The wind blew from the south, carrying the faint stench peculiar to King's Landing-a mixture of rubbish, sewage, and too many people living crammed together. It mingled with the clean air of the open countryside, faint but stubbornly refusing to fade.
The allied armies had completed their encirclement from north and south, trapping the capital of the Seven Kingdoms between them like two enormous, rust-stained gates.
Aegon had marched south from Duskendale, securing the northern and eastern approaches to King's Landing. Camps stretched along the far bank of the Blackwater Rush, bristling with black-and-red Dragon Banners.
Jon Connington had marched north from the Stormlands, swept through the Kingswood, and sealed off the south and southwest. The banners of the Golden Company and the heraldry of surrendered nobles spread as far as the eye could see.
The two armies had closed like iron pincers. The Lannister remnants and their boy king inside the city no longer had the slightest chance of escape.
The command tent stood on high ground along the northern bank, with a clear view of King's Landing's towering walls and the distant spires of the Red Keep.
Inside, the senior commanders stood solemnly according to rank. The atmosphere was heavy. Firewood occasionally crackled in the brazier, the only sound in the tent.
Aegon sat at the head of the tent in a high-backed chair draped with a wolfskin.
He had removed his Dragonwing Helmet and tied his silver hair behind his head. Sitting straight-backed and expressionless, he calmly studied the parchment map on the table with his violet eyes. The positions of both armies had been clearly marked in charcoal.
Jon Connington stepped forward.
Gray streaked the veteran's hair, and his face was weather-beaten, but his eyes remained as keen as a hawk's. He pressed a hand to