Chapter 151: Second Letter
A peaceful afternoon settled over Storm's End, the ancient fortress standing proud against the sky as it had for thousands of years. The silence was broken only by the soft fluttering of wings as a raven from Rain House landed atop the maester's tower.
The maester assumed it carried merely another courtesy from House Wylde, perhaps news of troop reinforcements or ongoing negotiations. Yet when he broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, bold letters caught his eye:
Urgent military situation!
The maester dared not delay. With trembling hands, he delivered the weighty missive directly to Ser Cortnay Penrose, acting castellan of Storm's End.
Cortnay read the message from Rain House with growing concern. The expression on his weathered face hardened like setting mortar, the wrinkles on his bald pate deepening as furrows in a field. His neatly trimmed shovel-shaped red beard rose with his chin as his jaw clenched tight.
The handwriting upon the parchment was hurried, betraying the writer's unease, but it was the content that truly shocked him.
The letter claimed that King's Landing's fleet had silently descended upon the waters outside Rain House—three hundred ships strong, both larger in number and size than the Royal Fleet had ever been!
Last night, the letter said.
More unsettling still, these vessels could somehow emit their own strange light, illuminating both night sky and sea beneath. They generated a terrible cacophony that drowned out all sound from the castle—horns and shouts couldn't travel twenty paces before being swallowed by the din. All this so the fleet's declarations could be heard uncontested.
The fleet had announced its intention to scour the coast and reduce the castle to rubble.
Most disturbing of all, the false king Joffrey himself was reportedly aboard, having abandoned the Iron Throne in King's Landing to lead this assault personally.
Rain House's plea concluded with a desperate request, stating they could not hold out for long and beseeching Storm's End and His Grace Renly to dispatch aid with all haste.
Aid. Cortnay Penrose couldn't help but regard the word with suspicion.
The harbor at King's Landing had never been a secret place. Storm's End had received intelligence from the capital merely three days prior, documenting events from ten days past. At that time, the port had appeared quite ordinary.
One or two hundred warships had been docked in harbor, with merchant traffic gradually returning, though still not matching pre-war levels. There had also been those peculiar rumors spreading through the streets.
Furthermore, His Grace Renly's host had already advanced to Bronzegate in the north. Such intelligence would surely reach him first, with a delay of no more than four or five days.
Five days, or perhaps ten.
How could the Royal Fleet have conjured a hundred warships from thin air, all prepared for extended voyages?
Cortnay Penrose found it impossible to believe.
Could Rain House have secretly pledged fealty to the false king? Was this letter some dangerous bait?
The thought had scarcely formed before Cortnay dismissed such dark suspicions after only a breath or two of consideration.
If everything in the plea was fabrication, designed to lure Storm's End's forces southward into an ambush, from where would the enemy's army materialize?
Cape Wrath stood at the southernmost reach of the Stormlands. Any enemy force hoping to spring a trap would need to arrive by sea, navigating treacherous islands and evading patrols before finding opportunity to make landfall.
How many men could the Royal Fleet transport directly to Cape Wrath on such a lengthy voyage?
The number could hardly exceed ten or twenty thousand.
If Rain House's plea truly concealed a trap, who would be ensnared?
Who would find themselves stranded at Cape Wrath, cut off from reinforcements and supplies, retreat impossible? Without question, it would be the royal forces of the Westerlands under the false king themselves.
Cortnay understood that even if the false king were as arrogant and foolish as claimed, the counselors of the Red Keep would never sanction such an absurd, suicidal strategy.
What other reason, then, might compel Rain House to lie?
There was none.
Cortnay knew the Lord of Rain House well enough. Casper Wylde, a man in his prime, moved through the world with smooth precision. He would visit Storm's End frequently to argue over land rights and haggle endlessly over taxes, taking much and giving little, miserly to his core.
Yet for Rain House itself, for the glory and legacy of his noble house, Lord Wylde lacked neither courage nor the resolve to sacrifice when duty demanded.
Rain House knew its liege lord, knew the oaths binding them.
Casper Wylde would never dare deceive Storm's End, especially not with such crucial military intelligence.
Which meant... Cortnay stared at the ink upon the parchment, each word standing out with terrible clarity.
When all impossible explanations are eliminated, what remains—however improbable—must be truth.
So.
The Royal Fleet truly commanded three hundred warships?
The false king Joffrey had indeed personally led his forces to sea, raided Rain House, and now threatened to ravage the entire coastline?
And these reports of strange lights and deafening noise were real?
Cortnay couldn't help but recall those rumors from King's Landing—of tamed flames, limbs regenerating after being severed, earth and stone flowing like water, and the blessings of the gods.
Could these tales hold truth as well?
Cortnay's brow furrowed deeper as he sank into an intricate web of contemplation.
After what seemed an age, he turned his gaze to the banner hanging upon the wall.
In that brilliant gold, Cortnay found himself transported to the day when His Grace Renly had declared himself king—an afternoon much like this one.
In this very solar.
He had taken the open parchment from the Duke's hand, glanced upon it, and suddenly the Duke had become His Grace Renly Baratheon, First of His Name, rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.
His Grace had declared his intention to summon all lords of the Stormlands, to gather his host at Storm's End, and reclaim the Iron Throne that was his by right.
Meeting His Grace's fiery, penetrating gaze, the overwhelmed Cortnay had looked away then, just as he did now, toward the banner on the wall.
Gold as far as the eye could see, like fields of ripe wheat, like sunlight dancing upon the sea, like boundless treasure.
The gold framed the sigil inherited from the ancient Storm Kings—a raging stag crowned in glory, the symbol House Baratheon had borne for three centuries, representing power and majesty.
Afterward, Cortnay had personally copied and dispatched that proclamation to every castle in the Seven Kingdoms.
Declaring that Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella were all born of incest, proclaiming that His Grace Renly was the one true king.
The proud stag had thus been sundered.
Both sides raised the banner of the crowned stag, both carried the Baratheon name, yet they stood divided by questions of legitimacy, truth, and ultimately life and death.
Cortnay Penrose could only choose the stag of Storm's End.
Now the stag—or perhaps the lion—of King's Landing had come. He would vent his fury upon the coastline of the Stormlands, displaying claws and teeth, perhaps even wielding powers more terrifying still.
Cortnay rose and walked to the window.
The sea stretched endlessly before him, waves breaking against jagged reefs, without a single sail in sight.
Days ago, Lord Velaryon's fleet had anchored in these waters, but the walls of Storm's End had proven impregnable as ever, and that fleet had eventually withdrawn in disappointment.
The waves surged relentlessly against the shore.
Cortnay's expression gradually softened.
Indeed, ancient Storm's End had been raised with magic and solid stone. Not only had it never fallen to siege, but even the most violent tempests—for which these lands were named—could do nothing to harm it.
Let that fleet come!
Three hundred ships, five hundred, a thousand—even if warships filled the horizon from end to end, they would never breach the walls of Storm's End!
The grave castellan allowed himself the ghost of a smile.
Knock, knock, knock.
The sound at his door startled him from his reverie.
"Ser Cortnay, another letter has arrived from Rain House." The maester's voice was breathless with haste.
Cortnay rushed to open the door, confronting the maester's flushed, exhausted face.
He took the proffered sealed parchment.
This time the wax seal remained intact, proof that no eyes had yet beheld its contents.
"I thank you for your service."
Cortnay remained standing at the threshold, unmoving, and the maester withdrew tactfully.
Closing the door once more, Cortnay hesitated a moment, then broke the wax seal and unfolded the second letter.
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