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After receiving Tywin Lannister's secret letter, the coalition's vanguard cavalry paused for a brief rest on a ridge.
Eddard Stark, Oberyn Martell, and Euron Greyjoy moved away from their soldiers, stepping into the shade of a dead tree. The content of the letter cast a heavy shadow of suspicion among them.
Ned unfolded the parchment stamped with the Lion's seal, his tone grim as he repeated the core message: "Lord Tywin claims he will trick the gates of King's Landing open for himself. He asks us to halt our advance and keep our distance. Once the gates are secured, we enter the city."
Oberyn scoffed lightly, his fingertip tracing the haft of his spear absently. "Winning without fighting would certainly spare a lot of blood. But the question is—should we trust that Old Lion?" A vigilant, sharp light peculiar to the Dornish flickered in his red viper eyes.
Euron let out a low chuckle. "If the letter is a lie, Tywin's army is likely already at the walls of King's Landing. What do we do then? Fight a decisive battle against him beneath the walls? We don't have the numbers; victory would be slim. Or do we hold our position and wait for Robert and the main host? So, if the letter is false, we should march slowly and wait for the main army."
Euron's tone shifted as he looked toward the distant direction of King's Landing. "If the letter is true, that is naturally the ideal outcome. Furthermore, gentlemen, think deeper—is there any possibility of reconciliation left between Tywin and the Mad King? Can a lion who always pays his debts, after suffering several public insults from Aerys, continue to bow his head and serve as the Mad King's loyal dog? So, if the letter is true, we should also march slowly, wait for the gates to open, and avoid a siege."
"True or false, the situations we face are different, but our course of action remains the same."
Ned listened silently. The pragmatism bestowed upon him by the cold North allowed him to quickly weigh the pros and cons. He nodded slowly, making the decision. "Then we do as Tywin says. Slow our pace, keep our distance, and watch."
---
Nightfall.
Tywin Lannister's twelve thousand Western soldiers arrived silently outside King's Landing like a crimson tide of steel.
Their camp was orderly, spears standing like a forest, glinting coldly under the pale sun—this was not an exhausted force rushing to aid, but a viper coiled beneath the walls, poised to strike.
In the Throne Room of the Red Keep, the air was as thick and sticky as congealed blood.
Grand Maester Pycelle's chain clinked as he hunched his back, holding a tightly sealed parchment high, presenting it to the shadow on the Iron Throne.
"Your Grace," his voice trembled with deliberate awe, "a letter from Lord Tywin... Hearing the tragic news from the Trident and fearing for Your Grace's safety, he has force-marched his entire army day and night to arrive here. He pledges the loyalty and lives of his twelve thousand Western sons to guard the capital and defend your throne!"
Before his voice faded, a voice like silk rubbing together spoke urgently. "Your Grace, you must not!" Varys glided out of the shadows, genuine worry written on his pale face. "Lord Tywin's army arrives too conveniently, too quickly. If he truly meant to save you, why did he not march to the Trident earlier? Once the gates open now, inviting the wolf into the house... the consequences are unthinkable!"
Aerys II leaped up from the twisted Iron Throne, the sharp edges cutting his robes in several places. His withered fingers gripped his jeweled scepter tightly, his bloodshot eyes staring dead at Varys with rage.
"Silence!" he shrieked, his voice echoing in the hall. "You sewer rat! What can you do besides spread suspicion and fear?" In his fury, he swung the scepter, smashing it heavily onto Varys's shoulder. The heavy blow made the eunuch stumble, pain flashing across his brow.
Aerys panted, pointing the scepter at Varys, the jewels refracting mad light. "Tywin is here to save my kingdom! If you dare wag your tongue again to sow discord between me and my loyal servant," he leaned close to Varys, lowering his voice into a threat more chilling than his screams, "I will fill your throat with wildfire and burn you clean from the inside out!"
He was mad—mad enough to lose all ability to distinguish right from wrong, mad enough to think he had grasped a lifeline, mad enough to trust the lion he had long ago alienated.
Varys lowered his head, speaking no more, burying all warnings and worries back into the abyss of his heart. Grand Maester Pycelle, meanwhile, kept his head humbly bowed, the corner of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly in the unseen shadow.
Pycelle's cloudy eyes darted quickly across the Throne Room, finally landing on Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard. He tilted his head ever so slightly, then hunched over and retreated silently into a shadowed corridor on the side.
Jaime understood. Hand on his sword hilt, he followed with steady steps. During his time in King's Landing, he had long known this Grand Maester was his father's man, having secretly facilitated many things for him.
After passing through a dim corridor and ensuring no one was around, Pycelle stopped, breathing slightly fast. "Come with me." He kept it brief.
"Where?" Jaime raised a golden eyebrow, a trace of youthful confusion on his handsome face.
"Away from the center of this vortex," Pycelle lowered his voice, urgency hidden in his tone. "Do you truly think your father brought his entire army here to save King Aerys? If you stay by the Mad King's side, you are his hostage. When your father enters the city, there is only death for you."
Jaime had strong enough muscles to swing a sword easily, but facing such a complex chessboard, his thinking was a bit straightforward. "I... am not sure what my father intends to do," he admitted, not fully grasping the deeper meaning.
Pycelle almost shook his head in speechless exasperation. Rotten wood cannot be carved. "Let's go," he lost patience with explaining. "We will hide in a secret chamber for now. Wait until the fighting settles..."
Jaime followed for a few steps, his armor and white cloak rustling softly. However, he stopped abruptly, as if nailed to the spot. "No," his voice wasn't loud, but it was unusually firm. "I cannot go."
Pycelle turned back in astonishment. "What?"
"The King... he has buried wildfire all over King's Landing," Jaime's voice dropped, heavy with the weight of a terrible secret. "He plans to ignite it all when the city falls... to make the entire city die with him."
Pycelle's face instantly lost all color. He grabbed Jaime's arm nervously. "Then we should leave the city immediately! As far as possible!"
But Jaime shook his head firmly, looking back toward the Throne Room where the Mad King's intermittent roars could be heard.
"No," Jaime broke free from Pycelle's grip. "I must stop this massacre."
Before his voice faded, he turned resolutely. His golden figure disappeared decisively back into the shadows of the hall, walking toward the mad monarch.