Ser Cortnay Penrose's face had turned to stone, all hope for the melee within Storm's End drained from his soul like blood from a mortal wound.
All is lost...
The great gates lay in smoking ruin, the passages were taken, barracks and armories and storehouses all fallen into enemy hands. Even now the sounds of battle from the great hall were fading—the last gasps of a dying fortress.
Yet the walls remained his for this moment, granting him time enough for one final reckoning with truth.
What else was left to him now but this bitter accounting?
Ser Cortnay's mouth twisted in a smile devoid of mirth.
Never had his mind been clearer than in this hour of defeat. His thoughts raced like coursers, and understanding came swift as a maester's blade.
The truth had been before him all along, plain as sunrise.
Joffrey's host possessed power beyond all reckoning—strength that defied comprehension itself.
When had it begun?
Not today, certainly. Not after the siege commenced, but long before—weeks, perhaps months past.
How terrifying. What vital intelligence we lacked.
Ser Cortnay knew not whether to curse himself or weep. He had failed to pierce the enemy's deception, had been gulled like some green boy fresh from his mother's teat. Worse still, he had misled King Renly with his blind confidence.
Truly damnable.
Aye, and Rain House and Griffin's Roost—the ravens from those keeps had brought naught but lies wrapped in the seals of honest lords.
Fatal deceptions.
Those castles were surely no more secure than they claimed. If Storm's End—Storm's End!—could not withstand such terrible force, what fortress in all the Seven Kingdoms could hope to stand?
Cape Wrath was finished. Had been finished long since.
Only now did Ser Cortnay grasp this truth, though it came far too late to matter.
Had those keeps actively spread falsehoods in their letters? Were the lords and maesters bought with gold or cowed by threats? Did they serve King Joffrey willingly, or had they suffered for their defiance?
Ser Cortnay drew a shuddering breath.
None of it signified now. What was done could not be undone.
Those messages had been sent, and Storm's End was not their only destination. Stonehelm, Greenstone, Haystack Hall—all the keeps closer to King Renly's person would have received the same false tidings.
And the word from Storm's End itself would have seemed most trustworthy of all.
Then where is King Renly?
A horrible suspicion bloomed in his mind like some poisonous flower, bringing with it a pain sharp as any blade.
Have I doomed Lord Renly with my own hand?
The memory of the letter he had penned more than ten days past rose clear as day before him. Every word, every line that had proclaimed Storm's End secure and Joffrey's threat contained. Ser Cortnay knew himself guilty of the blackest treachery—treachery born of ignorance, but treachery nonetheless.
He could scarce credit it, yet all signs pointed to this cruel truth. His doubts of recent days were answered at last, though in the most bitter fashion imaginable.
Why choose today for their assault?
Ser Cortnay turned his gaze northward, his eyes seeking the king beyond his sight. Lord Renly, are you coming? Did my letter bring you here with all your host?
If so, then flee—flee while time remains!
Ser Cortnay closed his eyes against the sting of tears. Leave Storm's End while you yet draw breath. Leave the Seven Kingdoms, leave every shore that ships might reach.
Escape the reach of the Royal Fleet.
Though he had not witnessed the fleet's true might, already he could guess at its terrible nature.
Those violent explosions that had shattered Storm's End's gates—were such weapons not better suited to warships than to land? The rolling deck, the flying iron spheres—what coastal fortress could endure such bombardment? Perhaps the keeps of Cape Wrath had fallen to just such an assault.
Ser Cortnay felt no resentment in his heart.
Lord Renly was determined to claim the Iron Throne, as was his right by all the laws of gods and men. Cortnay could not gainsay him and would serve with all his loyalty unto death. But to judge the right and wrong of it?
Such was beyond his station or his wisdom.
Victory in war was surely good, but if defeat came instead, a man must face it with dignity and accept whatever fate the gods decreed. This was rebellion, after all—the vanquished had no right to cry injustice.
He asked only that Lord Renly might escape safely.
But wishes were wind, and would not change what was to come.
Before the sun kissed the western horizon, Storm's End would be wholly taken. None could save it now, none could flee. Lord Renly knew nothing of the catastrophe that had befallen his strongest keep.
But when Lord Renly appears before Storm's End's gates...
What then?
Boom—boom—boom!
The thunder of those terrible engines seemed to echo once more through his skull, and Ser Cortnay saw in his mind's eye the slaughter that would follow.
Yet Lord Renly would bring a great host—perhaps numbers enough to exhaust their iron spheres.
Ser Cortnay wanted to believe this with all his heart.
But he knew too well the folly of measuring unknown powers by familiar standards.
As with Aegon the Conqueror three centuries past. The Andal kings had scorned the threat of three dragons, had mustered their hosts and left their castles to face dragonfire in open battle. And what had come of their pride?
Fire and Blood.
This battle seemed more hopeless even than that legendary carnage.
Aegon had commanded but three dragons. Here... Ser Cortnay cast his gaze back toward the castle's heart, where those terrible warriors in white robes blazoned with six-pointed stars moved like ghosts made flesh.
Hundreds of them. Thousands. Perhaps tens of thousands, for all he knew.
No mortal courage could stand before such might.
Even here upon the section of wall where Ser Cortnay kept his vigil, the guards had abandoned all pretense of resistance. They would not draw bow nor loose quarrel, lest they face accounting later for their defiance.
How many have died thus far?
He knew not whether to hope for a great number, to honor his men's valor, or speak truth—that scarce a hundred souls had perished in all this rout.
His heart held both comfort and sorrow in equal measure.
Throughout the castle, soldiers cast aside their arms, yet few corpses marked their surrender.
The passage by the gates had seen the bloodiest work, but even there most had died not from courage but from ignorance of what they faced.
Their lives had bought some small time for the walls' defenders, but even that had proven vain.
By his reckoning, the end would come soon.
Ser Cortnay felt strangely detached as he watched the stair that led up from the castle's depths, waiting for his final hour with the calm of a man already dead.
His adjutant seemed to read his lord's resigned intent.
"My lord," the man said carefully, "young Edric remains in his chambers at this hour, does he not? Should we not see to him? The castle is in such chaos—what if harm comes to the boy?"
Ser Cortnay started as if struck by lightning, his eyes widening with sudden clarity.
Edric Storm!
Little Edric, King Robert's own blood, the last true scion of House Baratheon's royal line!
How could I forget the lad?
Lord Renly had charged him most solemnly with the boy's care and safety!
At last some spark of fighting spirit kindled in Ser Cortnay's breast. "Gather reliable men—we go to young Edric at once!"
His adjutant's relief was plain to see. "Aye, my lord!"
"Iron Bull" Gendry's voice carried displeasure sharp as a blade's edge. "Where do you think you're running, old man? Yield now! Come with me before His Majesty!"
The target had fled from the battlements back into the tower's depths, making the chase more troublesome than it need have been.
Ser Cortnay Penrose stood protectively before little Edric, shielding the boy with his own body.
"That is exactly what I would ask of you."
Blood calls to blood, after all. Perhaps Joffrey will show the lad mercy.
Was such hope mere folly?
At the light screen's prompting, Gendry studied the boy of eleven or twelve years more closely.
Black hair, blue eyes—much like his own. But the ears were overlarge for his face. This was King Robert's bastard then, Edric Storm.
King Robert. The thought brought a sneer to Gendry's lips. What a worthless father he proved.
"Come then," Gendry commanded. "Both of you will come before His Majesty."