For two days, our ships bombarded the city. The Lion and Rose would from time to time draw a little closer, bringing into play the great crossbows mounted on both the stern and the bow.
Wooden piers, houses, and ships burned. Day and night, smoke drifted low over the water, slowly rising toward the indifferent sky. Flocks of crows circled above the harbor, drawn by the scent of carrion. The smell was heavy—sweat, smoke, and death.
Jaime decided the time was right and gave the order to land the main forces. Our troops began disembarking onto the shore. The operation itself was directed by Loras Tyrell. From a distance, I would occasionally catch sight of his white cloak and armor gleaming in the sun.
The port was defended by the men of House Grafton, as well as the so-called Arryns of Gulltown—a lesser branch of the house. Overall command was held by Bronze Yohn Royce. They launched a sortie, and I saw their banners.
The fighting lasted about three hours. The scales of victory tipped back and forth, first one way, then the other.
Jaime continuously sent fresh detachments to support Tyrell, while some of our ships moved closer to shore, attempting to disrupt the defenders with volleys of arrows. The Knight of Flowers performed wonders of valor. Beside him, Tyrek Lannister fought with such ferocity that it seemed he wished to kill not only Petyr Baelish himself, but every man who stood in his defense. That day, both of them covered their names in glory.
By evening, everything fell quiet. The enemy withdrew back into the city and managed to close the gates.
All night, our troops continued landing on the shore. From one of the merchant barges, a disassembled battering ram was unloaded, and specialized craftsmen began assembling it. At dawn, without delay, Jaime launched the first assault.
Hundreds of ladders were set against the walls, and warriors began climbing upward. The noise was deafening—shouts, screams, the whistle of arrows, the groans of the dying. The ground beneath the walls had been churned so thoroughly that it had turned as soft and liquid as sour cream.
The enemy repelled the first assault. Nightfall forced us to lay down our arms for a time. Jaime tripled the watches and did not close his eyes, personally inspecting the entire army. It seemed the painful defeat he had suffered at the Whispering Wood at the hands of Robb Stark had taught him much—and rid him of excessive confidence.
In the morning, the Lord Commander brought nearly a thousand archers up to the Harbor Gate, who relentlessly showered the tower and adjoining walls with arrows. Under their cover, numerous detachments leveled and reinforced the ground as our battering ram slowly and imposingly "crawled" forward.
It bore the name Crushing Hammer, though most of the army called it the King's Cock. The ram was a structure mounted on large wheels, resembling a windowless house with a sturdy roof covered in water-soaked bull hides.
Around a hundred men inside powered its movement. The ram itself hung on iron chains, and another twenty men swung it.
The defenders grew bolder, exposing themselves more often in attempts to set it aflame and pelt it with stones. Our archers did not miss their chance and shot down a good dozen of the bravest—and slowest—among them. At one point, one of the ram's wheels broke off. Stones and heavy objects rained down from above, striking the structure with dull, booming sounds. Numerous flaming arrows lodged into its roof and sides, now burning out uselessly, unable to cause serious damage.
Down below the walls, men cursed and shouted hoarsely. At last, the ram reached the gates. The first blows seemed weak, but then the beam was properly set into motion, and all heard the heavy, resounding impacts as the Crushing Hammer began breaking the gate. A man in armor bearing the Arryn colors fell from the wall. It seemed he had broken his legs or pelvis, and he writhed and screamed for long atop the ram's roof until the archers finished him off.
By afternoon, the Harbor Gate had fallen. The ram was pulled back, and heavy armored infantry began entering through the breach at a steady pace.
*
Gulltown burned. Corpses lay everywhere, and rats scurried among them. The crows, grown bold, reluctantly took flight from the bodies as living men approached. Smoke from the fires blotted out half the sky. Chaos and death were everywhere.
Jaime did not allow me to enter the city, where enemies still remained and any misfortune could occur. Some of our men continued to finish off and burn out the enemy in the port, while we, with the main forces, circled the city and began advancing toward the Eyrie, pressing hard on the heels of Yohn Royce and his men.
Even before we began the assault on Gulltown, ravens had been sent daily with messages stating that King Joffrey wished to end the war swiftly and avoid unnecessary bloodshed. He bore no ill will toward the Arryns and the lords of the Vale, and believed that all blame lay with the scheming, treacherous and light-fingered Petyr Baelish. But until the Arryns laid down their arms and surrendered Littlefinger—until they bent the knee and handed over Arya Stark—the king would burn and destroy every castle and every village.
Tarly never took the Gates of the Moon, and we never reached the Eyrie—and I very much doubt we could have hauled enough men up to such heights along those paths and roads as they were.
The Arryns had climbed too high, and to drive them out was impossible—at least, if one intended to wage a proper war with sieges and such.
But we simply burned their castles and estates, and within a matter of days showed that we were ready to turn the entire Vale into an ash heap. Erik Fell laid siege to Runestone, Loras Tyrell to Redfort, and we sent William Mooton to Ironoaks. The Vale became an arena of bloody slaughter, where every house and castle stood for itself. By every possible means, we stoked that cauldron again and again. It could not go on like this for long.
(End of Chapter)
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