Chapter 146 - Contract Achieved

The great hall of Rain House stood undamaged amid the ruin.

Bathed in the intense glow of light magic, its stone walls and timber beams appeared more magnificent and radiant than ever, transformed into a palace where victors might gather to celebrate their triumph.

Yet the atmosphere was anything but jubilant.

Outside the hall, soldiers who had landed and entered the city still searched through the rubble, their voices calling for survivors rising and falling like the tide, occasionally pierced by screams of agony.

Within the hall, Joffrey sat high upon the lord's seat, claiming it as his own by right of conquest.

A cluster of generals and courtiers stood silent below the dais, their eyes fixed upon a mother and son who stood alone in the center of the hall.

Bran Stark, clad in mail and hardened leather, a cloak bearing the six-pointed star fastened at his shoulders, performed his duties as cupbearer, offering fine wine to the seated king. His gaze, too, drifted involuntarily toward the pair below.

This war was nothing like what Bran had imagined.

There were no gallant cavalry charges, no decisive clashes of steel against steel—only the terrible booming of ship's cannons filled with mysterious, terrifying power.

Bran's boyhood expectations lay shattered like the walls of Rain House.

Yet from another perspective, what he witnessed was even more awe-inspiring than he had originally envisioned, possessing a strange allure that was difficult to describe—more captivating than any view from a tower window or clash of swords.

Knights, magic, magic knights.

Bran knew he had climbed a higher tower than ever before and glimpsed a more distant world.

That world was full of the unknown and the magical, with endless treasures waiting to be explored and countless stories and legends yet to be written.

Bran could not turn away from such a future.

Indeed, he had formed an even grander dream: to become a Kingsguard whose deeds would fill the pages of history, to forge the name of a mighty magic knight, one that would echo even more resoundingly than that of the "Dragon Knight" himself.

Aboard the warship, Bran had believed this with all his heart.

And yet...

What Bran had seen and heard after entering Rain House City had cast a shadow over his soul.

The shattered stones and castle-shaking explosions were not all that the ship's cannons had wrought. There were scenes more terrible still, which men would be reluctant to recall in the years to come.

Bran was no stranger to blood.

He had watched his father's greatsword "Ice," dark as smoke, swing down to sever the head of a Night's Watch deserter. He had seen the man's blood splash across the snow, red as the summer wine that filled the cups of lords. Bran had stared unblinking at those crimson stains.

His martial training, his lessons in horsemanship and archery, the historical tales he had been told—all had taught him something of combat and death, preparing him to understand and accept the nature of dedication and sacrifice.

Bran knew well that war claimed lives—many, many lives.

Men would fight for their sworn liege lords, for the beliefs they held dear, for king and faith, for family and loved ones.

Death was worthy of fear, yet men had always found the courage to take up arms.

Such was the way of humanity.

Stories were born from war, history was forged in steel, and families rose to greatness through conflict.

But Bran had only now learned that when ship's cannons roared, castles and warriors alike were reduced to rubble—shattered in ways so ugly, so devoid of dignity.

War had changed.

Castles were no longer impregnable fortresses, the formidable obstacles described at length in countless wars and epic tales. They had become graveyards for their defenders, mere targets for the ship's cannons.

The very stones should weep at this truth.

Knights no longer died with longswords in hand, falling bravely with noble regret. They became mixtures of steel and flesh, heaps of mottled red mud, stripped of all emotion.

Such death was surely the most terrible of all.

Bran found his thoughts turning to Winterfell, wondering how many such attacks the ancient stronghold and its tenacious defenders might withstand.

Thankfully, it was but an idle fancy. Winterfell stood not as an enemy to these terrible weapons, and Sansa was to marry King Joffrey.

Rain House City was simply too unlucky—House Wylde had drawn the wrong lot.

Bran recalled the heraldry lessons of Maester Luwin: Wylde bore a blue-green whirlpool upon a field of gold, and their words were "Call the Wind and Rain."

Unfortunately, what had come this day was no ordinary storm, but an unprecedented deluge that had swept all before it.

Bran looked upon the mother and son in the hall with quiet pity.

Joffrey turned to the Hound and asked, "Sandor, has the late Lord Wylde no other heirs?"

The Hound glanced toward the doorway. "They're all dead."

Ser Garth Wylde, now castellan, added, "Apart from his cousin's family, the next in line is young Rickard."

Garth looked at the boy cradled in his mother's arms, his voice betraying the slightest tremor.

"Young Rickard's father perished in the earlier bombardment."

"Fortunately, Lady Alysanne Valping remains safe and sound. With his mother's careful guidance, young Rickard will surely grow to become a worthy lord, serving His Grace with unwavering loyalty."

The woman in the hall bowed with perfect respect, her movements neither too deep nor too shallow. No trace of resentment marred her features.

Joffrey knew this first step must be taken with smooth precision and careful forethought. Any misstep would inevitably spark more intense resistance and chaos.

Castellan.

Garth was of direct Wylde blood. Had he not joined the Kingsguard, he himself would now inherit the lordship of Rain House.

By naming him as the first castellan of Rain House City, voices of protest would be somewhat muted.

Similarly, Alysanne Valping's family, House Valping, dwelled far away in the Riverlands and wielded almost no influence over Rain House City.

As a widow with a fatherless child, bearing the taint of rebellion, it was already fortune beyond measure that they might retain their titles and wealth without being stripped of everything. How could they possibly demand true power to rule?

At least until Rickard came of age, this mother and son would never dare raise objection.

Five years would be ample time for Joffrey to achieve his aims.

Only a ceremony remained to seal the arrangement.

Joffrey looked down at the plainly dressed Alysanne Valping. "Lady Alysanne, do you consent to Ser Garth temporarily holding the title of 'Castellan' and administering the affairs of Rain House City on behalf of House Wylde?"

Alysanne Valping's tone was respectful. "It is an honor for young Rickard and Rain House City to have so worthy a man as Ser Garth to preside over our affairs."

Joffrey nodded faintly. "Good. House Wylde may live in peace, and Rain House City shall continue to function, fulfill its obligations, and assist in quelling the rebellion. I am satisfied."

This was Joffrey's design.

The nobility who had inherited their positions through generations would need only enjoy their wealth and honors, while castellans appointed directly by the crown would carry out royal decrees and guide the common folk.

For now, of course, it remained but a plan.

Given the inevitable backlash from entrenched powers and the abundance of talented men among the nobility, most new castellans would still be drawn from the houses of various lords.

Yet the most crucial change would remain:

The rulers would no longer be determined by the internal workings of individual houses, but by the will of the Iron Throne!

"Lord Rickard Wylde."

Joffrey beckoned to the boy of eleven years. "Step forward, accept your investiture, swear your oath, and secure the future of House Wylde."

Lady Alysanne encouraged her dazed son with a gentle look.

Rickard moved forward alone, approaching the king step by hesitant step. He knelt upon one knee, reciting the oaths he had heard others speak, binding himself and his house in a sacred contract.

Joffrey placed one hand upon the crown of the boy's head, letting it rest there for a long moment before withdrawing it.

"Contract achieved."