Beneath the dying light of evening, Storm's End tended its wounds in silence.
The guards who had so recently resisted the invaders now wore different colors, their allegiance shifted swift as a weathervane in a gale. They cleared rubble and bloodstains from ancient stones, carried away the dead, and gathered scattered weapons and supplies with the mechanical efficiency of men who understood their new place in the world.
The great gates, restored by sorcerous hands to their former glory, bore no trace of the morning's violence. Indeed, they appeared newer and more complete than before, as if freshly wrought by master craftsmen rather than rebuilt from smoking ruin. Which, in truth, they were.
Even the wounds inflicted upon the earth beyond the walls were healing with unnatural speed.
Storm's End's mighty battlements—two layers of cunningly joined stone with sand and gravel between—had suffered grievous damage in the assault. Great cracks had split the ancient masonry, and near the gates the walls had come perilously close to collapse, leaving yellow sand and broken stone scattered like the bones of giants.
Yet now the sand flowed upward like some living thing, the shattered stones drew together as iron to lodestone, and the solid walls rebuilt themselves whole and strong.
The terrible craters and trenches scarring the earth were filling themselves as soil and gravel crept across the ground like obedient servants, restoring all to its natural state as if no battle had ever been fought upon this ancient ground.
Had they not witnessed the Six-Pointed Star cloaks patrolling every street and courtyard, had they not seen such sorcery with their own eyes, the guards might have convinced themselves it had all been some fever dream.
But this was no dream—this was the new reality of Storm's End.
Those defenders who had been among the first captured understood better than any how terrible and mighty these Six-Pointed Stars truly were. Whatever small courage they might have harbored at battle's beginning had fled like smoke before wind, leaving only awe and absolute obedience in its wake.
Every man jack among them worked to prove his worth, not daring the smallest complaint, seeking only to preserve the lives they had been granted.
Once the garrison was dealt with, the castle's servants and remaining household members began presenting themselves to the priests in ordered groups. They received blessings, had Divine Grace Cores implanted within their flesh, and were assigned tasks suited to their abilities.
The constant labor kept them from dwelling overmuch on their circumstances. They followed orders with the same mechanical precision they had once shown serving Lord Renly.
Yet everything had changed, for all the familiar motions.
In the space of a single day, Storm's End had been transformed utterly, then restored to its former appearance—save that it now served a different master.
And what a master he was.
King Joffrey's retinue proved difficult for the castle's folk to accept with any semblance of calm. Silver Cloaks and Six-Pointed Stars filled every corner of Storm's End. A man could not walk ten paces without encountering them—patrolling, conversing, simply standing at their posts—and their very presence made common folk feel cramped and cautious, as if they shared their halls with great predators barely held in check.
Which, in all truth, they did.
Only after the battle's end did the defenders grasp the full scope of their defeat. Mere hundreds of warriors had stormed Storm's End and taken it whole—without leaving so much as a single corpse behind, without sustaining even the smallest wound!
Was this truly war as other men knew it?
To the Kingsguard, such results came as no surprise whatsoever. This was war as it should be waged.
After long training and study of the battles fought at Cape Wrath, the Kingsguard had learned to wield their power with precision and devastating effect. Artillery support from the rear shattered every obstacle in their path, while Shield Brothers blessed with the Holy Shield's might cleared all resistance, bearing Water Drops filled with flame's fury and steam injectors besides. How could there be casualties among such warriors?
Repulsion or defeat were impossibilities.
With such absolute confidence, the Kingsguard had broken their camp before battle's beginning, emptying the pavilions where they had dwelt these ten days past, packing supplies and equipment, dismantling tents and palisades until naught remained but barren earth.
The assault commenced at midday, and by afternoon the entire host had moved seamlessly into Storm's End's embrace, as smooth as water flowing downhill.
Five thousand Kingsguard now made their quarters within this fortress that had fallen but once before in all its long history.
Five thousand.
The number crushed whatever hope might have lingered in the castle's folk.
Set against Lord Renly's hundred thousand, five thousand seemed almost paltry.
Outside Storm's End's walls, such numbers would scarce have given the fortress pause—it had weathered longer sieges by greater hosts.
But these five thousand dwelt within the walls now.
Five thousand souls—more than all the castle's inhabitants combined, and each one a warrior capable of facing a hundred common men.
Storm's End had changed masters utterly and completely.
The people came to understand this truth. And they knew it would never change again, not even should a hundred thousand swords appear at their gates on the morrow.
In this moment, servants and guards could only watch as former castellan Ser Cortnay Penrose and Storm's End's bastard Edric Storm passed before them, walking toward the castle's heart.
Where King Joffrey held court.
Their faces showed only numb acceptance or flattering smiles—none dared greet the condemned or show them concern.
The king had not yet rendered his judgment.
Along roads he had walked a thousand times, Ser Cortnay Penrose entered the chamber he knew as well as his own heart.
Here Lord Renly had declared his uprising and proclaimed himself king. Here Ser Cortnay had lit candles through long nights, handled correspondence, made decisions, calculated supplies, and prepared defenses.
For years beyond counting, this study had been his sanctuary, never causing him a moment's unease.
All that was changed now.
Though the crowned stag banner still hung upon the wall, the man seated beneath it was another entirely.
Joffrey of Houses Baratheon and Lannister. What manner of creature was this? Half stag, half lion? A golden cat wearing a stag's hide, or perhaps a stag cloaked in a lion's skin?
The answer would soon be known.
Ser Cortnay offered silent prayer to the Seven. If Joffrey could spare young Edric, show mercy and magnanimity, perhaps learn something of King Robert's better nature, then the Seven Kingdoms might yet hope for worthy rule.
If not...
Ser Cortnay bent his knee in formal salute. "Your Grace, Storm's End is yours."
Having conquered Storm's End with his own hand, surely such honor and victory will satisfy him. Surely he can spare one bastard boy.
Knowing that Lord Renly must be counted the king's mortal enemy, Ser Cortnay could hope for nothing more.
At least spare Edric.
"In a way, we might be called brothers, Edric."
Joffrey studied the boy before him with calm appraisal. This son of Robert Baratheon's body, only one year his junior.
King Robert had not treated the lad poorly, all things considered.
On the very night Stannis Baratheon wed Selyse Florent, the king had sampled the wedding bed in advance, getting Edric upon Delena Florent before the sun rose.
Unlike Robert's other bastards, Edric's mother came from no humble stock—Delena Florent was highborn, not some tavern wench or common strumpet.
Thus Edric had been acknowledged, permitted to bear the surname Storm, even raised within Storm's End itself.
"Tell me, Edric—what would you do with your life? Speak truly. I am not given to petty jealousies."
Beside them, Ser Cortnay watched the boy with worried eyes, though he dared offer no guidance.
Edric Storm, who had inherited his father's features and his mother's prominent ears, offered a slight bow. "Your Grace, the bond you shared with Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella has always stirred my admiration. That I should finally meet you under such circumstances... how can I ask for any favor?"
The boy's composure exceeded that of most grown men.
"I ask only for..."
He raised his head, eyes bright with earnest hope.