[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 141 - 145

Chapter 141 - Deadly Drops

"Lay down your weapons, surrender and you will not be killed."

The voice boomed across the beach, echoing against the rocky cliffs. Then again, tireless and unyielding.

"Lay down your weapons, surrender and you will not be killed."

This voice had become the nightmare that haunted every man in the Stormland army. The soldiers who had been resting in the thin shade of the beach scrambled to their feet, running wildly forward as if driven by some primal instinct. None dared think of resistance.

Their steps soon faltered, slowing dramatically until they stood frozen in place or collapsed altogether, as though caught in quicksand of salt and stone. The reality that faced them was far more terrifying than any sucking earth.

Demonic figures blocked the path ahead, armored in fiery red plate with cloaks of silver-white flowing behind them like banners of death. Those soldiers whose spirits had not yet been entirely crushed began to retreat, their eyes darting nervously to survey their surroundings. Dozens more of these monsters stood behind their company, while the eastern rocky mountains and earthen slopes were dotted with shadowy figures, forming a loose ring around them.

Sparse, yet indestructible. A circle with no escape.

"We could not escape after all," Ser Norbert Grandison sighed, feeling a strange lightness wash over him. It was as though the heavy stone he had carried within his chest these past weeks had finally been set down, allowing him to face the fate that had always been waiting.

Beside him, Bruce Buckler finally broke his silence. "I wonder how much we are worth?"

Norbert glanced at him in surprise. The man had always been taciturn, resolute in action rather than word. Now he speaks of surrender?

How could Buckler not know his own value? Norbert knew well enough that a healthy knight general from House Buckler would command a ransom of one or two hundred gold dragons—not an outrageous sum.

As for the other knights and cavalry... those with family names would likely be guaranteed their safety. Those who could not afford the price of freedom would be at the mercy of their captors' moods.

By comparison, Norbert himself and Bruce were fortunate. They would be closely watched by Lannister men, spending their days on horseback, in secret chambers, or in dungeons, awaiting the exchange of prisoners or for Lord Renly and their families to send the demanded gold.

At least such a fate was more welcome than death.

Moreover, he had proven his loyalty to His Majesty to the fullest measure of his ability. Even in failure, he would preserve the dignity of his house and face whatever came with calm resolve.

Norbert Grandison stood in silence.

If he surrendered, would he truly see the day when prisoners were exchanged? When would this war end?

Recalling the scalding white steam from the night of the raid, Norbert felt a strange premonition take root in his heart. The day he might return to his family—to his parents, wife, and children—seemed at once both impossibly distant and unexpectedly near.

"Bruce, Norbert, everyone!"

Norbert raised his head to see a familiar pockmarked face appearing behind the Lannister soldiers.

Roland Storm called out loudly, "Please stop fighting this pointless battle! We have indeed failed, but not through cowardice or arrogance. This is not our shame."

"In the name of a warrior, brave men should face life or death, victory or defeat with equal grace."

"I have received the promise of Earl Dondarrion. I, Roland Storm, swear upon my honor that every warrior who offers his sword and relinquishes resistance will be properly treated, with his life secure and free from humiliation."

"Indeed, I guarantee it in my name." A red-armored warrior removed his helm, revealing golden-red hair and a handsome face beneath.

Norbert saw the purple forked lightning emblem upon the starlit breastplate.

The Earl of Blackhaven, Beric Dondarrion.

Lord Beric showed no sign of nervousness. From the moment he had departed King's Landing, he had known his mission would be accomplished. The only question had been the cost in lives.

To ensure that none of the two hundred Holy Warriors King Joffrey had entrusted to him would be lost needlessly, Beric Dondarrion had maintained a humble and measured approach.

He had not charged directly at his target.

Instead, he had chosen to sail to Tidehead Isle north of Massey's Hook, where he made contact with the Dragonstone fleet to prepare his battle plan.

The information provided by the Security Bureau had proven, as always, detailed, accurate, and timely.

Beric Dondarrion quickly identified an opportunity to strike and led his men aboard warships to land on the western coast of Massey's Hook, twenty leagues south of Sharp Point.

This was the closest approach on the western shore to the rebel encampment.

Without a moment's rest, the Holy Warriors marched on foot, sustained by the priests' restorative powers. They moved in silence, avoiding scouts and eliminating outposts based on the Security Bureau's intelligence.

In less than half a day, they had drawn near the unsuspecting rebel camp.

Night had fallen deep.

The ruined remnants of the small town had drifted into uneasy slumber, with only a handful of men patrolling its broken streets.

Under the protective veil of divine grace, the two hundred Holy Warriors communicated silently, dispersing according to their plan to form a perfect circle around the camp. As one, they reached for the "Droplets" secured at their waists.

The "Droplet" was a weapon crafted specifically for the Holy Fire Warriors by the Logistics Bureau.

Spherical in shape, with horizontal and vertical grooves carved into its steel shell, it resembled nothing so much as a peeled pomegranate. One hand could grasp it firmly or hurl it through the air.

Inside the sealed steel shell rested a small sphere of clear water.

To use it, a Holy Fire Warrior needed only to infuse it with flame power. After a breath or two, steam would burst forth, the steel would shatter, and scalding mist would spread in all directions, transforming the area within ten paces into the seventh hell.

After their first use, all the Holy Fire Warriors had sung the praises of the Droplet.

Before this weapon, their flame power could only be contained within their bodies. Once released, it would instantly manifest as fire and heat.

But flame power had its limits.

If they attempted to project a wide area of effect or a dragon-shaped flame to strike distant enemies, the consumption of power would be so great they could not sustain it through an entire battle.

Thus, close combat had always been the Holy Fire Warriors' preferred approach.

But now...

The Droplet addressed this very weakness.

Though none could say how the device delayed the release of flame power, this did not prevent the Holy Fire Warriors from using it to achieve a flawless victory.

Once all were in position, Beric Dondarrion gave the order.

Throw! Throw! Throw!

Each Holy Fire Warrior hurled three "Droplets" in the span of half a breath.

The town's patrols had no time to react.

Continuous explosions drowned all other sounds as fragments, searing heat, and clouds of white and pale red mist swept through the encampment.

Beric Dondarrion led the charge, two hundred Holy Warriors attacking as one.

Stables, baggage trains, barracks.

The Holy Fire Warriors surged toward their targets, unleashing flame and destroying any means by which the rebels might mount a counterattack.

Holy Shield Warriors charged back and forth among the enemy ranks without concern for defense, focused solely on slaying those before them. They emerged unscathed, while their foes lay dead or wounded.

A handful of priests and warlocks remained behind to support their comrades, not engaging directly in the killing.

Yet any who dared challenge them were met with fleeting wounds and the disturbing sight of earth, stone, and steel bending to unnatural forms—enough to make a man question the very fabric of reality.

The night raid succeeded beyond expectation.

Half of the two thousand rebels perished or surrendered on the spot, while those who fled had neither horses nor provisions, having abandoned armor and swords in their desperate flight.

Now came the cleanup.

Compared to the scattered remnants of defeated soldiers in the inland regions, this large group of broken men on the western coast proved easier to hunt down. They were pursued relentlessly.

Originally, the pursuit might have stretched on for days, but time was precious.

Stone Dance City awaited them before sunset.

Calculating the journey ahead, Beric Dondarrion pressed for an answer: "What have you decided? Will you live to witness the future, or sleep silently beneath the waves?"

Norbert and Bruce exchanged a long look.

Then, as one, they cast their swords into the sand.

Chapter 142 - Outside Rain House City

"Your Grace, the men have been brought."

Lord Beric Dondarrion of Blackhaven gazed respectfully at the back of his valiant king, who stood silhouetted against the night sky at the bow of the ship.

Though he had long witnessed the boundless power of Divine Grace, Beric found himself still deeply shaken by what he had seen and heard upon the sea these past two days.

It was, without question, a great miracle in the history of warfare.

In merely two days and two nights, their massive fleet had traversed the waters from Stone Dance Castle to the shores near Rain House City—a journey of two hundred leagues.

Converted to the new measurements established by Divine Grace Light, it was a distance of nearly a thousand kilometers.

Even a swift swan ship with favorable winds and calm seas could not guarantee such speed over so vast a distance.

And this had been accomplished not by a single vessel, but by a fleet of more than three hundred warships carrying tens of thousands of souls.

Especially remarkable was the steel warship beneath his feet.

Beric Dondarrion knew well the terrors of the sea, yet this vessel required neither sail nor oar, relying instead upon steel and Divine Grace for its unstoppable progress.

The massive fleet accompanying them had been more burden than aid.

Had this ship, the "Divine Grace," not been obliged to wait for the "slower" vessels, it might well have reached their destination a full day earlier.

Yet the seemingly ponderous fleet was, in truth, the most formidable sea fortress Beric Dondarrion had ever beheld—one capable of matching or defeating several times its number in enemy warships.

He had seen it with his own eyes.

Upon "Robert's Hammer," the Grace Priest who traveled with the ship had used his powers to rejuvenate every sailor and crewman aboard, leaving them untouched by fatigue.

Thus the fleet sailed without pause, day and night.

Aboard "Fury," the Grace Artificer had immersed himself in repairs and improvements, working without rest.

Every day and a half, it seemed the entire ship had been rebuilt anew—stronger, more beautiful in structure, and smoother in its passage through the waves.

On the deck of "Glory of Tide's Head," there were no catapults or crossbows to be found. In their place stood steel tubes integrated with the deck itself, manipulated at will by the Grace Artificers.

These devices were called "cannons."

Water and fire—Beric Dondarrion could not help but marvel at the wonder of this union.

Clean water or seawater was poured directly into the steel tube, then one or several iron balls were used to block the opening. Once aimed, a Holy Fire Warrior would step forward to inject flames into the breach.

Bang!

The steel would roar, white mist would billow forth, and a terrifyingly immense splash would erupt upon the distant sea.

Some of these steel balls were fearsome creations similar to the "water droplets," only larger, their explosions more violent and scorching.

It was difficult to imagine what carnage such weapons might inflict upon men of flesh and blood.

Unfortunately, Beric Dondarrion knew that whether he wished it or not, this unknown but certainly horrifying scene would soon unfold before his eyes.

Ahead lay Rain House City.

It was most unfortunate that House Wylde of Rain House had chosen to support Renly Baratheon in his rebellion.

More unfortunate still was Rain House City's location on the northern shore of Cape Wrath, bordering Shipbreaker Bay, where the offshore waters ran deep enough for warships to approach, and the castle stood close enough to the sea for the cannons' "water balls" to reach its walls.

With but a single command from the king, the merciless union of water and fire would display their icy cold and scorching heat without restraint.

Steel would bring its hard, sharp advantages to bear with terrible efficiency.

Just one order.

The warship beneath his feet trembled imperceptibly, yet the waves in Beric Dondarrion's heart rose far higher—excitement, surprise, fear, and awe stirring within him as one.

With one order, how many would die? How much glory and honor would be dimmed and extinguished forever?

And how many more such orders would follow in the days to come?

The night was deep.

Turbulent waves beat against the steep cliffs, rocking the silent fleet in their dark embrace.

Beric Dondarrion raised his eyes. The king's back was dark against the night, his outline illuminated by the distant lights of Rain House City, firm and resolute, as though the entire world might be brought to rest within his palm.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly, yet pass in but an instant.

The king turned.

"Lord Beric, you have served me well."

"I am honored to serve Your Grace." Beric Dondarrion stepped back, yielding place to the four figures behind him.

Ser Harth Fell of Fellwood, Ser Rolland Storm of Nightsong, Ser Bruce Buckler of Bronzegate, and Ser Norbert Grandison of Grandview.

According to the king's instructions, these four knights who had led the rebels had boarded the ship with Beric and his party at Stone Dance Castle, while the remaining prisoners were remanded to the Dragonstone fleet.

Yet in the past two days, this was the first time the king had summoned them to his presence.

Unlike Beric, these four Stormlands knights were clearly overwhelmed by the dreamlike marvel of this fleet. Each stood restrained and fearful, dreading that they might somehow anger the master of such power and bring disaster upon their families.

Norbert Grandison now saw the truth of his earlier thoughts.

Without the blessings of the gods, Lord Renly's ambitions would be all but impossible to realize. And the day of his return to his family would indeed come very, very soon—though perhaps not in the manner he had hoped.

Under the silver glow of moonlight, Joffrey examined the four captured knights, considering the four houses they represented.

Bronzegate stood close to the Kingsroad, serving as the northern gate to Storm's End.

The location of Fellwood was of less strategic importance, yet Renly now marched toward it. It would likely be the frontline fortress to receive news of the fleet's attack.

Nightsong represented the first echelon of power in the Stormlands, renowned for its martial prowess. Yet its lords styled themselves "Commanders-in-Chief of the Borderlands"—revealing ambitions that were far from modest.

Grandview—a name that promised much.

Joffrey fixed his gaze upon Norbert Grandison. "The sleeping lion sleeps poorly, it seems. Why did you rashly join this rebellion? Did you not fear bringing ruin upon your house?"

Norbert Grandison replied with careful respect: "I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. House Grandison has sworn allegiance to Storm's End. Though we knew the peril was great, though we knew blood and sacrifice would be demanded of us, we could only follow our path into the abyss without hesitation."

Joffrey's laugh was cold. "The king and the liege lord—which commands the greater loyalty?"

Norbert dared not answer.

"Many believe that oaths to one's liege lord must be honored above all else." Joffrey stepped forward. "But in my realm, the liege to whom any lord or knight owes his first allegiance can only be me. There can be no doubt in this. Do you understand?"

Norbert bowed deeply.

"Renew your oath, now, to the liege to whom you owe your first allegiance." Joffrey's words were not a request.

After a brief silence, Norbert knelt upon one knee, his voice trembling as he swore his oath of fealty.

Joffrey turned with satisfaction to the next man.

"Ser Harth Fell, what is your answer? After we take Storm's End, the decisive battle will likely be fought at Fellwood."

Harth Fell found he could not resist.

"Ser Bruce Buckler? You have witnessed the Divine Grace upon these warships. Can the bronze gates of Bronzegate withstand such steel and fire?"

Bruce, naturally, lacked the courage to defy him.

"Ser Rolland Storm. House Caron of Nightsong has driven hundreds of thousands of refugees to King's Landing. Lords Wendwater and Massey demand justice. What measure of retribution do you deem appropriate?"

The bastard of Nightsong, too, swore his oath.

Lord Beric Dondarrion of Blackhaven followed close behind, pledging allegiance to the king above any other liege—as he had already been doing.

Joffrey turned and gazed upon Rain House City, distant lights glimmering in the darkness.

"Prepare," he commanded.

Chapter 143 - Don't Say I Didn't Warn You

Wooo... Woooo... Woooo...

The shrill sound of flutes echoed across the night sky without cease.

They wailed like vengeful spirits, crying out to the cold, angry waves; they hissed like beasts of legend, screaming toward the walls of Rain House City upon the shore.

All at once, the warships activated their lights, and Broken Boat Bay—shrouded in darkness mere moments before—blazed as bright as midday.

Great schools of fish, drawn to the sudden brilliance, swarmed curiously around the vessels, crowding together in the sea until they nearly filled the deep waters.

In Rain House City, men worked with fearful haste to light beacons, ring alarm bells, and rouse those still abed.

"To arms! We are under attack!"

"Hundreds of ships approach from the sea! The fleet of King's Landing!" The terrible light revealed both the enemy's numbers and their majestic appearance.

"Wake up, you fools!"

"Every man to the walls! Don your armor! Take up your weapons!"

The desperate shouts of the night watchmen, accompanied by the clanging of bells, spread from the watchtowers. Yet the terrifying, drawn-out cries from the sea rolled like thunder, their eerie tones setting hearts to trembling and souls to stirring.

Human voices could scarcely carry ten paces against such a din.

The guards quickly realized the futility of their efforts, though they took some small comfort in the knowledge that the enemy's alarm served their purpose better than they ever could.

Lights kindled one after another in the towers and houses within the city. Many rushed out to see what was happening, not even pausing to dress properly.

The watchtower beacons and the guards' frantic gestures eventually conveyed a clear message to the city: enemies invaded from the sea, and they were mighty beyond reckoning!

Could it be pirates from the Stepstones? Squids of the Iron Islands? The royal fleet of some would-be king?

Upon climbing to the battlements, the people of Rain House City saw the answer with their own eyes.

Countless warships emitted bright white light, and the flags adorning their sails and masts were uniform: black crowned stags upon fields of gold.

The royal fleet!

"How could there be so many ships?"

The knight who uttered this exclamation carried a gleaming helm beneath his arm, its crest inlaid with the blue-green whirlpool sigil of House Wylde.

"Lord Casper." The guards saluted the master of Rain House City with respectful bows.

Every eye turned to Casper Wylde, filled with unease and desperate hope, as if the fate of all rested upon whatever words might next pass his lips.

Casper Wylde's expression was grave as he rapidly calculated their present circumstances.

For various reasons, he had not personally led troops to answer Storm's End's call, but had instead allowed his uncle, Ser Mond Wylde, to command their forces in the war.

Later intelligence, however, had caused him to regret this decision.

The Northern kingdoms' support for the Iron Throne had proven less substantial than expected, while Highgarden's commitment had been firmer and more generous than anticipated.

Victory had seemed beyond doubt.

But what if His Grace Renly misinterpreted House Wylde's loyalty?

Casper Wylde had gathered additional troops and prepared further supplies, intending to lead his army north as reinforcements himself.

They had been scheduled to depart on the morrow.

But now... Casper Wylde stared at the fleet upon the sea, a sight so bizarre it belonged in the realm of myth, and felt the scales in his heart tipping once more.

Could it be that those outlandish rumors from King's Landing were not merely rumors after all?

Those descriptions that had seemed absurd even when heard as tavern tales—were they all, in truth, the reality that King's Landing now lived?

At the very least, the formidable fleet before him was real enough.

Casper Wylde stared at the ships, and alongside everyone in Rain House City, listened to the seemingly endless wailing, trying to divine its meaning and the power it heralded.

After what felt like an eternity, the soul-stirring cries finally subsided, replaced by a calm declaration that resonated throughout the castle:

"By order of His Grace King Joffrey, First of His Name, of Houses Baratheon and Lannister, to punish rebellion and cleanse the coast.

House Wylde blindly serves the usurper Renly, fueling the arrogance of rebels, disregarding peace, ignoring the welfare of the people, and betraying the king to whom they swore allegiance. Their crime is enormous—how can it be tolerated?

We come across the waves to clarify truth, to correct the public perception, and to serve as warning to others.

Hear this:

Rain House City is given one quarter of an hour to raise the white flag and welcome the King outside the city with all its members. You may yet be pardoned for your sins, retain your lands, and be permitted to serve as the King's vanguard.

Should you refuse, the hour when men and horses fall, when castle stones crumble, and when your family name is erased will arrive without delay.

Do not say you were not warned."

The emotionless, flat tone of the male voice pronounced the fate that Rain House City had most feared, heralding a doom beyond imagination.

No one could ignore these words, for though invisible and intangible, they carried the weight of steel.

The fleet in the sea emitted its strange light, standing unmoved amid the angry waves, lending the proclamation the heaviest gravity and most dazzling authority.

All eyes fixed upon their lord.

Casper Wylde clutched the helm before his chest, his expression solemn.

Who would win the throne in the end?

What choice should House Wylde make? Was this truly the moment to decide?

Casper Wylde's thoughts whirled in confusion.

This war should not have spelled disaster for House Wylde.

House Wylde needed only to follow tradition: pledge firm allegiance to its liege lord, fulfill its duties faithfully, fight with honor, and abide by its oaths, surrendering only when dignity demanded it.

Then, whether in victory or defeat, they might at least continue to exist under whichever king prevailed, and keep their ancestral castle.

But...

To surrender now, even in the face of an irresistible fleet—could that be considered loyalty?

He knew the answer all too well.

The war had barely begun. After Massey's Hook, Rain House City was likely the second patch of land to welcome the flames of conflict.

Surrender at this juncture would never be understood by the other lords, let alone tolerated by Storm's End.

If Storm's End achieved final victory, and His Grace Renly happened to remember this betrayal, House Wylde would face not merely decline, but utter destruction.

Compared to such a risk, even having their castle razed to the ground by the royal fleet seemed more acceptable.

Dying in loyalty to one's liege lord would only enhance the family's reputation. The other lords would admire and praise such sacrifice, and even the victorious king could not openly condemn it.

Once everything was settled, the new king would not dare damage the bonds and traditions of nobility. House Wylde would rise anew, continuing to hold the lands, collect the taxes, and bear the titles it had maintained for a thousand years.

"My lord, time is nearly spent." His servant couldn't help but remind him.

"I know."

Casper Wylde stroked the familiar sigil upon his helm a few times, then placed it firmly upon his head.

Besides, Rain House City was a fortress carefully built by generations of his family. It could hold out for some time at least, awaiting reinforcements, or perhaps a great storm that might drive the royal fleet away.

Casper Wylde remained puzzled by the fleet's attack.

Why was the royal fleet so eager to occupy this rain-soaked forest of Cape Wrath? Why make such a display of force here? Surely they would be better served sailing to Storm's End, or to the Eyrie.

Why waste precious time on Rain House City?

There was no more time to ponder. Casper Wylde instructed his maester: "Release the ravens with news of our plight—to Storm's End and to Stonehelm."

The black birds circled the tower several times before flying northward, unhindered by any obstacle.

The quarter hour elapsed.

Aboard the God's Grace, Joffrey sighed.

"All troops, commence bombardment."

Chapter 144 - Gunfire

The banners of House Wylde fluttered in the night breeze as Casper Wylde surveyed the stone-built walls with grim determination.

Tonight's battle would be the fiercest and most brutal his house had ever faced.

He knew he must remain calm, projecting confidence and resolve to inspire his soldiers to defend the castle with courage. Victory seemed nigh impossible, yet they might hold out long enough for some turning point to arrive.

Casper Wylde held firm faith in the defenses of his castle.

Thanks to his earlier summons, the city now boasted a thousand men-at-arms, including two hundred elite warriors—landed knights, sworn swords, and sellsword knights among them—with provisions enough to feed all for several years.

With such strength, holding Rain House City against a conventional siege would be no great challenge. The walls could not even accommodate another thousand defenders at once.

By the same token, the number of enemies who could assault the walls simultaneously was likewise limited.

After all, Rain House City was not built with the expectation of siege.

The seaward side of its walls stood protected by turbulent waves and steep cliffs. Even if the fleet approached at the closest point, they could not land men, and catapults a thousand paces distant posed little threat.

As for the other three landward sides, all approaches were winding paths through uneven mountains and craggy rocks, dense forests closing in from all sides.

Small units might navigate such terrain, but large armies could scarcely form proper battle lines in such places. They would be forced to disperse and advance toward the castle in waves, like a gentle tide lapping at the shore.

Casper Wylde knew that warriors raised by the sea held no fear of tides.

Hundreds or thousands of enemies might surge forward, but the guards of Rain House City would rely on their solid fortress to resist, repelling the human tide with swords, arrows, burning oil, and tumbling stones.

Wave after wave, the fortress would stand unbowed, until the tide lost its strength and receded into the darkness.

Of course, this particular tide seemed uncommonly fierce and arrogant, its power unnaturally strong. It would likely demand much time and blood before it finally ebbed.

Casper Wylde watched in silence as the fleet upon the sea slowly adjusted its position, moving toward the castle.

What purpose does this serve? he wondered.

What use was there in mere repositioning without sending men to shore?

Catapults could not possibly throw their missiles over such a distance.

None could answer his questions now, so he turned his attention to the activity within the city walls.

Here, at least, all proceeded as it should.

Several commanders he had personally appointed were relaying his orders, directing archers to their towers, sending messengers with battle plans, and overseeing soldiers and servants as they boiled oil, wound crossbows, and carried arrows and stones to the battlements.

Casper Wylde found himself well satisfied with their progress.

At this rate, by the time the enemy launched their assault, Rain House City would stand fully prepared to pour out the most violent counterattack upon them.

Perhaps this show of resolve might give King Joffrey pause, he thought.

From the proclamation delivered earlier, Casper Wylde had discerned one vital fact: King Joffrey himself sailed with the fleet, awaiting House Wylde's "welcome."

Unfortunately, between the two kings, House Wylde could stand only behind His Grace Renly.

"My lord!"

A scout ran toward him, breathless with exertion.

"Outside the city—there are enemies in great numbers—on the east, south, and west sides!"

Casper Wylde felt his hair stand on end.

He quickly turned to look once more at the fleet, blinking hard, yet the ships remained where they were, immobile upon the waves.

The brilliant lights at sea reminded him that the fleet had approached in silence; it seemed only natural they might have landed troops in advance.

Time grows short!

"Have they begun their attack?" Casper Wylde demanded.

"Not yet, my lord."

The scout continued his report: "We left the city on your orders, seeking intelligence. But the moment we passed beyond the walls, they emerged from the forest. Those brothers closest to them were cut down, while those of us at the rear could only flee back to the city."

The scout added, half in relief, half in confusion, "Yet strangely, they made no attempt to seize the gates. They did not even approach them."

Casper Wylde's bewilderment only deepened.

An encirclement on three sides offered perfect opportunity for attack, yet the enemy merely watched from the forest's edge?

The scout went on: "The commander leading the southern force names himself 'The Hound'—Sandor Clegane, of the Kingsguard. The east is led by Brienne of Tarth. And the west—"

The scout paused, his expression betraying deep shock, "—is commanded by Ser Garth Wylde."

"Garth Wylde?" Casper's voice cracked.

"Say that again!"

Casper Wylde would later swear that no moment that night had filled him with such shock and fury.

Garth Wylde was his own cousin!

The boy had been orphaned young and raised by their family since childhood. How could he turn traitor after but a single year in King's Landing?

The scout added one final detail: "Ser Garth Wylde, he... he wears white armor and a white cloak."

The Kingsguard!

Garth Wylde had actually been raised to the Kingsguard!

Casper Wylde was certain nothing could possibly shock him more than this.

Whoosh—

BANG!

The whistling through air, the impact of stone against stone, and human screams merged with flying rubble and the copper smell of blood.

Casper Wylde raised his arm instinctively, bending low to avoid danger. Once his wits returned, he straightened and turned toward the section of wall where chaos had erupted.

Hiss—

An iron ball the size of a man's head had embedded itself in the inner parapet, carrying with it half a soldier's body.

A great furrow had been plowed through the outer wall, and shattered stones lay scattered across the passage. Half a corpse and four or five men—some screaming, some silent in death—sprawled upon the ground.

More terrible sounds rose from all directions, screams mingling with the rumble of stone as the walls trembled beneath the assault.

Casper Wylde turned stiffly toward the sea.

Under the shroud of white light, clouds of white mist rose from the decks of the Royal Fleet at regular intervals, swift black shadows hurtling toward the castle, destroying all they touched.

Iron balls rained down upon the rocks, walls, battlements, and within the city itself.

"Gods..."

Casper Wylde murmured numbly. Why had the gods granted King Joffrey such terrible power? Why had they allowed the world to suffer such horrors?

His gaze fixed upon the largest warship in the fleet.

The white mist rising from this vessel was the most continuous of all, like the breath of dragons.

Does King Joffrey stand aboard that ship?

BOOM BOOM BOOM—

Hundreds of warships roared as one, white mist filling the sky.

Casper Wylde stared desperately ahead as countless small black dots grew larger in his vision before vanishing beyond his sight.

Immediately after, the ground shook violently. Sand and rock soared skyward, and the walls groaned in protest, seeming ready to collapse at any moment.

BOOM BOOM BOOM—

Steel cracked, air rippled with concussive force, and a humid, scalding gale swept across the battlements.

Fragile flesh and blood shattered beneath the onslaught, dancing like red rose petals caught in a tempest before falling to earth.

Casper Wylde closed his eyes in sorrowful resignation.

All sounds around him blended into chaotic discord—human cries cut short mid-utterance, the explosion of stone drowned by yet larger blasts, walls and ground vibrating as though the world itself would tear asunder.

After what seemed an eternity, the air grew somewhat calmer.

He opened his eyes to find white mist filling the air, visibility reduced to a mere dozen paces.

"Raise the white flag!" he suddenly remembered.

"Raise the white flag!"

He shouted desperately, uncertain even which direction to look.

Until a wave of scorching heat erupted beside him.

Chapter 145 - Governor

BOOM!

The God's Grace roared proudly as its main cannon fired, the recoil causing the entire deck to shudder momentarily beneath their feet.

A few heartbeats later, the white mist billowing from the muzzle began to dissipate, the scalding steam gradually merging with the cool night air until it no longer burned the skin.

The gun crew rushed forward with practiced precision, executing each operation according to their rigorous training.

First came a warlock who served as safety inspector.

His duty was to clear any residual water, inspect the condition of the ship's cannon and surrounding deck, and ensure a safe, stable environment for the next volley.

Another warlock acted as spotter.

He first reported the results of the previous bombardment to all members of the team. Then, he surveyed their various targets, consulted with the gun captain to determine their next mark, and adjusted the cannon's azimuth and angle accordingly.

Finally, he filled the gun chamber with an appropriate measure of water and shells in careful sequence.

The gun captain, who had stood motionless at the console behind the cannon, now began to infuse the weapon with fire mana, his eyes never leaving the blue control panel affixed to the gun barrel.

This control panel was the heart of the ship's cannon.

It displayed various essential information, with numerous buttons arranged for the weapon's operation.

From the panel, one could monitor the amount of fire mana infused, the consumption and remaining reserve of fortification mana, the weight of water and shells loaded, the estimated muzzle velocity, range, and likelihood of striking the target...

The functions of the buttons were even more extensive and ingenious.

There were controls to fire shells; to adjust whether projectiles would explode after a fixed time, at a predetermined distance, or upon impact; to increase or decrease the energy contained within each shell; and countless other options.

For the Holy Fire Warriors, it was nothing short of miraculous.

Ordinarily, flames would erupt from their hands with little control, but through the panel, they were tamed and quiet, ready to be unleashed at the precise moment and with the exact measure of power required.

How perfect. How powerful.

Little wonder, then, that the position of gun captain had become coveted among all the Holy Fire Warriors.

Yet there were but a few hundred ship's cannons, while the Holy Fire Warriors aboard numbered more than ten times that figure. Most could only remain aboard, awaiting their chance for glory.

Fortunately, once Rain House City fell, the war would soon move to land.

Then, all would have their opportunity to enter the fray—to kill enemies, to seize glory, to reclaim the kingdom for their God-chosen King, and finally to establish a paradise of peace and beauty upon the earth.

May the gods protect us!

While Rain House City crumbled beneath their onslaught, the crew of the God's Grace paid it little mind. Their eyes were fixed instead upon their King's back, filled with adoration and awe.

The mere sight of that silhouette granted them infinite power and confidence.

Victory was beyond all doubt.

Amidst the thunder of the ship's cannons, every soul aboard knew this for certain.

Joffrey stood silent at the bow of the ship.

He monitored the control panel of the main cannon, evaluating the performance of the gun crews.

This marked the first true combat for the ship's cannons. Shells, personnel, control panels—all components required testing and experience.

The control panel most of all.

This device was Joffrey's personal design, researched and produced jointly by the Research Institute and the Logistics Bureau.

It integrated information runes, light runes, fortification runes, fire runes, and more—its cost exceeding that of the cannon itself. Naturally, it carried great expectations.

According to the plan, the control panel would vastly improve the accuracy of the ship's cannons, allocate mana output and consumption with rational efficiency, ensure the safety and standardization of the gun crew's operations, and guard against any attempt to damage or misappropriate the weapons.

Simultaneously, for future optimization, research, and oversight, all data from each panel was backed up in the God's Grace light curtain system, ready to be called upon for review at any moment.

Thus, Joffrey maintained a thorough understanding of every cannon's status.

Just like the main gun firing not far from where he stood.

"God's Grace" 400mm main gun target point: Rain House City main castle top floor.

Loading 97 kg of clear water containing 2 units of fire mana, loading one 600 kg high-explosive shell containing 50 units of fire mana, impact explosion.

Estimated muzzle velocity of 800 meters per second, consumption of 3~4 units of fortification mana.

The gun captain raised his left arm and called out, "Ready!"

"Five, four..."

The other team members immediately moved clear, ensuring no one stood before the muzzle.

"One. Fire!"

The gun captain pressed the shell launch button on the panel.

The two units of fire mana within the clear water activated, generating high-heat expanding steam in a brief, continuous surge, propelling the shell to greater and greater speed.

BOOM!

The shell tore from the chamber, spinning through the air with a piercing whistle as it sped toward its target.

BANG!!

A violent explosion erupted inside the top floor of Rain House City's main castle. Countless fragments—some no larger than a fingernail—poured from windows and newly formed breaches, white mist rising and gradually dispersing.

The hideous wound on the towering black stone wall stood clearly visible. At least one entire floor had been obliterated.

Joffrey nodded with satisfaction.

This ship's cannon had initially fired three rounds of solid shot, the third striking its target perfectly. They had then switched to high-explosive shells of the same weight, maintaining excellent accuracy.

The other cannons showed similar results. After stabilization, they could reliably strike within the target range.

The training is nearly complete.

Joffrey issued the order to cease fire. Hundreds of ship's cannons fell silent, no longer unleashing their terrible power.

Rain House City now lay in ruins. The seaward walls had crumbled to mere rubble, while the towers and high castles within bore grievous wounds, their parapets and battlements shattered.

The Hound and other land forces began to move forward, clearing out any remaining resistance and collecting prisoners and supplies.

In truth, this was but the final sweep.

During the earlier bombardment, nearly all who could still move had fled through the various city gates, surrendering either willingly or without choice. Few had dared to offer further resistance.

At present, the dead within Rain House City surely outnumbered the living several times over.

Indeed, the Hound and his men discovered only dozens of survivors with relatively intact bodies, along with two or three hundred souls hovering at death's threshold amid the devastation.

Joffrey walked into Rain House City, the ruins seeming to bow before him.

Kingsguard Ser Garth Wylde limped to his side, appearing as though he wished to speak, yet ultimately holding his tongue.

Joffrey halted, gazing upon the terrified prisoners.

"Divine power has descended, and divine grace follows close behind. In the name of the gods, I grant you forgiveness. In the name of the King, know that those who transgress again shall find no mercy!"

All the prisoners immediately fell to their knees, thanking him for his clemency.

Joffrey smiled gently. "Priests, do all within your power to heal the wounded, bestow divine grace, guide them to the righteous path, and serve the light."

The priests set about their work.

Where but a breath of life remained, wounds healed instantly, and broken limbs were made whole. Only the pallor of blood loss betrayed the violence that had so recently visited these souls.

Afterward, the priests produced shards of dragon crystal.

From that moment, none dared harbor resentment or rebellious thoughts.

The miracles were too plain to deny.

Without question, the gods had made their choice, bending the world to their will.

The true king stood chosen by divine grace.

Joffrey turned to Ser Garth. "Where is Lord Casper Wylde? Does he still live?"

Garth Wylde silently shook his head.

Joffrey placed a hand upon his shoulder. "To die in battle rather than abed—Casper must find some small solace in that."

He withdrew his hand.

"The fleet sails with the morning light. Rain House City requires a steward to tend its wounds. Garth, I hereby appoint you Governor of Rain House City, to bring peace to its people, manage its political affairs, and care for House Wylde in its time of need."

"What say you?"

As a Kingsguard, Garth Wylde could offer but one answer.

"As you command, Your Grace."