Chapter 153: Landing!
The waves crashed endlessly against the shore, and the sea wind howled like a thousand hungry wolves. From the distant waters, the movements within Storm's End remained barely perceptible, save for the dancing arcs of firelight that traced the contours of the ancient walls.
Those were the torches held aloft by grim-faced soldiers, each flame representing a sword ready to fall or a bow prepared to sing.
Those were the braziers roaring beside each battlement, serving many purposes—to warm numbed fingers, to cast light into the darkness, to ignite the pitch and rockets, and to boil oil until it bubbled like the waters of the Seven Hells.
In this manner, Storm's End proclaimed its vigilance to all who approached, displaying its thorns and iron teeth like some great beast awakening from slumber.
Each pinprick of light signaled the castle's meticulous preparations for counterattack, foretelling the countless lives that would be spent in blood and pain should any besiegers dare test its defenses.
The guards tightened their grips upon sword hilts and crossbow triggers, their faces set in the grim mask that men wear when they prepare to kill or die.
Meanwhile, within the castle's massive drum tower, horns blared incessantly, their deep-throated calls rolling over the battlements like muffled thunder gathering boundless fury. Their purpose was twofold—to warn away those who might threaten, and to kindle the flames of courage in those who defended.
The fleet at sea, however, advanced in eerie silence, communicating only through the subtle shifting of their banners.
Why no drums or horns?
Many of the younger guards exchanged puzzled glances. The stories they had heard since childhood, their training exercises—all taught the same lesson. Shouldn't the air be filled with martial music, the beating of drums and blaring of horns to accompany men into battle?
Even for a fleet approaching by sea, should an attack be launched in such uncanny quiet?
Even the grizzled veterans among them found themselves perplexed.
Without the thunder of drums and clarion of horns to inflame young minds with visions of glory, who would dare rush toward those unyielding walls after sober consideration? Who would willingly face a hail of crossbow bolts, a rain of stones, and scalding oil, all while the screams of the dying filled the air?
As these thoughts took root, the initial tension that had gripped the defenders began to wane perceptibly.
The guards looked down once more at the fleet spread out below.
A vague assembly of ships, scattered and unremarkable, as inconspicuous as traders on a market day.
Rather than an imposing armada befitting a king, they resembled nothing so much as a pack of predatory pirates, the kind who crept close under cover of darkness, never daring to launch an honest assault in the light of day.
Pirates. Ser Cortnay Penrose recalled the battle described in the letter from Rain House—the tactics employed were indeed reminiscent of Ironborn longships: ambush, stealth, sudden violence, and swift retreat when casualties mounted.
Considered thus, wouldn't the division of forces to raid various points along the coastline perfectly match the Ironborn's traditional approach to warfare?
Cortnay Penrose felt his confusion beginning to dissipate.
The letter had mentioned that one of the officers attacking Rain House had been Theon Greyjoy, the Iron Islands whelp currently serving as Lord Stark's ward.
Perhaps this Theon had somehow influenced the cruel heart of the false king Joffrey? Had he convinced the boy to dispatch the fleet on a campaign of terror and retribution, to avenge the defeat at Massey's Hook, or simply to spread chaos for its own sake?
Cortnay Penrose could not be entirely certain, but at least...
He surveyed the fleet spread out below the castle walls. A cursory estimate suggested no more than two hundred ships. The sentries in the watchtower reported a precise count of one hundred and twenty-one vessels.
At least it confirmed that the fleet had indeed divided its strength.
This represented welcome news for Storm's End, though it boded ill for other castles along the coast. For His Grace Renly, it constituted valuable intelligence.
After all, judging from present circumstances, King's Landing now stood bereft of naval forces to guard the Blackwater, and the territories of the Stormlands would not be utterly devastated—the willful Prince Joffrey would merely be permitted to vent his fury, plundering a few villages and fishing settlements.
In the greater scope of the war, such losses meant little and less.
The strength of King's Landing was being squandered on peripheral objectives, while His Grace Renly's forces grew stronger and more disciplined with each passing day, poised to strike at the enemy's heart when the moment was ripe.
The course of the war seemed to be growing clearer by the hour.
"Hahaha!"
"They've lost their wits! Look at them trying to use that as a weapon? It couldn't touch a single hair on Storm's End!"
"Seven hells, they haven't given up yet!"
"If this is the best they can muster, we might as well return to our beds. They'll not set foot inside Storm's End in a hundred years..."
The guards along the battlements erupted in laughter and mockery.
Cortnay Penrose made no immediate move to silence them. He, too, observed the fleet's attack with disbelief, finding it insignificant, even laughably absurd.
Dozens of warships had approached nearly to grounding distance, loosing arrows and hurling stones from their decks, yet the vast majority of their missiles failed even to clear the cliffs beneath the castle, let alone threaten the towering walls.
Cortnay understood that such a feeble assault would only strengthen the castle's morale and stiffen the resolve of its defenders.
Nevertheless, one question lingered in his mind: what of the enemy's white light and deafening noise?
The sky was gradually brightening with the approach of dawn, so perhaps the effect of any white light could be safely disregarded, but what of the tremendous clamor that Rain House had mentioned repeatedly in their letter? Such a thing could prove far more effective as a weapon.
This remained Cortnay Penrose's greatest concern.
Should the enemy employ this strange power, low morale within the castle would be the least of their troubles. Difficulties in communication would represent a minor inconvenience at best. If it disrupted sleep and exhausted the defenders' strength, before the enemy sought out weaknesses to exploit...
Cortnay Penrose had no choice but to maintain vigilant watch over the fleet's movements, attempting to divine the enemy's intentions and prepare accordingly.
Perhaps a quarter hour later, the warships that had been launching their futile barrage of arrows and stones began to withdraw.
Cortnay Penrose immediately silenced the guards' jubilation, ordering all to remain alert and to report even the slightest change in the enemy's disposition.
But this command swiftly became redundant.
Cortnay Penrose himself clearly observed the fleet's next maneuver.
All the warships sailed northward, coming to rest upon the sea adjacent to a flat stretch of shoreline perhaps a thousand paces distant from Storm's End. There they lowered their sails and cast anchor.
Then, numerous small boats laden with densely packed shadows began to row steadily toward the shore.
The enemy was landing!
Cortnay Penrose and all who stood with him watched in astonishment.
This was Storm's End, not some lesser fortress like Rain House!
How many fighting men could one hundred and twenty-one ships possibly carry? And they were simply landing on the shore? Did they truly believe they could assault the gates of Storm's End from the landward side?
Not a soul alive was ignorant of the power of those gates.
The crossbows and catapults mounted upon the walls formed the first line of defense, capable of loosing thousands of deadly projectiles in the space of a few heartbeats, transforming the ground before the gates into a field of broken bodies.
The dry, broad moat represented the second line, and the defenders would enthusiastically assist any attacker in filling it.
With their own corpses.
The third line of defense consisted of the scalding oil poured from murder holes above.
When the attackers caught the aroma of their own roasting flesh and the stench of burning hair and somehow managed to destroy the drawbridge leading to the walls, they would then face the dozen-foot-long gate tunnel.
Countless crossbows positioned above the tunnel entrance, stones piled into small mountains, and cauldrons of boiling oil would form the fourth line of defense.
Once again, the enemy would leave their dead heaped upon the ground, the few survivors finally reaching the great gate itself.
The well-prepared portcullis would slam down, trapping those within six feet of the inner gate, followed by a merciless slaughter.
Once these unfortunates had also been reduced to corpses, the portcullis would rise again, awaiting the next wave of prey...
Cortnay Penrose's brow furrowed as he gazed northward.
The landing force likely numbered several thousand at most. With such meager numbers, they would perish to the last man without so much as scratching the paint on the castle gates.
The sun had fully crested the horizon now, bathing the landscape in golden light.
A lone figure rode forth from the landing party's makeshift camp, his white armor catching the sunlight and transforming him into a brilliant beacon upon the shore.
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