. "Jon! Snow! I can make you the Duke of the North! No, the Hand of the King! What do you want? Gold? Castles? Women? I'll give you everything! Please—don't kill me—I'll go to the Wall!"

I swear!

Jon didn't even bother to look at him again, much less waste words with him.

He had achieved his goal: capturing Cersei alive. As for Joffrey, he was destined to die. Just as Jon drew his sword and walked toward Joffrey, Sansa stopped him.

Just when Jon thought Sansa was going to plead for Joffrey, Sansa said earnestly, "Jon, may I do it?"

"Well, she's starting to look somewhat like Stark," Jon gave her an approving look, but Sansa couldn't lift the sword at all.

So Jon placed the hilt of the sword into Sansa's slender hand, and held her hand in his own. Under Jon's guidance, Sansa felt as if they were performing an ancient and solemn ceremony, holding the longsword and walking step by step toward Joffrey.

The sword tip reflected the firelight outside the window, its cold gleam dancing on Joffrey's face, contorted with extreme fear. His golden curls were soaked with sweat and tears, and his blue eyes held only the most primal fear of death. He curled back, flailing his arms in vain, his pleas turning into meaningless howls, and a stench emanated from beneath him.

"For Eddard Stark!" Jon guided Sansa's arm, gathering all her grief and strength, and swung it down with all her might!

A flash of cold light! It wasn't a clean severance; the blade met the bone as it entered the neck, producing a dull, teeth-grinding thud. Jon had deliberately controlled his strength, making the process less "painful."

Blood, like the strongest wine, gushed out, staining the luxurious carpet and splattering onto Sansa's pale cheeks and plain dress. A head covered in golden hair rolled to the ground, covered in dust, its mouth still in the shape of a scream, its once malevolent green eyes wide open, seemingly unable to comprehend the eternal darkness before it.

Outside, Cersei's heart-wrenching cries seemed to resonate with the gushing blood inside, gradually fading until they were finally swallowed by the silence of death.

Everything returned to deathly silence.

Sansa loosened her grip on the sword hilt, her hand still trembling slightly uncontrollably. She stared blankly at the headless corpse on the ground, still twitching slightly, and at the once invincible head. She didn't scream, didn't vomit, but simply Tears calmly, the tears washing away the bloodstains on her cheeks.

"Jon," she asked softly, her voice as fleeting as a breath in winter, "Is this revenge? Why—why do I feel so empty inside, as if a piece of me has died?"

"That's good. House Stark children aren't bad at heart." Jon gently pulled her close, letting her face rest against his cold, hard breastplate, preventing her from seeing the bloody scene again.

Jon sheathed his sword and ruffled Arya.

"Revenge brings no happiness, Sansa," Jon guided the girl who had once longed for court life. "It's just—wiping a blood debt off the ledger. It can't bring Father back, nor can it erase the harm we've suffered. Father won't be satisfied with the killing we've done today, but he'll be comforted that we're still alive and can reunite like the wolves."

He put his arm around Sansa's shoulder and led her out of the room, which was filled with the stench of blood and death. Outside, the black White Wolf Banner flew high in the sky above King's Landing's Landing.