Chapter 63 : Storm's End

"Is this the one?" Cole took the ruby necklace from Melisandre's hand. Compared to the large gem resting on her chest, this ruby seemed like a dim star against a bright moon.

"This gem is a tool from the Red Temple," Melisandre explained. "When it glows, it means my magic has taken effect. When its light begins to flicker, it signals that the power of magic is approaching."

"But how do I defend against magical attacks?" Cole asked, voicing his biggest concern.

Melisandre glanced at him casually. "The cost of magic is not small. Different spells have different countermeasures, and blood magic is particularly difficult to deal with. This type of magic requires the blood of a relative as a catalyst—the closer the blood, the stronger the effect.

"Blood magic demands a life as an offering to the God of Death. The caster is also affected, as it drains their own life force. If someone possesses a strong life flame, like His Majesty, even blood magic won't be able to harm them.

"But if you want to interrupt the activation of blood magic, you need only drip your own blood into the flame and recite this incantation."

"Varamiha," Melisandre intoned a long, flowing spell.

Cole repeated it carefully, mimicking her pronunciation. The red priestess corrected him a few times until he got it right.

As Cole spoke the words, the ruby in the necklace slowly began to glow, a sign that the magic had been activated.

Melisandre suddenly hesitated, her expression unreadable.

"I have kept my promise and offered my guidance," she said. "But war is not won with words alone. There are countless forces at play, and even my abilities have limits."

She looked at him with a complicated expression, leaving Cole slightly puzzled.

He actually admired this red priestess. Though many saw her as a manipulator who led Stannis astray, it was undeniable that she had been utterly devoted to him. And Stannis must have known that.

Stannis didn't have many truly capable men. After Renly's death, most of his remaining followers were unreliable, constantly shifting their allegiance.

Cole fastened the ruby necklace around his neck. At the very least, with this, he wouldn't be entirely defenseless against magic.

"Camilo, take a few men and escort the lady back to the castle," Cole ordered his second-in-command.

He had indulged in too much drinking the night before, and his face still showed signs of fatigue.

Cole made his rounds to inspect the morning training sessions. In truth, he wasn't doing much—just standing there, thrusting a spear. He wasn't sure how much good it would actually do on the battlefield.

He moved to the training grounds where his personal guard was sparring.

"Hey, little Roca! Watch your footwork," Cole called out.

Roca, about the same age as Cole, bounced on his feet, wielding his sword with exaggerated movements. To an outsider, he might have looked more like a boxer than a swordsman.

Hearing Cole's warning, Roca straightened up—just in time to take a wooden staff to the head.

Cole sighed and stepped in to correct him. Though Cole himself wasn't a seasoned master—certainly no match for the veterans of the Wall—he had fought real battles and knew what it took to survive.

Agility was useful, but stability was key. On a battlefield filled with flying arrows and clashing swords, it was better to stay grounded—balanced, steady, always thinking about how to kill without getting killed.

Cole had put considerable effort into training these thirty men. Those who slacked off had been reassigned to hunting and transport duty.

In the past two weeks, his efforts had shown results. With the same training as the other groups, his men had grown noticeably stronger under his direct supervision.

They trained harder, with greater discipline. Cole also ensured they were well-fed to sustain their progress. They weren't elite soldiers, not yet—but at least they were competent recruits.

To provide for them, Cole had even assigned three groups to go fishing. The uneven workload stirred quiet resentment, but no one dared voice complaints.

Cole had little choice. He wanted to train everyone, but his energy and resources were limited. Even with all his efforts, these men were barely better than fresh recruits after military training. How they would fare in real battle remained uncertain.

Camilo, a clever lad, approached with a triumphant expression. He had been a street urchin before being conscripted—a natural trickster, quick-witted, and quicker-tongued. Unlike the slow-moving fishermen among the ranks, he knew how to talk his way out of trouble.

Seeing his smug grin, Cole felt the urge to kick him.

"Sir Cole, the lady has been safely escorted back to the castle," Camilo reported, as if expecting praise.

"You didn't say anything you shouldn't have, did you?" Cole asked, recalling the time he caught Camilo flirting with a prostitute.

Camilo scratched his head, looking sheepish. "How could I, sir?"

The truth was, even Camilo knew better than to cross the wrong people. The castle's nobility could have his tongue cut out for a single misplaced word—not everyone was as lenient as Lord Cole.

"Good. After lunch, you'll take over my patrol duties. I have other matters to attend to," Cole said, tossing him a sword. "Train well. I don't want to lose an adjutant the moment we see battle."

After eating with his men, Cole slung a bag over his shoulder and set off toward the sea.

As Cole gradually moved away from the crowd along the coast, a white shadow glided over the sea. After a period of growth, the white dragon had now reached the size of a swan. With its silver-white scales, it was difficult to distinguish from a bird when soaring through the sky.

In recent days, the white dragon had been hunting over the sea. Its wings had strengthened considerably through training, and it could now chase sea eagles in the sky.

When it flew, it resembled a white seabird. Cole replaced the bag tied to the dragon's feet, filling it with freshly caught fish—rare and valuable ones that were difficult to find near the shore and sold for high prices in the market.

Cole had no choice—he was too poor at the moment. These fish were highly sought after by the nobility for their exquisite taste. Camilo would take them to sell in the kitchens of the wealthiest houses.

A single bag of these fish could fetch two to three silver stags, given their scarcity and the difficulty of catching them.

The white dragon took the beef and mutton Cole had brought back and returned to its nest—a crevice lined with dragon crystals. Every day, it would pick crystals from the walls and consume them like digestive stones.

Then, it launched itself toward the sea, soaring with the ocean breeze. The waves of the Narrow Sea rose and fell violently. Countless ships had met their end in these treacherous waters. Even on clear days, the waves remained turbulent.

At a secluded bay, the white dragon banked and descended. The winds and currents here were even fiercer. Towering waves clawed at the cliffs like a demon's grasp, carving into the rock with relentless force. Only a few shallow waters provided safe harbor for ships.

At the most perilous point, where the waves crashed with unrelenting fury, a massive fortress loomed over the sea.

From above, the castle was wrapped in layer upon layer of thick walls—far more massive than those of Dragonstone. The entire structure was like a stone tower, with a soaring spire at its center. From that vantage point, one could survey the sea in every direction and monitor all movement on land.

This was Storm's End, one of the most formidable strongholds in Westeros, built in the Dawn Age.

The white dragon gazed at the fortress from above, recognizing the challenge of capturing it.

Though the soldiers had yet to receive their orders, Cole already knew Stannis would lay siege to Storm's End.

Renly's 60,000-strong army had already marched toward King's Landing, their momentum unstoppable. Nearly all the southern lords had answered his call, a testament to his immense popularity among the nobility.

If Stannis wanted to claim the Iron Throne, he would have to confront Renly. If Melisandre did not use her shadow assassin to kill Renly, Dragonstone's chances of victory were slim.

The only real advantage they had over Renly was naval superiority. That meant the battle had to be fought at sea.

If they captured Storm's End, they could control the coastline and dictate the fight. The Royal Fleet of Dragonstone, anchored in Shipbreaker Bay, could supply them by sea. If Renly wanted to besiege the castle, he would first have to defeat them in a naval battle.

Cole knew that Melisandre would eventually summon a shadow assassin to eliminate Renly. But since he had already agreed to support Stannis, he still had to prepare for war.

The purpose of the white dragon's flight was to scout Storm's End for weaknesses. Stannis's forces were limited, meaning they needed to act quickly to prevent the garrison from reinforcing the castle.

To take Storm's End, they had to move before Renly's reinforcements arrived.

Stannis's plan was undeniably brilliant—killing one man to claim an entire city. In war, breaking the enemy's spirit was better than breaking their walls.

Cole's first thought was to force a surrender without bloodshed. But after careful consideration, he knew that as long as Renly remained alive, Storm's End would never be isolated. Its defenders had no reason to capitulate.

That left only one option: a direct assault.

A surprise attack, exploiting the castle's vulnerabilities, would be their best chance. Ideally, they would infiltrate and take the stronghold from within—but that was easier said than done.

Storm's End's current commander, Ser Cortnay Penrose, was no fool. Unlike Edmure Tully, he would not be easily deceived.

Not that Edmure was an idiot—but compared to his nephew Robb Stark, his strategic instincts were lacking, and he was far too easily swayed by others.

It was Edmure's misjudgment that had ruined Robb's campaign during the War of the Five Kings.

But Ser Cortnay Penrose was a seasoned warrior. Cole didn't know much about him personally. He only remembered Edmure because of that amusing scene in the series—when the man failed spectacularly at lighting his father's funeral pyre, which had piqued his curiosity.

Sitting down, Cole unrolled a piece of parchment and began sketching the defenses of Storm's End.

Slowly, a detailed battle plan took shape.

Then, he began writing.

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