"Send word to Lord Tarth it's time to begin," Lord Robert Dondarrion commanded as he watched the army of the heretic king positioned on the high rise above the plain.
He pitied them, even if they were heretics, for what was about to happen. They had marched into their own doom, these foolish Riverlanders who followed a false prophet, a charlatan who claimed divine right.
His friend and fellow lord and commander, Galadon Tarth, would lead the cavalry charge with a thousand mounted knights. Robert would lead the rest of the army four thousand infantry following behind to finish off whatever remained. The cavalry would break the fickle army of a thousand, scattering them like chaff before the wind, and then he would sweep in to complete the slaughter or accept their surrender.
If the rumors of the heretic king being a sorcerer were true, Robert expected some kind of trickery from him—illusions, perhaps, or some Essosi fire powder that charlatans from across the Narrow Sea used to fool the gullible.
Robert did not believe in such things. He smiled a little, wondering what would be going through the minds of the Riverlords in that army right now, how they were about to see that the so-called sorcerer they had made king was just some charlatan from Asshai, a fraud who used tricks and lies to gain power.
The cavalry began their charge, a thousand strong. Robert commanded his army to move forward as well, advancing at a measured pace behind the cavalry.
He watched as the cavalry neared the heretic's army, lances lowering, the distance closing rapidly.
The army of a thousand looked quite impressive, he had to admit. All wore the same armor and carried matching shields, standing in perfect formation. It did look very strange, too uniform, too organized for a levy. Then more questions came, things he had not thought of before. The armor, weapons, and shields were too alike to be levies from the different Riverlords. Each lord's men should have had different equipment, different colors, different styles. But these men all looked identical, as if they were all equipped from the same armory.
Were they mercenaries? Some foreign company brought from Essos? He had discussed this before with Galadon, but—
The thought broke off as Robert saw a single red arrow rise from the enemy side, arcing up into the grey sky.
Then, to his absolute horror, it became a thousand.
"What in the Seven Hells—" Robert breathed, his eyes widening.
The sky filled with crimson fire, a rain of impossible arrows that shouldn't exist couldn't exist. They fell upon the cavalry.
"NO!" Robert screamed, but his voice was lost in the terrible sound of impact.
Horses screamed and fell. Knights were thrown from their saddles or pierced through their plate as if it were cloth. The beautiful, perfect charge dissolved into chaos and death. Men Robert had known his entire life were dying by the dozens by the hundreds struck down by sorcery he had dismissed just seconds ago.
Another volley of red arrows rose and split. Then another. And another.
The cavalry was being slaughtered.
Robert was frozen, unable to move or think, able only to watch the horror unfolding in front of him. Around him, the rest of his own army erupted into chaos. Men were screaming, pointing at the sky, at the impossible rain of arrows.
His mouth was dry. His hands trembled. Fear clutched at his very being.
It was true. The heretic was a sorcerer. A powerful one. More powerful than any hedge witch or Essosi fire mage. This was real magic, the kind from the old stories, from before the Doom, from the Age of Heroes.
Through the carnage, Robert saw Galadon among the survivors, perhaps a hundred riders out of a thousand. His friend was fleeing back toward the army, his face pale with terror, his horse foaming at the mouth. Some of the surviving cavalry fled with him, while others scattered in all directions, completely broken.
Complete chaos erupted around him. Some men fled, throwing down their weapons as they ran. Others stood frozen like Robert himself, unable to process what they had just witnessed. Still others, perhaps the bravest, or the most foolish, were screaming for vengeance, calling for a charge to avenge their fallen comrades.
"HOLD!" Robert shouted, finally finding his voice, finally breaking free of the paralysis of fear. "HOLD THE LINE! REFORM! RALLY TO ME!"
But his commands came too late. Without his orders, without any coordination, a large part of the army charged forward, perhaps almost a thousand men driven by rage and fear and the desperate need to do something rather than stand and wait for those red arrows to turn on them.
"NO! STOP! COME BACK!" Robert screamed, but they couldn't hear him or they didn't care. The army was fragmenting before his eyes.
At the same time, others were fleeing in the opposite direction, running back toward Antlers—toward anywhere that wasn't this cursed battlefield.
Robert tried desperately to regain control, riding forward, shouting orders, but it was like trying to hold water in his hands. The army was breaking apart.
Then he saw the enemy begin to march, and his blood ran cold.
They moved in perfect formation, shields locked, swords out advancing as if they were a single creature. At their front was a figure in armor more magnificent than any Robert had ever seen, and he knew… knew that was the heretic king himself.
The Stormlander charge, chaotic and undisciplined, crashed into the enemy shield wall and broke.
Robert watched in horror as the enemy didn't give an inch. The charging Stormlanders hit that wall of shields and simply stopped, like waves breaking against a cliff. Then the enemy began to cut them down, one by one, without mercy.
It wasn't a battle. It was a slaughter.
A smaller force split off and struck at their sides and, almost at once, cavalry poured from the hills and forests on either flank the enemy's cavalry smashing into their panicked, scattered ranks.
They were encircled.
"Fall back! FALL BACK!" Robert screamed, trying to rally what remained of his forces, trying to salvage anything from the disaster.
His horse reared as men fled past in panic. Robert fought for control, tried to keep command, but there were too many bodies, too much chaos.
Someone slammed into his horse from the side one of his own men, fleeing in blind terror. The horse stumbled, and Robert felt himself falling, the ground rushing up to meet him.
He hit hard, his head cracking against something a rock, a piece of armor; he couldn't tell. Pain exploded through his skull.
The world spun. Sounds became muffled, distant. He heard screaming, steel on steel, horses, men dying.
He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't obey. Blood ran into his eyes from a gash on his forehead.
Robert could remember nothing after that. The world faded to black as he lost consciousness, terrified, his entire reality shaken to its foundations.
Either the heretic king was here to preserve their way of life by turning them away from the gods, or he was no heretic at all; the stories told by the new faith were true, and he was blessed by the gods. Robert did not know which was more terrifying in that moment.
========
When Robert awoke, he was being treated by the maester at Antlers.
He remembered drifting in and out of consciousness, brief flashes of light, voices murmuring in hushed tones, the smell of herbs and poultices, pain in his head and ribs. Time had lost all meaning.
He woke fully to find the maester looking at him with a smile, a thin, nervous sort of expression.
Robert tried to sit up, panic flooding through him, but the maester was insistent that he stay in bed, pressing firmly yet gently on his shoulders.
"Please, my lord, you must rest. You took a serious blow to the head. Moving too quickly could—"
Robert didn't speak; his mind was still foggy, still trying to piece together what had happened. The maester continued his work, checking Robert's bandages, muttering almost ranting about Lord Butterwell kneeling to the sorcerer-king, about how shameful it was, how easily the lord had accepted the sorcerer.
Robert's thoughts raced as memories flooded back.
The battle. He remembered it all now.
The red arrow that became a thousand. The cavalry being slaughtered. The encirclement. The defeat.
He remembered the power shown by the King of the Heartlands.
Oh gods.
His breathing quickened. His chest tightened. He began to hyperventilate as the maester tried to calm him; Robert couldn't even hear him over the roaring in his ears.
"My lord, please, you need to breathe slowly—"
Robert's vision narrowed. He could see it again—those red arrows filling the sky, the screams of dying horses. His hands shook. Sweat broke out on his forehead despite the cold.
Then he remembered.
Galadon.
"Where—" Robert gasped, his voice hoarse and broken. "Where is Galadon? Where is he? GALADON! DON! DOOON!"
He tried to throw himself out of the bed, tried to find his friend, terror overwhelming him. More people rushed into the chamber, two men in the armor of the Heartlands army. They held him down.
"Please, my lord, you must calm yourself!" the maester pleaded. "Lord Tarth is well! Please, Lord Dondarrion, Lord Tarth is alive and recovering!"
But Robert couldn't hear him, couldn't process the words. He fought to break free, to run, to escape the nightmare, but his body was too weak, his head spinning.
Someone pressed a cup to his lips. He tasted something sweet and cloying milk of the poppy.
He fell unconscious again, the world fading to darkness.
=========
Robert woke screaming from a nightmare of a monstrous King of the Heartlands killing him and his family. The king had consumed them before his eyes.
He heaved for breath, gasping, his heart hammering in his chest. His head hurt worse than before, and he felt as if he'd just broken a fever, his body cold and clammy, his sheets soaked with sweat.
The maester came in again and checked on him. Robert did not speak couldn't speak. His throat was raw from screaming.
He heard the maester apologize, his voice nervous. "I'm sorry, my lord, but I must tell the guards that you are awake. The…" He paused. "The king has commanded that you and Lord Tarth be brought to him when you are able."
Robert said nothing. He stared at the ceiling, his mind still trapped between waking and nightmare.
Some hours later, they made him stand, though his legs were weak and his head still pounded. Two Heartlands men supported him on either side, guiding him through the corridors of Antlers.
They brought him to the great hall, where he saw Galadon being led in as well. His friend was bandaged around the head, arms, and body. Galadon looked pale, haunted but alive.
Their eyes met, and Robert saw his own terror reflected there.
Inside the hall, Robert saw Lord Butterwell glaring at them with hate-filled eyes. They had taken his castle and his family prisoner, after all; Robert wondered if the lord would have a say in how they were to be killed.
He recognized some of the Heartlands lords Tully, Blackwood, Frey, and others whose names he couldn't recall. They stood along the sides of the hall, watching with expressions that ranged from curiosity to satisfaction to indifference.
And on the throne sat a man.
A handsome man so handsome it seemed almost unnatural. Strong features, blond hair, eyes that shifted from dark green to a lighter shade depending on the light.
Robert could not look away.
He wore armor made of the night itself black as the void between stars. Beautiful and terrible at once.
His eyes were fierce, but kind. Yes there was kindness in them, a warmth that reminded Robert of his father. It confused him, disoriented him. How could someone so powerful, so terrifying, look at them with such gentleness?
He was beginning to understand why the former Riverlords had knelt to this man. He looked and felt godly, something more than human.
"Kneel," a man with red hair said. Tully. Yes—Tully, Robert realized.
But the king stopped him with a raised hand. "No, Lord Chancellor. These men are injured. Let them stand."
Tully stepped forward, his voice formal. "You stand before Harald Stormcrown, King of the Heartlands, Scourge of the Ironborn, Defender of the Realm, Protector of the Sacred Covenant, Herald of the Gods, and the Last Dragonborn."
Those are some… titles, all right, Robert thought, his mind only half there.
The king chuckled, as if he had heard Robert's thought or found the pomp amusing himself. His eyes locked on Robert and Galadon, and Robert felt pinned by that gaze, seen through and understood completely.
"We have much to discuss, my lords," the king said, his voice warm but carrying the absolute authority of a king. "Especially about what Lord Swann did at Maidenpool."
Robert laughed a thin, hysterical sound that surprised even him. "Ask away, King Harald. Lord Swann's enemy will always be a friend of mine."
Galadon stared at him, shocked, his mouth falling open.
A few moons ago, Robert would never have said such words. He hadn't liked Swann then; now he hated the man. The bastard had led them into this disaster had gotten Robert's father killed. And given the situation captured, defeated, at the mercy of a man who could rain fire from the sky Robert was not about to resist.
What would be the point? Pride? Honor? Those things meant little after watching magic tear apart a thousand of the finest Stormlands knights like parchment.
The king laughed and turned to Tully with an amused look. "And you said we would need to persuade them." The word persuade carried another meaning, and Robert knew it.
And for some reason despite everything, despite the terror and the trauma and the nightmares Robert found himself laughing too.
It was absurd. All of it. The entire world had gone mad, and all Robert could do was laugh.
.
.
.
Lord Edward Swann stood in his command tent, studying the state of the siege of Maidenpool.
They were days away from readiness for the final assault, perhaps a week, no more. The siege towers were nearly complete, the battering ram reinforced and ready. The mines beneath the eastern wall were progressing well, though slower than he had hoped. The Mootons had proven surprisingly resilient, more prepared for a siege than Edward had anticipated. They had sabotaged their own lands before retreating behind the walls: poisoned wells, burned fields, destroyed bridges. Everything now moved slower than planned. Every supply wagon had to come from farther away; every foraging party risked ambush.
It was irritating but manageable. Maidenpool would fall. It was only a matter of time.
He was interrupted by his firstborn and heir walking into the tent without announcement.
Edmund Swann was panting slightly, his overweight body slick with sweat from the walk across the camp and the heavy armor he wore. His face was flushed, his double chin glistening. The young man was three-and-twenty but looked older, soft where he should have been hard, weak where he should have been strong.
Edward suppressed his anger and disappointment. This was his heir. This was what his bloodline had produced. A fat firstborn, a whoremongering second-born, and an idiotic third at times he wondered if he was cursed.
"Father, you wanted to see me?" Edmund asked, still catching his breath.
Edward let the silence stretch, studying the battle plans spread across the table. He left his son standing like a scolded child waiting, uncertain.
At last, after what must have felt an eternity to Edmund, Edward rolled up the map and turned to face him, eyes cold and calculating.
"Sit," he ordered, gesturing to a chair across the table.
Edmund sat heavily. The chair creaked under his weight, a sound that made Edward's jaw tighten.
"Do you know why I'm leaving the siege?" Edward asked, his voice flat and emotionless.
Edmund shifted. "The raven… the king's condition has worsened."
"The king is dying, Edmund." Edward poured himself wine from a pitcher on the side table, deliberately not offering any to his son. "Which means everything I have worked toward for the past fifteen years is finally coming to fruition. And I need to be at Storm's End when it happens."
Edmund leaned forward, a spark of interest finally showing in his dull eyes. "The Princess—"
"Princess Argella," Edward interrupted smoothly, a thin smile crossing his lips, "will be queen. And she will need our help to secure her throne against those who would take it from her."
"The cousins," Edmund said, understanding dawning.
Edward nodded, pleased his son had grasped at least that much. He began to lay out the political landscape of the Stormlands.
"Ormund Durrandon, son of the king's first cousin. Married to Lord Fell's daughter. They form the Northern Bloc House Fell, House Cafferen, House Grandison, and several minor houses. Strong militarily, well positioned."
He paused, letting Edmund absorb it.
"Baldric Durrandon, the king's youngest cousin. Married to Lord Connington's daughter. They form the Southern Bloc House Connington, House Wylde, House Penrose. They control the coast and the sea."
He looked to Edmund expectantly, testing whether his son had paid attention to years of lessons.
Edmund cleared his throat. "Lynol Durrandon. The weakest claimant. Supported only by minor lords and… and Lord Caron."
"Correct." Edward allowed himself a small nod of approval. "All have their plans. All have been positioning themselves for this moment, building alliances, making promises they may or may not keep."
He leaned forward, eyes boring into his son's.
"But their rise to power was also due to my efforts, Edmund. Do you understand? I sent them away from Storm's End. I isolated the king and the princess, removed potential allies from their side, ensured that when this moment came, Argella would have nowhere to turn but to us."
Edward's voice dropped, more intense.
"This was all for our house, Edmund. For our blood. You will marry the princess, and our bloodline will rule the Storm Kingdom for the next thousand years. Everything I have done, every sacrifice, everything has been for this."
Edmund nodded, though hesitation clouded his expression.
"The princess already detests you," Edward said bluntly, watching his son flinch.
Edmund looked down at his hands, shame coloring his soft features.
"That does not matter," Edward continued, his voice hard as iron. "You will marry the girl. You will put children in her belly. That is all she is useful for. That is what you will be useful for. Do you understand me?"
Edmund lowered his head further, shoulders slumping, unable to meet his father's eyes.
Disgust rose in Edward's throat, but he pushed it down. This weak, pathetic boy was his legacy, and he would have to make do.
"I will leave for Storm's End immediately… to see to the final parts of my plan. To make sure that Argella will turn to me, and me only."
He traced a finger along the coastline on the map, stopping at a particular point.
"Estermont has been her steadfast ally while others have abandoned her," Edward continued, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "Lord Estermont still holds influence with the princess. He writes to her, counsels her, supports her claim. I cannot have him interfering when the moment comes."
Edmund nodded, though uncertainty clouded his eyes.
Edward stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. "This is my life's work, son. Everything I have worked for. Everything I have sacrificed. And I am telling you this now because I need you to understand something very clearly."
He seized Edmund's shoulder, his grip tight enough to hurt. The chair scraped and toppled as Edmund lurched to his feet, trying to escape the iron grasp.
"Do. Not. Fuck. This. Up."
Edmund tried again to pull away, but Edward's grip held firm, fingers digging into his son's flesh.
"I know what you are, boy," Edward said, each word deliberate and cutting. "You're not a great warrior. You're not a brilliant commander. You're not even particularly charming." Each statement landed like a slap. "But I have done the work. I have positioned our house. I have won the Blackwater campaign or nearly so. All you have to do is not ruin it."
"Father, I—" Edmund began, but Edward cut him off.
"Win this siege," Edward commanded, finally releasing him. Edmund stumbled back, rubbing his shoulder. "Maidenpool is nearly broken. Their walls are weakening from the mines. Their supplies are dwindling—they have perhaps a fortnight before starvation forces them to terms. You have ten thousand men, the best siege equipment in the Stormlands, and my captains to guide you. Take. This. City."
He walked to the tent entrance, then paused with a hand on the canvas flap.
"I've left Captain Barris in command of siege operations. Listen to him. Follow his counsel. He knows what he's doing even if you don't." Edward glanced back over his shoulder. "When Maidenpool falls and it will fall you will march back to Storm's End a hero. The man who ended the dreaded Blackwater campaign. The man who avenged the great King Argilac. A worthy husband for Princess Argella."
Edward looked back at his son one final time.
"I have given you everything, Edmund. The stage is set. The players are in position. All you have to do is not trip over your own feet on the way to your throne. Can you manage that?"
"Yes, Father," Edmund mumbled, still unable to meet his father's eyes.
"LOUDER, BOY!" Edward's voice cracked like a whip.
"YES, FATHER!" Edmund shouted, finally looking up, trying desperately to muster some dignity, some strength.
"Yes, Father. I won't fail you," he repeated, his voice steadier now, though his hands still trembled.
Edward continued to stare, letting the silence stretch once more letting his son feel the weight of expectation, the burden of the Swann legacy resting on his inadequate shoulders.
"See that you don't."
With that, Lord Edward Swann strode out of the tent, leaving his son to do what should be the least difficult part of his grand design.
Outside, Edward's horse was already prepared, along with an escort of fifty mounted knights bearing the white swan of House Swann. They would ride hard to the port, where a ship waited to take him to Storm's End. He would arrive just in time to be at Argilac's bedside when the king breathed his last. Just in time to "comfort" Argella in her grief to be the strong, steady presence she so desperately needed. Just in time to present his son as the obvious, the only, the necessary choice to secure her throne and her future.
Everything was proceeding exactly as planned.
Every piece had been moved with precision over years of careful manipulation. The rival claimants were positioned perfectly strong enough to threaten Argella, but not strong enough to win without tearing the Stormlands apart. And House Swann would rise to power not through conquest, but through marriage. Through legitimacy. Through making themselves indispensable.
The board was set for a game Lord Swann thought he was winning.
But new players had entered the field and had toppled the board long ago.
.
.
.
"Every day I pray to the Seven that he comes home whole," Lord Steffon Estermont heard his wife, Maris, murmur.
"The Lord Marshal will take Maidenpool soon," Estermont said, trying to sound reassuring, though he felt far from certain himself. "The war will be over. Our boy will come home."
"You know it is not the war I fear most, my love," Maris said quietly, moving closer to him. Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "The king is not well. He grows weaker by the day. And you've seen it how many have fled Storm's End as soon as his condition worsened? The lesser lords making excuses, returning to their keeps. They know what is about to happen."
Steffon's jaw tightened. "I know."
"The others will press their claims," Maris continued, her voice trembling. "Ormund, Baldric, perhaps even Lynol. They will all come with their sworn, traitorous lords. And that viper Swann will—"
"I know," Estermont repeated, more firmly. He reached for her hand. "I just hope that—"
He couldn't finish the sentence.
The bell began to ring.
The great bell of Storm's End the massive bronze giant that hung in the highest tower, rung only for the most momentous occasions.
GONG
The sound rolled across the castle like thunder, felt in the bones more than heard.
GONG
Estermont's knees nearly buckled. His heart fluttered weakly in his chest. He knew what that bell meant. Everyone in Storm's End knew what that bell meant.
Maris burst into tears, her hands flying to her mouth.
GONG
From the corridors and courtyards outside the solar, voices began to rise—first one, then another, then a dozen, then hundreds.
"The king is dead."
"The king is dead."
"THE KING IS DEAD."
Steffon ran. His feet carried him through corridors he'd walked a thousand times, past servants and guards who stood frozen or rushed about in confusion. The castle erupted into chaos around him.
He ran and ran, lungs burning, old legs protesting the exertion through the great hall, where lords and knights gathered in shocked clusters; up the winding stairs to the royal apartments; along the corridor to the king's chambers.
The passage was crowded with people pressing toward the doors. Some wept openly. Others stood in stunned silence.
Steffon pushed through. "Make way! Make way for Lord Estermont!" one of his guards called out.
He reached the open doors and saw a sight that would haunt him forever.
Princess Argella was hunched over King Argilac's lifeless form, her arms wrapped around her father's body, her face buried in his chest. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs. The great Storm King lay still and pale, eyes closed.
The royal maester stood nearby, face grave, hands stained with blood from a desperate, failed attempt to save his king. Several of the king's closest knights stood at attention, tears cutting tracks down their weathered faces.
"Gods," Estermont muttered, his voice breaking. Grief struck twice mourning his king and pitying his new queen, for what she would now have to endure. She was only six-and-ten, and the weight of a kingdom in turmoil would fall upon her shoulders.
He straightened, drew a deep breath, and raised his voice so all could hear.
"THE KING IS DEAD!"
His voice cracked, but he forced the words out clearly.
"LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!"
Around him, many took up the cry. "LONG LIVE THE QUEEN! LONG LIVE QUEEN ARGELLA!"
But not all. Estermont saw faces turn away, saw lords and knights slip back through the crowd, retreating from the chamber. Already the knives were being sharpened. Already the vultures were circling.
He saw Lord Whitehead leave without a word. He saw Ser Lucimore long close to the Connington faction whisper to his companion and depart. He saw others whose loyalties were uncertain, whose ambitions were known.
The Stormlands were about to bleed.