[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 151 - 155

Chapter 151: Second Letter

A peaceful afternoon settled over Storm's End, the ancient fortress standing proud against the sky as it had for thousands of years. The silence was broken only by the soft fluttering of wings as a raven from Rain House landed atop the maester's tower.

The maester assumed it carried merely another courtesy from House Wylde, perhaps news of troop reinforcements or ongoing negotiations. Yet when he broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, bold letters caught his eye:

Urgent military situation!

The maester dared not delay. With trembling hands, he delivered the weighty missive directly to Ser Cortnay Penrose, acting castellan of Storm's End.

Cortnay read the message from Rain House with growing concern. The expression on his weathered face hardened like setting mortar, the wrinkles on his bald pate deepening as furrows in a field. His neatly trimmed shovel-shaped red beard rose with his chin as his jaw clenched tight.

The handwriting upon the parchment was hurried, betraying the writer's unease, but it was the content that truly shocked him.

The letter claimed that King's Landing's fleet had silently descended upon the waters outside Rain House—three hundred ships strong, both larger in number and size than the Royal Fleet had ever been!

Last night, the letter said.

More unsettling still, these vessels could somehow emit their own strange light, illuminating both night sky and sea beneath. They generated a terrible cacophony that drowned out all sound from the castle—horns and shouts couldn't travel twenty paces before being swallowed by the din. All this so the fleet's declarations could be heard uncontested.

The fleet had announced its intention to scour the coast and reduce the castle to rubble.

Most disturbing of all, the false king Joffrey himself was reportedly aboard, having abandoned the Iron Throne in King's Landing to lead this assault personally.

Rain House's plea concluded with a desperate request, stating they could not hold out for long and beseeching Storm's End and His Grace Renly to dispatch aid with all haste.

Aid. Cortnay Penrose couldn't help but regard the word with suspicion.

The harbor at King's Landing had never been a secret place. Storm's End had received intelligence from the capital merely three days prior, documenting events from ten days past. At that time, the port had appeared quite ordinary.

One or two hundred warships had been docked in harbor, with merchant traffic gradually returning, though still not matching pre-war levels. There had also been those peculiar rumors spreading through the streets.

Furthermore, His Grace Renly's host had already advanced to Bronzegate in the north. Such intelligence would surely reach him first, with a delay of no more than four or five days.

Five days, or perhaps ten.

How could the Royal Fleet have conjured a hundred warships from thin air, all prepared for extended voyages?

Cortnay Penrose found it impossible to believe.

Could Rain House have secretly pledged fealty to the false king? Was this letter some dangerous bait?

The thought had scarcely formed before Cortnay dismissed such dark suspicions after only a breath or two of consideration.

If everything in the plea was fabrication, designed to lure Storm's End's forces southward into an ambush, from where would the enemy's army materialize?

Cape Wrath stood at the southernmost reach of the Stormlands. Any enemy force hoping to spring a trap would need to arrive by sea, navigating treacherous islands and evading patrols before finding opportunity to make landfall.

How many men could the Royal Fleet transport directly to Cape Wrath on such a lengthy voyage?

The number could hardly exceed ten or twenty thousand.

If Rain House's plea truly concealed a trap, who would be ensnared?

Who would find themselves stranded at Cape Wrath, cut off from reinforcements and supplies, retreat impossible? Without question, it would be the royal forces of the Westerlands under the false king themselves.

Cortnay understood that even if the false king were as arrogant and foolish as claimed, the counselors of the Red Keep would never sanction such an absurd, suicidal strategy.

What other reason, then, might compel Rain House to lie?

There was none.

Cortnay knew the Lord of Rain House well enough. Casper Wylde, a man in his prime, moved through the world with smooth precision. He would visit Storm's End frequently to argue over land rights and haggle endlessly over taxes, taking much and giving little, miserly to his core.

Yet for Rain House itself, for the glory and legacy of his noble house, Lord Wylde lacked neither courage nor the resolve to sacrifice when duty demanded.

Rain House knew its liege lord, knew the oaths binding them.

Casper Wylde would never dare deceive Storm's End, especially not with such crucial military intelligence.

Which meant... Cortnay stared at the ink upon the parchment, each word standing out with terrible clarity.

When all impossible explanations are eliminated, what remains—however improbable—must be truth.

So.

The Royal Fleet truly commanded three hundred warships?

The false king Joffrey had indeed personally led his forces to sea, raided Rain House, and now threatened to ravage the entire coastline?

And these reports of strange lights and deafening noise were real?

Cortnay couldn't help but recall those rumors from King's Landing—of tamed flames, limbs regenerating after being severed, earth and stone flowing like water, and the blessings of the gods.

Could these tales hold truth as well?

Cortnay's brow furrowed deeper as he sank into an intricate web of contemplation.

After what seemed an age, he turned his gaze to the banner hanging upon the wall.

In that brilliant gold, Cortnay found himself transported to the day when His Grace Renly had declared himself king—an afternoon much like this one.

In this very solar.

He had taken the open parchment from the Duke's hand, glanced upon it, and suddenly the Duke had become His Grace Renly Baratheon, First of His Name, rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

His Grace had declared his intention to summon all lords of the Stormlands, to gather his host at Storm's End, and reclaim the Iron Throne that was his by right.

Meeting His Grace's fiery, penetrating gaze, the overwhelmed Cortnay had looked away then, just as he did now, toward the banner on the wall.

Gold as far as the eye could see, like fields of ripe wheat, like sunlight dancing upon the sea, like boundless treasure.

The gold framed the sigil inherited from the ancient Storm Kings—a raging stag crowned in glory, the symbol House Baratheon had borne for three centuries, representing power and majesty.

Afterward, Cortnay had personally copied and dispatched that proclamation to every castle in the Seven Kingdoms.

Declaring that Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella were all born of incest, proclaiming that His Grace Renly was the one true king.

The proud stag had thus been sundered.

Both sides raised the banner of the crowned stag, both carried the Baratheon name, yet they stood divided by questions of legitimacy, truth, and ultimately life and death.

Cortnay Penrose could only choose the stag of Storm's End.

Now the stag—or perhaps the lion—of King's Landing had come. He would vent his fury upon the coastline of the Stormlands, displaying claws and teeth, perhaps even wielding powers more terrifying still.

Cortnay rose and walked to the window.

The sea stretched endlessly before him, waves breaking against jagged reefs, without a single sail in sight.

Days ago, Lord Velaryon's fleet had anchored in these waters, but the walls of Storm's End had proven impregnable as ever, and that fleet had eventually withdrawn in disappointment.

The waves surged relentlessly against the shore.

Cortnay's expression gradually softened.

Indeed, ancient Storm's End had been raised with magic and solid stone. Not only had it never fallen to siege, but even the most violent tempests—for which these lands were named—could do nothing to harm it.

Let that fleet come!

Three hundred ships, five hundred, a thousand—even if warships filled the horizon from end to end, they would never breach the walls of Storm's End!

The grave castellan allowed himself the ghost of a smile.

Knock, knock, knock.

The sound at his door startled him from his reverie.

"Ser Cortnay, another letter has arrived from Rain House." The maester's voice was breathless with haste.

Cortnay rushed to open the door, confronting the maester's flushed, exhausted face.

He took the proffered sealed parchment.

This time the wax seal remained intact, proof that no eyes had yet beheld its contents.

"I thank you for your service."

Cortnay remained standing at the threshold, unmoving, and the maester withdrew tactfully.

Closing the door once more, Cortnay hesitated a moment, then broke the wax seal and unfolded the second letter.

Chapter 152: The Fleet Approaches

That night, Storm's End blazed with a thousand fires, its ancient stones bathed in flickering orange light. No man, woman, or child within its mighty walls found rest.

Servants scurried through the cavernous granaries, taking careful inventory of grain, salt, and freshwater, tallying how many moons the provisions might sustain them. The barracks stood empty, beds cold and untouched, while soldiers made their final preparations with grim determination. They crowded the armory, collecting swords, spears, helmets, mail, and all manner of siege equipment with practiced efficiency.

The ravenry nestled within the maester's tower was nearly bereft of birds, yet the maester himself remained hunched over his small desk, fingers nimble despite his years as he tied carefully worded messages to the legs of the few ravens that remained before sending them into the night sky.

The great hall, normally alive with the sounds of feasting and conversation, lay silent as a tomb.

Acting castellan Ser Cortnay Penrose personally climbed the towering walls, arranging defenses and spurring the men to greater urgency with terse commands and occasional oaths. The reason for this flurry of activity was simple:

The fleet was coming!

Ser Cortnay had issued the alarm throughout the fortress—the fleet from King's Landing was on the move, intent on laying waste to the coast, and Storm's End stood directly in its path.

It was news that raised eyebrows and whispers of doubt among the men.

The fleet from King's Landing had abandoned its post defending the Blackwater Rush to sail so far merely to harass the coastline? It seemed folly.

Yet upon reflection, nothing was truly impossible in times of war. Besides, the order had come from Ser Cortnay Penrose himself, and none questioned the word of such a serious and honorable knight.

And so, to safeguard both castle and their own lives, the soldiers labored without complaint.

Crossbow bolts, stones, barrels of pitch, and pots of wildfire were hauled in great numbers to the battlements. Squads of guards dispersed to every gate and passage within the castle, ensuring that the massive doors were barred tight, drawbridges raised, chains and winches tested for strength, and that the dry moat bristled with iron spikes sharp enough to impale a man through armor.

There was a sea cave beneath the cliff face on the seaward side of the castle, and this hidden approach was not forgotten by the vigilant guards. The waterway penetrated deep beneath Storm's End, but an iron portcullis had been lowered from the rock ceiling at the cave's mouth, descending straight into the cold, dark water and blocking half the passage.

Above the iron gate, the ceiling of the cave was pierced by a constellation of murder holes. Should any fool dare enter the cave uninvited, soldiers positioned above would deliver a swift lesson with crossbow bolts, stones, and boiling oil—a final lesson in most cases.

Many of the older veterans couldn't help but reminisce with a mixture of pride and grim humor. The last time Storm's End had made such thorough defensive preparations was during the siege in Robert's Rebellion.

In those dark days, the lands surrounding the castle had been occupied by Lord Mace Tyrell's host from the Reach, while the sea lay under the dominion of the Redwyne fleet from the Arbor. Stannis, trapped within these very walls, had commanded even fewer men than they had now.

And what had been the result?

Ha!

Storm's End had endured for more than a year, standing unconquered and defiant!

Had King Robert not overthrown the Mad King, and had Mace Tyrell not bent the knee to Lord Eddard Stark who had arrived with the northern host, Storm's End would have continued to resist for gods knew how many years more!

Provided, of course, there remained food and drink enough.

Just then, welcome news arrived from the granary: the castle's provisions were sufficient to sustain the current garrison of three thousand souls for nearly two years.

The cleverer soldiers began to speculate that they might face a lengthy siege by the approaching fleet.

Storm's End's reputation for impregnability was legendary throughout the Seven Kingdoms, and Lord Renly understood this better than most, placing absolute faith in his ancestral fortress.

With King's Landing stripped of its fleet, a rare opportunity presented itself.

Would His Grace choose to march north and seize the undefended capital, or would he lure the fleet to make landfall and destroy this enemy force?

After all, Storm's End could resist for two years at the very least.

Even against a great armada.

The busy soldiers occasionally cast their gaze toward the distant horizon. The sea remained shrouded in complete darkness, not a light to be seen, with only the rhythmic crashing of waves against the rocks breaking the silence.

The fleet was coming.

But when would they arrive?

Even Cortnay Penrose could not say with certainty.

Perhaps during daylight, perhaps in the dead of night. In short, accounting for the necessary voyage, the enemy ships could appear at any moment.

The second letter from Rain House had confirmed as much.

The letter had stated:

Rain House stood unharmed.

Though the King's Landing fleet had approached in silence, the means they employed thereafter were unworthy of such a perfect opportunity for surprise.

The fleet had first created strange lights and alarming noises, seemingly attempting to terrify the castle's defenders into submission.

This tactic had indeed caused some initial unease, but the earl's loyalty to King Renly had overwhelmed his fear. He had firmly rejected the enemy's demand for surrender and ordered his men to prepare the castle's defenses.

The first raven had been dispatched during this time.

Afterward, having failed to secure a bloodless victory, the fleet had tried hurling stones and loosing arrows from the sea, but their assault proved feebler than an infant's blow.

Rain House had withstood the attack without so much as a scratch.

The enemy troops aboard the ships had then attempted a landing, launching assaults against the three landward gates.

Fortunately, a thousand soldiers who had been gathering to march north as reinforcements were already within the castle walls, and the armory was well-stocked. They had repelled four enemy attacks in succession.

Following this defeat, the fleet had abandoned its assault on Rain House and retreated to open water.

The last sight reported from Rain House was of the fleet dividing into three squadrons—one sailing south, another west, and the third, flying the brightest banners, entering the channel that led directly to Storm's End. The false king Joffrey was believed to be aboard this last contingent.

To summarize plainly:

Rain House remained secure, the fleet was dispersing to attack multiple targets, and one squadron was bound for Storm's End.

Cortnay Penrose knew not whether to feel relieved or troubled by these tidings.

The favorable aspect was that the so-called strange lights and sounds had proven largely ineffective, and the strength of the King's Landing fleet appeared not to have increased dramatically. They had failed to capture even Rain House.

Furthermore, the false king had foolishly divided his forces, diminishing the effectiveness of a fleet already ill-suited to siege warfare.

It seemed Joffrey had either failed to bring wise and forthright counselors with him, or if he had, they lacked the ability to make the willful king heed their advice.

Recalling Prince Joffrey as he remembered him, Cortnay Penrose had no difficulty believing the extent of the boy's recklessness. Besides Queen Cersei and Lord Tywin, who could hope to persuade Joffrey of anything?

Nevertheless.

This did not mean that the territories targeted by the King's Landing fleet would remain peaceful and unscathed.

Nor did it suggest that Storm's End could afford to relax its vigilance.

Even if the fleet carried fewer soldiers than initially feared, they still outnumbered the thousand men of the garrison. If carelessness or underestimation allowed Storm's End—which had never fallen—to be breached by this enemy...

Cortnay Penrose believed firmly that he would find no peace, even in death.

With this thought foremost in his mind, he arranged Storm's End's defenses with meticulous care, preparing as if to face an army of one hundred thousand led by Lord Tywin Lannister himself.

The castle must be capable of withstanding such a formidable foe.

For if it could, then surely no misfortune or miscalculation could lead to Storm's End's fall?

By now, the defenses along the walls and throughout the fortress had been completed. Most soldiers had returned to the barracks to snatch what rest they could before the coming storm. The men on patrol remained alert, their steps purposeful, and the watchtower beacons burned bright.

Surveying all that had been accomplished, Cortnay Penrose felt a surge of confidence that drove away his weariness.

He stood in silence upon the battlements, staring into the darkness beyond. Though he could see nothing with his eyes, in his mind he perceived swords and shadows, blood and fire, and the approaching warships with their deadly cargo.

Finally, as the first pale light of dawn crept across the eastern sky, long, indistinct shadows rippled across the gray surface of the sea. They grew in number with each passing moment, becoming wider and more distinct.

One ship's silhouette after another emerged from the gloom.

The sentry in the watchtower rang the bronze bell and sounded his horn, rousing those who had managed to find sleep. The clamor of bell and horn formed a discordant song of war, and the air suddenly grew thick with tension, punctuated by the occasional shout between companions. Everyone understood at once.

The fleet had arrived.

Chapter 153: Landing!

The waves crashed endlessly against the shore, and the sea wind howled like a thousand hungry wolves. From the distant waters, the movements within Storm's End remained barely perceptible, save for the dancing arcs of firelight that traced the contours of the ancient walls.

Those were the torches held aloft by grim-faced soldiers, each flame representing a sword ready to fall or a bow prepared to sing.

Those were the braziers roaring beside each battlement, serving many purposes—to warm numbed fingers, to cast light into the darkness, to ignite the pitch and rockets, and to boil oil until it bubbled like the waters of the Seven Hells.

In this manner, Storm's End proclaimed its vigilance to all who approached, displaying its thorns and iron teeth like some great beast awakening from slumber.

Each pinprick of light signaled the castle's meticulous preparations for counterattack, foretelling the countless lives that would be spent in blood and pain should any besiegers dare test its defenses.

The guards tightened their grips upon sword hilts and crossbow triggers, their faces set in the grim mask that men wear when they prepare to kill or die.

Meanwhile, within the castle's massive drum tower, horns blared incessantly, their deep-throated calls rolling over the battlements like muffled thunder gathering boundless fury. Their purpose was twofold—to warn away those who might threaten, and to kindle the flames of courage in those who defended.

The fleet at sea, however, advanced in eerie silence, communicating only through the subtle shifting of their banners.

Why no drums or horns?

Many of the younger guards exchanged puzzled glances. The stories they had heard since childhood, their training exercises—all taught the same lesson. Shouldn't the air be filled with martial music, the beating of drums and blaring of horns to accompany men into battle?

Even for a fleet approaching by sea, should an attack be launched in such uncanny quiet?

Even the grizzled veterans among them found themselves perplexed.

Without the thunder of drums and clarion of horns to inflame young minds with visions of glory, who would dare rush toward those unyielding walls after sober consideration? Who would willingly face a hail of crossbow bolts, a rain of stones, and scalding oil, all while the screams of the dying filled the air?

As these thoughts took root, the initial tension that had gripped the defenders began to wane perceptibly.

The guards looked down once more at the fleet spread out below.

A vague assembly of ships, scattered and unremarkable, as inconspicuous as traders on a market day.

Rather than an imposing armada befitting a king, they resembled nothing so much as a pack of predatory pirates, the kind who crept close under cover of darkness, never daring to launch an honest assault in the light of day.

Pirates. Ser Cortnay Penrose recalled the battle described in the letter from Rain House—the tactics employed were indeed reminiscent of Ironborn longships: ambush, stealth, sudden violence, and swift retreat when casualties mounted.

Considered thus, wouldn't the division of forces to raid various points along the coastline perfectly match the Ironborn's traditional approach to warfare?

Cortnay Penrose felt his confusion beginning to dissipate.

The letter had mentioned that one of the officers attacking Rain House had been Theon Greyjoy, the Iron Islands whelp currently serving as Lord Stark's ward.

Perhaps this Theon had somehow influenced the cruel heart of the false king Joffrey? Had he convinced the boy to dispatch the fleet on a campaign of terror and retribution, to avenge the defeat at Massey's Hook, or simply to spread chaos for its own sake?

Cortnay Penrose could not be entirely certain, but at least...

He surveyed the fleet spread out below the castle walls. A cursory estimate suggested no more than two hundred ships. The sentries in the watchtower reported a precise count of one hundred and twenty-one vessels.

At least it confirmed that the fleet had indeed divided its strength.

This represented welcome news for Storm's End, though it boded ill for other castles along the coast. For His Grace Renly, it constituted valuable intelligence.

After all, judging from present circumstances, King's Landing now stood bereft of naval forces to guard the Blackwater, and the territories of the Stormlands would not be utterly devastated—the willful Prince Joffrey would merely be permitted to vent his fury, plundering a few villages and fishing settlements.

In the greater scope of the war, such losses meant little and less.

The strength of King's Landing was being squandered on peripheral objectives, while His Grace Renly's forces grew stronger and more disciplined with each passing day, poised to strike at the enemy's heart when the moment was ripe.

The course of the war seemed to be growing clearer by the hour.

"Hahaha!"

"They've lost their wits! Look at them trying to use that as a weapon? It couldn't touch a single hair on Storm's End!"

"Seven hells, they haven't given up yet!"

"If this is the best they can muster, we might as well return to our beds. They'll not set foot inside Storm's End in a hundred years..."

The guards along the battlements erupted in laughter and mockery.

Cortnay Penrose made no immediate move to silence them. He, too, observed the fleet's attack with disbelief, finding it insignificant, even laughably absurd.

Dozens of warships had approached nearly to grounding distance, loosing arrows and hurling stones from their decks, yet the vast majority of their missiles failed even to clear the cliffs beneath the castle, let alone threaten the towering walls.

Cortnay understood that such a feeble assault would only strengthen the castle's morale and stiffen the resolve of its defenders.

Nevertheless, one question lingered in his mind: what of the enemy's white light and deafening noise?

The sky was gradually brightening with the approach of dawn, so perhaps the effect of any white light could be safely disregarded, but what of the tremendous clamor that Rain House had mentioned repeatedly in their letter? Such a thing could prove far more effective as a weapon.

This remained Cortnay Penrose's greatest concern.

Should the enemy employ this strange power, low morale within the castle would be the least of their troubles. Difficulties in communication would represent a minor inconvenience at best. If it disrupted sleep and exhausted the defenders' strength, before the enemy sought out weaknesses to exploit...

Cortnay Penrose had no choice but to maintain vigilant watch over the fleet's movements, attempting to divine the enemy's intentions and prepare accordingly.

Perhaps a quarter hour later, the warships that had been launching their futile barrage of arrows and stones began to withdraw.

Cortnay Penrose immediately silenced the guards' jubilation, ordering all to remain alert and to report even the slightest change in the enemy's disposition.

But this command swiftly became redundant.

Cortnay Penrose himself clearly observed the fleet's next maneuver.

All the warships sailed northward, coming to rest upon the sea adjacent to a flat stretch of shoreline perhaps a thousand paces distant from Storm's End. There they lowered their sails and cast anchor.

Then, numerous small boats laden with densely packed shadows began to row steadily toward the shore.

The enemy was landing!

Cortnay Penrose and all who stood with him watched in astonishment.

This was Storm's End, not some lesser fortress like Rain House!

How many fighting men could one hundred and twenty-one ships possibly carry? And they were simply landing on the shore? Did they truly believe they could assault the gates of Storm's End from the landward side?

Not a soul alive was ignorant of the power of those gates.

The crossbows and catapults mounted upon the walls formed the first line of defense, capable of loosing thousands of deadly projectiles in the space of a few heartbeats, transforming the ground before the gates into a field of broken bodies.

The dry, broad moat represented the second line, and the defenders would enthusiastically assist any attacker in filling it.

With their own corpses.

The third line of defense consisted of the scalding oil poured from murder holes above.

When the attackers caught the aroma of their own roasting flesh and the stench of burning hair and somehow managed to destroy the drawbridge leading to the walls, they would then face the dozen-foot-long gate tunnel.

Countless crossbows positioned above the tunnel entrance, stones piled into small mountains, and cauldrons of boiling oil would form the fourth line of defense.

Once again, the enemy would leave their dead heaped upon the ground, the few survivors finally reaching the great gate itself.

The well-prepared portcullis would slam down, trapping those within six feet of the inner gate, followed by a merciless slaughter.

Once these unfortunates had also been reduced to corpses, the portcullis would rise again, awaiting the next wave of prey...

Cortnay Penrose's brow furrowed as he gazed northward.

The landing force likely numbered several thousand at most. With such meager numbers, they would perish to the last man without so much as scratching the paint on the castle gates.

The sun had fully crested the horizon now, bathing the landscape in golden light.

A lone figure rode forth from the landing party's makeshift camp, his white armor catching the sunlight and transforming him into a brilliant beacon upon the shore.

Chapter 154: Storm's End Raven

Outside the gates of Storm's End, Ser Cortnay Penrose sat astride his chestnut courser, his eyes locked in solemn judgment upon the knight who stood before him.

The man's eyes were downcast and gloomy beneath heavy brows, his rust-colored beard jutting like a crude weapon. His white scale armor was etched with delicate threads of gold that caught the sunlight. Upon his head rested a helm adorned with sunbursts of beaten gold, while his knee guards, gorget, gauntlets, and boots were all polished iron that gleamed like mirrors in the morning light.

Whether this display was meant to flaunt his status or betray his fear of death, Cortnay could not say.

Most telling was the woolen cloak that hung from the knight's shoulders, fastened by a clasp wrought in the shape of a golden lion.

"Ser Cortnay Penrose," the knight said, his rust-colored beard swaying gently as he spoke. "It has been too long."

Cortnay snorted with cold derision. "You've grown fat and comfortable in the Red Keep. I fear you've forgotten the Stormlands entirely, Maron Trant!"

Cortnay recognized the face well enough.

How could he not? From his own ancestral seat at Paps to Storm's End itself, between them lay the Trant family's lands of Haystack Hall.

"What's this? The Hangman Knight has transformed himself into a proud golden lion?"

Cortnay's face twisted with mockery.

Maron Trant appeared unmoved by the barb, absently stroking the golden lion clasp that secured his cloak. "As a Kingsguard, one must naturally forsake his family, take no wife, father no children, and serve the king with his whole heart. Should a true knight not praise me for honoring my sacred vows? Why do you speak with such contempt?"

If it were truly out of devotion to his duty as a Kingsguard, perhaps such choices would be excusable, even worthy of respect. But Maron Trant? Was he truly such a man?

Cortnay Penrose had little patience for empty words.

"Say what you've come to say and be quick about it. You can hurry back to lick your master's boots, and I can return to the leisure of preparing Storm's End to slaughter your companions."

Cortnay glanced at Maron Trant with unconcealed disgust.

Had this craven not been waving two peace banners as he approached, visible to all the defenders on the walls, Cortnay might have challenged him to single combat then and there, ridding the world of one more faithless villain.

A pity.

His gaze drifted upward to the banners Trant's squire held.

One peace banner was painted with seven-colored stripes, connected to seven long tails, tied to a pole crowned with a seven-pointed star.

The other banner was nearly identical, save that all the "sevens" had been replaced with "sixes."

He recognized this as yet another consequence of the false king Joffrey's willfulness. The boy had apparently decreed that "The symbol of the Seven Gods is a six-pointed star"—an absurdity that boggled the mind!

And Maron Trant, it seemed, neither respected the gods nor possessed the courage to face death with conviction.

Cortnay glanced at him again with disdain. Had this man truly dared to come bearing only the six-pointed star, it might have suggested some measure of loyalty and courage, misplaced though they might be. But no—he carried the seven-pointed star as well. Craven to the last!

As if stung by Cortnay's contemptuous stare, Maron Trant finally unfurled a scroll bearing the king's warrant.

"I, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, by the Grace of the Gods, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm..."

Cortnay Penrose lazily picked at his ear, making a show of his indifference.

"...infinite power, rebellion will be destroyed. To show the mercy of the gods, immediately open the city gates and pledge allegiance to justice. All within the city can still be forgiven, merit will be rewarded regardless of past crimes."

Maron Trant extended the warrant toward him, his face a mask of indifference and arrogance.

"Finished your recitation?" Cortnay Penrose spat upon the ground between them. "There is my answer. Go back and report to your boy-king. Let those poor soldiers come and dash themselves to pieces upon our walls. Their blood will be on your hands."

"Or perhaps," he added, his hand moving to rest upon the hilt of his sword, "you would prefer to die by my blade here and now?"

Facing a man like Maron Trant, Cortnay would never dream of coming unarmed.

Trant showed neither surprise nor anger at the challenge.

"Sword duels," he sighed with condescending weariness, "are relics of a bygone age."

Without another word, he turned and made his way back toward the enemy camp, not once glancing over his shoulder.

Watching Trant's distant, shining figure retreat, Cortnay Penrose knew he had rejected the only chance to avoid bloodshed.

So be it. The enemy's blood would flow ten or a hundred times more freely than that of Storm's End!

Cortnay Penrose turned his mount around.

As he crossed the drawbridge and entered the gatehouse, he felt the weight of centuries pressing down upon him. Above his head, countless murder holes gaped like hungry mouths, and all around him, deadly mechanisms lay hidden in the shadows.

From above, solid stones would come rolling down, and boiling oil would pour in cascades of liquid fire.

To his left and right, bows would be drawn, crossbows would loose their bolts, and fire-spewing weapons would belch forth dragon's breath.

Once the portcullis fell, it could cleave a man in two, grinding flesh and bone into a bloody paste. Afterward, it would separate the world into two realms—those inside doomed to immediate death, and those outside merely awaiting their inevitable end.

The city gate itself was bound with iron bars and, if necessary, could be covered with a layer of iron spikes to thwart any attempt to tamper with it.

Even the ground beneath was not simply stone and mortar.

Inside the walls, mechanisms controlled hidden underground passages. Once activated, the floor of the gatehouse would collapse, revealing a pit two men long and two men deep.

Not only would heavy equipment like battering rams find no purchase there, but even lightly armored soldiers would struggle to cross, all while subjected to a merciless hail from the murder holes above.

All of this represented the enemy's worst nightmare—and Storm's End's lullaby.

Cortnay Penrose knew it as intimately as a lover.

Click, click, click.

The iron cables tightened around the winch, drawing the drawbridge up behind him, sealing the breach in the outer wall.

The gatehouse plunged into sudden darkness.

In that confined space, subtle sounds began to fill the void from above and below, left and right—the quiet movements of soldiers taking their positions behind the murder holes.

Boom.

The heavy city gate was lifted gradually by iron cables, and light spilled into the gatehouse from below, growing brighter and wider until a man on horseback might pass through.

Cortnay Penrose spurred his mount across the threshold.

Thump.

The city gate crashed to the ground with finality, none could say when it might open again.

"Ser, a raven from Amberly."

Cortnay Penrose had just mounted the steps to the northern wall when the maester hurried toward him, clutching a sealed parchment.

The letter's seal bore the sigil of House Rogers—black wax impressed with nine silver unicorns surrounding a silver maze.

House Rogers of Amberly, neighbors to the west of Rain House. The fleet from King's Landing had struck there too, it seemed.

He could already guess the contents.

Breaking the seal and unfolding the letter, his suspicions were confirmed.

Amberly had indeed suffered raids from the fleet. Though the castle itself remained secure, many fishing villages and towns along the coast had been plundered or put to the torch. Some enemy forces had even penetrated inland, clearly intending to ravage yet more settlements.

More and more like pirates, he thought.

Cortnay Penrose's feelings were a tangled knot.

"Ser, how shall we report this to His Grace?" the maester inquired cautiously.

Cortnay's gaze drifted northward toward the enemy encampment.

It was now certain that the foe had not brought siege engines of any significance. Their supplies appeared insufficient, their camps scattered and disorganized. They didn't even employ military drums or horns to coordinate their movements!

As for the reason...

The letter from Amberly had verified a suspicion he had previously deemed too outlandish to credit.

The enemy's white light and deafening sound were not without limits, it seemed. Amberly had also heard the fleet's thunderous demands for surrender, but only half-complete—the rest had abruptly ceased.

So it appeared that, emboldened by this strange power, the enemy had felt confident enough to dispense with traditional drums and horns.

But what if this power had suddenly failed them, leaving them without means to issue commands effectively?

"Ser!"

A soldier came running from the eastern battlements. "The besieging fleet is moving! They—"

Cortnay Penrose raised his hand, cutting off the man's report.

There was no need for words. The fleet had already arranged itself in formation before his eyes, sailing farther northward.

He turned his attention to the true north.

In the center of the enemy encampment on the shore, a crowned stag banner larger than a ship's sail had been planted above the main pavilion.

Joffrey, he thought grimly. Arrogant as ever.

Before long, every raven in Storm's End's rookery had been released.

The besieging soldiers loosed several volleys of arrows skyward, but six or seven of the dark birds still managed to evade the deadly shafts.

They flew northward, bearing Cortnay's tidings to King Renly.

Chapter 155: Deadly News

"Release the ravens."

Jon Snow, having reviewed the entire contents of the letters, gave his command to the maester of the Eyrie with quiet authority.

He stood arrayed in iron-grey plate that seemed to drink the light from the chamber. Upon his breast he wore a golden six-pointed star that gleamed with unnatural brilliance, and several badges of varying designs adorned his chest like strange constellations.

The four men who stood guard behind him wore similar attire, save that their armor was painted a deep crimson red that reminded the old maester of freshly spilled blood.

"As you wish, my lord."

The white-haired maester calmly re-rolled the three letters. Though his own hand had formed each word upon the parchment, the thoughts they expressed were not his own.

The old man leaned forward slightly, warming the stick of red wax in the flame of the candlestick that sat upon the table before him.

While he waited for the wax to soften properly, the maester withdrew a precious seal he kept close to his person. He wiped it carefully with a soft cloth, ensuring the engraving would display fully and flawlessly upon the wax.

The seal depicted a pair of griffins locked in eternal combat.

Griffins—the symbol of the Eyrie, the sigil of House Clinton.

The combination of ravens and sigils had proven remarkably effective through the ages. The First Men had begun using this method for long-distance communication some ten thousand years past, and it endured to this very day.

As a maester, his primary duties had always included tending to the ravens, writing letters, receiving correspondence, and dispatching messages across the realm.

The old maester performed these tasks with such practiced skill that error had become all but impossible for him.

He removed the semi-molten red wax from the flame—soft enough to take an impression, yet not so liquid as to drip messily, nor too firm to shape properly.

With a deft flick of his wrist, the old maester sealed each letter's opening with the red wax, forming thick, rounded caps.

Then he raised the seal, expertly breathed warm air upon its surface, and pressed it firmly down upon the yielding wax. He held it steady until the wax hardened sufficiently to preserve the impression.

The three letters were quickly prepared.

Next came the task of sending them to their destinations—Lormouth, Storm's End, and Green Valley.

Each bore the griffin seal of House Clinton and contained the old maester's own distinctive handwriting, identical to countless letters that had preceded them over the decades of his service.

It was all but certain the recipients would harbor no suspicion upon receiving them.

What consequences would follow?

The old maester turned to regard the black-haired young man who stood watching his every move—the new lord of the Eyrie, the temporary castellan, Jon Snow.

That face was so young.

Those grey eyes were gloomy and cold, forever carrying the memory of the icy, desolate North from which he hailed.

The old maester couldn't help but sigh at the impermanence of the world.

Just the previous night, the man who had instructed him to write letters reporting events and requesting aid had been Ser Raymond Clinton. And before that, it had always been a Clinton.

For decades upon decades.

He had witnessed countless events unfold, had been an old friend to several generations of House Clinton, and had observed the grievous blows suffered by the ancient Eyrie.

During the Usurper's War, House Clinton's lands and the title of Earl had been stripped away by the Mad King in a fit of paranoia.

Later, King Robert had returned a small portion of their ancestral holdings along with the title of knight.

The Eyrie had thus managed to endure, though no longer as wealthy and prosperous as in days of old. At the very least, the name of House Clinton had not been extinguished from memory.

But now, with another war for the Iron Throne engulfing the realm, could House Clinton survive this latest calamity?

The old maester harbored deep misgivings.

He personally held no strong opinion regarding this Jon Snow.

All knew that maesters sent to various castles served the castles themselves and their people, not any specific lord. Maesters were expected to remain neutral, untouched by the infighting of ambitious men.

But he was old, after all, and had served at the Eyrie, in the household of House Clinton, for far too many years.

Moreover, now he found himself compelled to falsely use the name of House Clinton to deliver lies to Lord Renly, who had crowned himself king...

"Maester?" Jon Snow prompted him softly, breaking his reverie.

The old maester averted his gaze. "A momentary lapse—a common affliction of the elderly. Pray forgive me, Castellan."

Jon Snow merely pointed toward the rookery, his expression unreadable.

The old maester knew he could delay no longer. Everyone in the castle had been taken prisoner. Whether out of duty or emotion, he had little choice but to serve diligently.

Although, he had to admit, the army that had entered the castle had shown unexpected restraint, neither killing indiscriminately nor molesting the women.

But that terrifying power they wielded...

The old maester procrastinated no further. He walked quickly to the rookery, selected three of the healthiest ravens, and carefully secured the letters one by one into the message tubes fastened to the birds' legs.

The previous night, the old maester had sent out four ravens in just this manner.

The army that had launched the night attack outside the castle had failed to intercept them. All four ravens had safely taken wing, soaring toward their respective destinations.

However, it later proved that this success had been merely an illusion—a cruel jest of the gods.

Not long after the four ravens had disappeared into the darkness, the army outside the castle had revealed its terrifying power.

Heavy iron balls had been launched from strange iron pipes with devastating force. The iron gate of the "Eyrie's Throat" had instantly shattered amidst a thunderous crash that seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle.

The old maester and all the guards had stood paralyzed with shock.

Then, a small contingent of the enemy force had swiftly rushed through the breach and onto the barren ridge beyond, sprinting directly toward the main gate of the castle proper.

The guards stationed in the twin round towers flanking the main gate had quickly launched their defense, raining down spears, stones, and arrows upon the attackers.

Yet somehow, the enemies had advanced unscathed!

When those same invaders had broken through the main gate, seemingly untouched by the boiling oil poured upon their heads from above, the old maester had finally released the first raven bearing an urgent plea for aid.

But this time, the enemy's bows and crossbows had proven unerringly accurate, and the strange flames they commanded had proved deadly. Neither of the two crucial ravens had escaped the sky's sudden hostility.

After that, the old maester had found no further opportunity to summon help.

Once the enemy revealed their true capabilities, the Eyrie had held out for barely half an hour.

The old maester had watched helplessly as one familiar face after another was dragged forth and gathered in the great hall. The empty griffin seat at the far end, passed down through countless generations, had remained silent and unresponsive to the plight of its people.

The black-haired young man leading the invaders had even instructed his subordinates with chilling precision: "Beneath the Mother's Altar in the Eyrie's Sept lies a staircase leading to a secret refuge. Another staircase in the northwest tower leads directly to the sea. Find them both, and bring everyone to this hall."

How could the enemy possess such knowledge?!

These were closely guarded secrets, unknown to the vast majority of those who dwelled within the Eyrie. Those few who did know had no conceivable reason to reveal such information to outsiders.

The old maester truly could not comprehend it. Could some bloodthirsty demon have whispered the answer in the young man's ear?

But such questions soon became insignificant in the face of what followed.

The black-haired young man had pronounced judgment upon the Eyrie and House Clinton:

All within the castle walls must obey any directives issued by the Kingsguard, dedicating their strength to the gods, to justice, and to the true king.

Jon Snow had been appointed as temporary castellan of the Eyrie, invested with full authority to manage the affairs of the castle and its surrounding territory, to preside over matters of war, to mobilize personnel, allocate supplies, adjudicate laws, and collect and remit taxes.

House Clinton would be permitted to continue dwelling within the Eyrie, retain their title, and enjoy a portion of tax revenue and income from various industries.

Finally, the Kingsguard had displayed a strange power, healing the injured and sick, and embedding a peculiar crystalline disc—reminiscent of dragonglass but somehow different—into the neck of every man, woman, and child.

The old maester had witnessed it with his own eyes. Was this truly a creation of the gods, or some fell game of demons?

They called it the "Divine Grace Light Screen."

Clearly, King Joffrey preferred to be thought favored by the gods rather than blessed by demons.

The "missions" displayed upon the light screen were flashing now, demanding attention.

The old maester sighed silently and offered a handful of corn kernels to the waiting ravens.

After the three birds had eaten their fill, they took flight with evident contentment, winging northward, bearing their crucial message—a perfectly reasonable message.

A deadly message.