"Drop your weapons! Yield, and you shall live!"
"Iron Bull" Gendry's voice thundered through the ancient stone corridors of Storm's End as he charged deeper into the fortress, his boots ringing against stones that had witnessed three centuries of Baratheon rule.
Behind him came the sound of steel on stone—his brothers pouring through the passages like water through a broken dam, their war cries echoing from the walls built by Durran Godsgrief himself.
The battle had scarce begun a quarter-hour past.
Storm's End's mighty gates—those portals that had never yielded to enemy force—now lay in smoking ruin, and the castle's garrison stood as men struck by lightning, unable to accept what their eyes showed them plain.
The gates were breached?
This was Storm's End! How could such walls fall so swiftly, so completely?
The great fortress that had never fallen in all the long years since Aegon's Conquest had given its defenders their greatest courage—but now that very faith became the seed of their destruction. The cornerstone of their resolve had cracked, and with it came the collapse of their will to fight.
"Drop your weapons! Yield, and you shall live!"
More Shield Brothers emerged from the broken gateway like steel tide, their voices raised in unison as they swept through every passage, every corridor that honeycombed the ancient keep.
The guards found themselves caught between disbelief and terror. Some could only gape as enemy warriors rushed past them, then belatedly cast aside their blades and cowered in corners, praying to the Seven that death might pass them by.
Yet still some few defenders—whether from true courage or simple shock—raised steel against the mana-blessed warriors of the Shield.
Brave fools, every one.
The Shield Brothers who found themselves thus assailed felt no need to waste precious moments dodging such feeble strikes. They bore the blows upon their blessed forms while delivering death in return, their movements efficient as a headsman's axe.
Iron Bull Gendry never slowed his headlong charge, paying no heed to the swords that sought his life. He crashed through blade and man alike, his body and armor serving as a living battering ram that left only ruin in its wake.
The guards he left behind could only stare in wonder at his unmarked back before the following wave of Shield Brothers swept over them like wolves upon sheep.
Those who witnessed such scenes knew themselves in the presence of something beyond mortal ken.
Invulnerable? What manner of demons are these?
Impossible!
We cannot prevail against such foes!
Wisdom born of terror seized the remaining defenders. They cast down their arms and pressed themselves against the walls, watching with fearful eyes as the victors plunged deeper into Storm's End's heart.
Iron Bull Gendry ran ever at the vanguard.
To him, the swords that sought his life were less than gnat-stings—and better still, each failed strike showed the defenders their hopeless state, convincing them to abandon futile resistance.
Though the Shield's power was not without limit, what he had accumulated through ten days of devotion, combined with his armor's own protection, could withstand hundreds—nay, thousands—of such pitiful attacks.
What was there to fear in the face of such strength?
The mystical guidance that marked his path showed clear as day upon his vision—his target lay ahead, and he need only run to claim it.
The world blurred past him in a rush of sensation: attacking blades left far behind, the shouts of Storm's End's guards rising to crescendo before fading to whispers, soldiers fleeing in all directions, weapons and supplies scattered like leaves after a storm.
Chaos reigned, and he was its herald charging through the heart of it all.
This feeling—by the Seven, this glorious feeling!
Never had he known such joy. The heat coursing through his veins, the thunder of his heart against his ribs, the song his limbs sang as they carried him forward—all of it celebrated the sacred art of war.
The battlefield is my true home. War is where my skills find their proper purpose.
He understood his path at last.
Why did it take me so long to see what lay before me?
Iron Bull Gendry felt both regret and fierce contentment warring in his chest. But it was not too late—not when this capture of Storm's End was but the first step on a longer road. What greater glories lay ahead?
Yet this was neither peak nor ending.
His Majesty's ambitions stretched far beyond the Seven Kingdoms. Distant realms awaited conquest, terrible monsters would rise to face the King's wrath—all would become His Majesty's foes in battles yet to come!
The wars would never end!
Once, Gendry might have found such a prospect troubling. But having tasted this ecstasy of battle, having awakened to his true calling, now he felt only burning excitement course through his soul.
Following in the King's footsteps, he would witness conflicts beyond imagining! And claim victories that would echo through the ages!
For this reason, he must earn His Majesty's notice.
Today offered such opportunity—perhaps the rarest chance he would ever know.
Silently he made his vow: he would take Ser Cortnay Penrose with his own hands, capture the castellan alive, and deliver him personally before the King himself.
From ahead came the sound of desperate resistance: "Shields! Form up! Spears forward!"
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Great shields locked together rim to rim, blocking the passage entire, while sharp spear-points thrust out from above the wall of steel like the quills of some monstrous hedgehog.
Iron Bull Gendry finally slowed his charge.
Before him lay the passage's end, and beyond that the stairs that led to Storm's End's mighty battlements—the very crown of the fortress.
The enemy clearly understood the importance of this chokepoint, for they had gathered here in numbers, shields locked and spears bristling.
More troublesome still, these fresh defenders had not yet witnessed the Shield Brothers' terrible power, so they retained courage enough to offer resistance.
But it was trouble of the smallest sort.
"Brothers, to the charge!" he roared, leveling his broadsword at the shield-wall that barred his path.
The nine warriors of his first squad pressed close behind him, forming the wedge that would drive through enemy lines with Lieutenant Gendry as their living blade.
The two forces prepared to clash in earnest—
But in that moment, one of the Shield Brothers at the wedge's rear spoke quietly: "Would it not be simpler to employ the Water Drops to clear our path?"
Ah.
Iron Bull Gendry's expression froze, his battle-fury cooling as memory returned of tools more efficient than blade and muscle.
He drew forth a Water Drop.
Until a fortnight past, these wondrous devices had been the exclusive province of the Holy Fire Warriors, objects that others could only regard with envy from afar.
But since the siege began, the Holy Fire Warriors' accumulated power had grown beyond all battlefield needs, their reserves swelling like a river after spring rains.
So His Majesty had blessed them with this new creation of divine grace—Water Drops that required only the cooperation of warlocks and Holy Fire Warriors to imbue with power, yet could be wielded by any warrior bold enough to pull their rings.
"Ready yourselves!" he called, grasping the Water Drop's activation ring.
The guards behind their shield-wall could only stare in confusion, unable to comprehend what their foes intended. Their officer's voice rang out: "Hold the line! Steady, lads—pay them no mind!"
The shield-wall remained motionless as stone.
"Three... two... one... loose!"
Ten activation rings came free as one, ten arms swung hard, and ten small steel spheres arced through the air to fall like deadly hail beyond the shield-wall's protection.
The defenders looked up in ignorance, tracking the strange projectiles' curved flight until they struck the stones behind their formation.
Precisely three heartbeats passed.
The prepared information-mana triggered in an instant, igniting the fire-mana held within.
BOOOOM!
The blast-wave roared through the narrow passage like the breath of dragons, scattering bodies and fragments and crimson streams in all directions.
Thick white vapor filled the air until naught could be seen save warm, milky fog. The very atmosphere grew heavy and thin, making each breath a struggle against suffocation.
Iron Bull Gendry covered mouth and nose as he stepped forward. "Advance! Mind your footing!"
All began to grope their way through the aftermath.
Piteous wails and pleas for mercy rose from the mist like the voices of the damned, chaotic and muffled until they seemed no more than whispered madness from the seven hells themselves.
Strange objects crunched beneath their boots with every step.
The slick, sticky sensation was blood or worse; The grinding firmness was exposed bone, scattered steel, or the remnants of shields; Neither soft nor hard was flesh that had once been men; That which still twitched was meat not yet gone cold.
Even Iron Bull Gendry, drunk as he was on war's intoxication, could not remain untouched by such sights. A shadow fell across his spirit like clouds across the sun.
But blessed light appeared at last.
Only a dozen cowering enemies remained ahead, and his laughter rang once more from the ancient stones.
"To the battlements!"