Great Harvest.
Joffrey happily reaped the fruits of his hard-won victory.
He looked around.
Bryce Caron, who called himself the Lord of Nightsong, suggested sweeping away the culprits of the Wendwater and Massey's Hook, the Fierce Nightingale, known as "Sweet as a Song."
The Shadow Sword flashed.
The Nightingale Lord's body was split diagonally in half, blood splattering everywhere as if it were free, making his orange-red hair even more vibrant.
Inside the tents, cries of terror, curses, and pleas rose simultaneously.
The Shadow remained unmoved.
Lister Mullendore, the Lord of Crow's Nest, and his two younger brothers, Richard Mullendore and Good Mullendore. All were stubborn; even last night, they showed little change. How could they be spared?
The Shadow Sword twisted and extended rapidly, like a striking viper, piercing the hearts of the three in the blink of an eye, lifting them up as if they were grasshoppers strung on a rope.
A truly bizarre sight.
But the "rope" was too sharp, and the three bodies couldn't withstand it. They were quickly cut open from one side, falling down, soaking the carpet, and seeping into the soil below.
"Protect the King! Guards!" someone shouted.
All of this happened within a few breaths. The terrified guards were slow to react and actually drew their weapons instinctively.
The Shadow Sword retracted, condensing into a single-handed sword, and then plunged into the ground.
People didn't understand why, but soon,
Clang~ Clang~ Clang~
Slender Shadow Thorns thrust up from the ground, piercing through all the guards!
People couldn't help but choke.
Armor and flesh and bone were all penetrated.
Joffrey was very satisfied. This power was becoming more and more obedient.
He had a thought.
All the scattered Shadow Thorns spun, shaking off the clinging residue.
The Shadow returned.
By this point, less than ten breaths had passed.
Blood and mud mixed with debris clung to everyone. The smell of blood spread throughout the entire tent. The feast had become a hell of death. The living were wailing.
It was far from enough.
The Shadow Sword struck continuously, greedily devouring trembling Souls one by one.
There were many traitors in the Stormlands.
"Red Roland" Roland Connington, a Knight of Crow's Nest, died by decapitation.
The potential threat from Rain House, the elderly Mond Wylde, was granted some dignity, his neck only half-severed.
Sebastian Errol, the heir to Haystack Hall, was cut in half at the waist.
Robin Beesbury, the Lord of Poddingfield...
Joffrey had given them chances. From the very beginning of their choices, to every leak of information, the change of hands at Storm's End, the political reforms, more than once.
They had countless opportunities to turn back.
Unfortunately, almost no one was willing to accept reality, and most had no value left to be forgiven.
The Shadow turned towards "Greybeard" Hugh Grandison, the Lord of Allview.
The aged "Greybeard" instantly collapsed to the ground, "Your Majesty, spare me! Your Majesty, I have truly repented. Please give House Grandison another chance! As everyone knows, you are the only King!"
Renly's eyes were filled with sorrow, and he no longer had the energy to argue.
"Your Majesty!" Alexander Staedmon, the Lord of Longbow Hall, scrambled and rolled to the Shadow's feet, "House Staedmon is willing to serve you! Anything!"
His nickname was "Gold-Worshipping Lord."
The Shadow still didn't speak. But it was silent for a moment.
Joffrey hadn't intended to slaughter everyone. Some were rare talents, some had more value, and for some, it wasn't the best time for disposal yet.
He turned to the other side.
The survivors of the Stormlands couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. It seemed the threat of death had been lifted. Many instantly collapsed, no longer able to support themselves.
However, the Lords of the Reach facing the Shadow began to tremble, their faces instantly turning several shades paler.
Mace Tyrell tightly closed his eyes, not daring to let a single ray of light enter them, and even less daring to look directly at that terrifying and bizarre Shadow.
Has it come? Is it going to kill me?
Lord Mace had never regretted participating in the rebellion as much as he did now.
He had thought the worst-case scenario was Renly's failure and his family siding with the final victor. Who knew...
To gamble with one's life?!
The Shadow's steps and movements were silent, yet Mace Tyrell trembled at every rustle, as if it were a harbinger of death.
Is it in front of me now?
Lord Mace's heart pounded. He felt the air heavy as steel, completely unable to breathe, his face growing hotter and hotter, his head buzzing incessantly.
The Shadow passed him, sword in hand.
Of course, Joffrey wouldn't do anything to Mace Tyrell. They had just formed an alliance with Highgarden; how could he possibly destroy his own foundation now?
However, the Reach still needed to shed some blood.
Unlike the rules of judgment in the Stormlands, the blood to be shed in the Reach was already predetermined.
The Shadow walked up to Randyll Tarly.
The Shadow Sword was raised high.
Randyll Tarly's expression was calm. He raised his head and looked directly into the Shadow's ink-black eyes, his neck completely exposed.
The blade swung down.
He felt nothing, as if it were truly just an invisible shadow.
Randyll Tarly's breathing hitched.
But he blinked, and blinked again. His mind was still clear, without the slightest pain or daze.
He turned his head to the side, wondering if his head would roll off. If it did, would it be considered suicide?
Fortunately, that didn't happen.
Someone else lost their head. "Lord of Meadow," Randyll Tarly whispered, knowing he had survived.
The Shadow continued its cleanup.
House Ashford of Ashford, House Appleton of Appleton, House Meadow of Greenvalley, House Merryweather of Longtable.
None of those from the eastern Reach were spared.
After all, Highgarden had already offered compensation. In the agreement between the two sides, there was no place for them.
Only those bearing the "Green Apple" sigil were spared, House Fossoway of New Barrel. Even the Red Apples were not allowed.
Mace Tyrell, completely unaware of the truth, stared blankly as his loyal vassals were killed one by one. Waves of grief and trembling swept through him. But deeper down, what he felt most was relief and gratitude.
Although he didn't quite understand why, he knew that he probably wouldn't die.
It was a blessing in disguise.
In the perception of the people, the slaughter lasted for a very long time, almost like an eternity.
But it was actually less than half an hour.
The Shadow had stopped, standing quietly in the center of the tent, the Shadow Sword in its hand as pure as when it began, without a single stain, innocent and naive.
In the Shadow's vision, grey smoke filled the air, and the silver light of the living flickered violently, appearing and disappearing erratically.
In the end.
The Shadow still did not pluck the most tempting fruit.
Renly, however, seemed already dead, his face pale and rigid, his eyes vacant, completely still. The soft couch beneath him became his coffin, only the lid hadn't been closed yet.
The Shadow withdrew the shadow that enveloped the tent.
Outside, the military formation was still enthusiastically assembling, the drums and horns resounding loudly, every sound proclaiming confidence in victory.
The Shadow disappeared into the ground, still not speaking.
Inside the main camp, there was a deathly silence, until finally a soldier couldn't resist lifting the curtain.
The noise and chaos reached their peak.
Renly, Mace Tyrell, Randyll Tarly, all the witnesses remained silent.
Regardless, the war was over.
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