Chapter 45
The Breaking of the Siege
Half a month after the supply lines turned to ash, the mood in the Duke of Ironwood's command tent was as thick and sour as spoiled milk. The air, once filled with the confidence of certain victory, was now choked with desperation and the faint, ever-present smell of unwashed men and fear.
The Duke sat at the head of a scarred oak table, his knuckles white as he gripped the arms of his chair. Around him, the nobles who had thrown their lot in with him looked less like a war council and more like a gathering of vultures waiting for a beast to finally die.
Lord Havisham, a man whose girth had noticeably diminished over the past weeks, slammed a meaty fist on the table. "My men are on half-rations! Half! They're chewing on boiled leather and dreaming of bread. We cannot continue like this!"
"My sentiments exactly," whined the First Prince, his fine silks looking absurdly out of place. He shifted uncomfortably on a hard stool. "This is insufferable. We sit here in the mud while my sister grows comfortable behind her walls. We have the numbers! Why don't we just smash the gates and be done with it?"
The Duke's gaze slid to the Prince, a flicker of pure contempt in his eyes before it was masked by strained politeness. "Your Highness, a direct assault on fortified walls is a butcher's bill. We would lose a third of our army on the ramparts alone. Victory would be pyrrhic, leaving us too weak to hold the kingdom."
"Then what would you have us do? Starve alongside the besieged?" snapped a military noble, his armor showing patches of rust. "The supply chain from the northeast is gone. Utterly destroyed. The men whisper that it was Count Rose's own ghosts who did it. Morale is shattered."
Another noble leaned forward, his face grim. "Where did Count Rose find the men to harass us? His forces are inside the city. Unless… he received help from the outside."
The Duke's voice was a low, dangerous rumble. "My sources confirm it. A regiment of over one hundred and fifty men left Blackstone a half-month ago."
A stunned silence fell, followed by a burst of anxious chatter.
"Blackstone? But they are neutral!"
"Count Garran would never break his covenant!"
"If Blackstone has joined the Rose…their mountain troops are worth three of ours each!"
The Duke silenced them with a raised hand. "Calm yourselves. Count Garran is currently repelling a probing invasion from Count Weber of Stonewatch on his eastern border. He sent only a pittance. A gesture. He risks nothing." He paused, letting the information settle. "But the fact remains, we are out of food. The variable has changed. We can no longer wait for them to break. We must break them."
He stood, his decision final. "We attack at dawn. Four months of siege will have worn them down. They will be on their last legs. We will hit the main gate with everything we have. The sight of our full might will shatter what little spirit they have left."
The nobles exchanged worried glances, but the lack of any other option was a cage around them. They nodded, one by one, their faces grim.
---
Dawn broke not with hope, but with the thunder of war drums. The Duke's army, a sea of steel and faded banners, surged towards the main gates of Rose City. Siege towers, tall and menacing, rolled forward like drunken giants. The air filled with the whistle of arrows and the roar of men giving voice to their fear and rage.
From the walls, Count Rose stood beside his daughter, the Princess. They watched the tide come, their faces hardened by months of confinement and dwindling hope.
"Now," the Count said, his voice barely a whisper.
A signal flag was raised.
With a groaning shudder that competed with the war cries, the massive main gates of Rose City, which had remained sealed for four long months, began to swing outward.
The Duke, watching from his command position, felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. This was not the act of a desperate, broken foe. This was a challenge.
From the gate, Count Rose's army poured out. They were not the emaciated, half-beaten force the Duke had expected. They were thin, yes, but their eyes burned with a fierce, pent-up fire. They formed shield walls with disciplined speed, their defiance a physical force against the advancing tide.
The two armies met with a sound like a mountain cracking. The fighting was immediate and brutal, a grinding, bloody stalemate at the city's threshold.
Then, a new sound echoed over the din of battle. A distant, rhythmic thunder, growing steadily closer. On the horizon, a line of soldiers appeared, their banners snapping in the wind. The obsidian-and-silver mountain of Blackstone.
Adrien's regiment, having swung wide during the night, hit the Duke's flank like a hammer. The impact was devastating. The besiegers, already fully committed to the frontal assault, were thrown into chaos. Their lines buckled, the orderly advance dissolving into a confused melee.
From the city gates, Count Rose gave a roaring command, and his forces pushed forward with renewed vigor, squeezing the Duke's army between the anvil of the walls and the hammer of Blackstone.
The battle raged for half a day, the sun climbing high to witness the carnage. The field became a churning nightmare of mud, blood, and shattered steel. The Duke's coalition, built on ambition and greed, began to fracture. Seeing the tide turn irrevocably, self-preservation took over.
One by one, the lesser nobles began to disengage, cutting their losses. They rallied their personal guards and fled the field, melting away towards their own lands. The Duke of Ironwood, a master of political survival, was the first among them. With a final, furious glance at the crumbling remains of his ambition, he turned his horse and vanished into the chaos, his finest knights forming a shield around him.
But not all were so swift or so lucky.
At the rear of the collapsing army, the First Prince panicked. His ornate carriage was a death trap. He scrambled onto a horse, his personal guard of a few elite knights closing around him. "To the east! To the forest!" he screamed.
They spurred their horses, aiming for a gap in the fighting.
They did not see the smaller, more agile force that had been waiting for this exact moment. Renly, Anya, and Adrien, having broken off from the main flanking attack, moved to cut off the retreat.
"The Prince!" Adrien yelled, pointing.
The Prince's guard saw them and turned, drawing their swords to cover their master's flight. A fierce, mounted skirmish erupted.
Renly's eyes were locked on the fleeing Prince, who was already pulling ahead. He knew if the Prince reached the tree line, he would vanish, a lingering threat to the new stability he would need, thus he made a decision.
He kicked Aethon forward, but not towards the guards. He angled for a clear stretch of field, building speed. He ignored the clashing steel around him, his focus narrowing to the space between him and the Prince's back.
One of the Prince's guards, a large Knight with a heavy axe, broke away and charged Renly, intending to stop his pursuit.
Renly didn't slow. As the Knight raised his axe, Renly let go of the reins.
A familiar, fiery pain flared in his nerves as he summoned the power. The world sharpened, details becoming crystal clear. With a sharp CRACK of displaced air, he was no longer on a collision course with the Knight.
He was past him.
Aethon thundered through the space where Renly had been. The Knight with the axe swung at empty air, stumbling in confusion. Renly had covered the twenty-yard gap in the blink of an eye, appearing directly alongside the Prince's horse.
The Prince had a moment to see a blur, a face set in grim determination, and a sword that moved faster than thought. Renly's blade didn't strike the Prince. Instead, it sliced through the leather straps of the Prince's saddle and the reins in his hands. With a cry, the Prince tumbled from his horse, landing heavily in the mud.
Renly wheeled around, his sword pointed at the Prince's throat. The few remaining guards, seeing their master captured, froze, their will to fight extinguished.
It was over.
---
As the sun began to set, casting long, weary shadows across the field, the full scope of the victory became clear. The siege was broken. The Duke's army was routed. The Prince was a prisoner.
The camp of the victors was a mix of exhaustion and elation. Men tended to wounds, their laughter sharp and relieved. Renly was cleaning his sword when a young Knight in the livery of Count Rose approached his fire, his armor spattered with blood but his posture formal.
"Ser Renly of Bluestone?" the Knight said. "The Count and the Princess… they request your audience."
Renly looked up from his blade, towards the command tent where the banners of Rose and the Serpent Crown now flew unchallenged. The war was won. Now, it was time to see what the peace would bring.