Chapter 190 – The Regent Sent Me to Deliver a Message
I came to give Lord Robert an early warning.
Ralph Buckler very much wanted to say that—but with so many eyes on him, the words refused to leave his mouth.
After all, no matter how thick his skin was, abandoning his own castle and fleeing all the way to Storm's End was… a little too shameless, even for him.
Before he could speak, the messenger who had rushed in grabbed his arm in panic.
"My lord, you must return at once!" the soldier pleaded, his voice breaking. "If you don't, it'll be too late!"
"Bronzegate is the last line of defense before Storm's End! If they break through there, we'll be trapped in an isolated fortress!"
Ralph's entire body jolted. The fat on his face quivered uncontrollably. He swallowed hard—but still didn't answer.
He might boast endlessly about being no worse than Lance, but he wasn't an idiot.
Go back?
Images of the slaughter outside Fallenwood flashed through his mind.
Go back and face that monster wielding a burning greatsword—with a dragon circling overhead?
A man had to know his limits. Ralph Buckler might consider himself formidable—only slightly inferior to the legendary Sword of the Morning—but that was the man who had lost to Lance.
And knowing when to run was the truest survival instinct.
"Ugh—!"
Ralph rolled his eyes and suddenly clutched his mouth, gagging loudly. "Something's wrong—I feel terribly ill! Quick, fetch the maester!"
"Enough."
A low, disgusted growl cut him off.
Ralph turned to see Robert Baratheon slam an empty wine jug onto the table beside him. The Lord's eyes burned with cold mockery as he let out a humorless laugh.
Let Ralph Buckler defend a castle?
Please.
If not for the fact that Bronzegate lay closest to Storm's End—and had once boasted solid forces—Robert wouldn't have entrusted him with joint defenses at all.
Rubbing his temples, Robert forced his rage and drunkenness into check.
"Judging by the timing," he said flatly, "Bronzegate is already lost."
He lifted the jug again and drained it before smashing it down onto his knee.
"We hold fast," he said at last.
"They have only eight hundred men."
"Even if they take Bronzegate, they won't have enough troops to garrison it. Knowing Lance Lot, he'll push forward immediately—drive straight for Storm's End."
The hall fell silent.
Every lord present was inside Storm's End. If the walls fell, none of them would escape.
Robert's gaze swept across their pale faces. Slowly, a smile crept onto his lips.
Then his voice snapped sharp as iron.
"Captain! Dispatch every mounted man we have—now!"
"Scour the countryside within ten, twenty miles of Storm's End. Seize every farmer and herdsman—men, women, children, all of them. Bring them inside the castle!"
"Then burn the rest. All of it. Grain, beans—leave nothing behind!"
His eyes blazed as he continued, voice rising with savage delight.
"The moment Lance Lot leaves Bronzegate, order every force converging from all directions to seize the city. Seal the gates tight."
"I'll trap him between two fortresses—no food, no shelter, no firewood, nothing but snow and hunger!"
"Eight hundred men, frozen between Bronzegate and Storm's End!"
"I want to see how Lance Lot plans to take my castle in ten days under those conditions!"
A collective chill ran through the hall.
This was cruelty—cold, calculated, absolute.
They had always thought the new Baratheon Lord a brute. But now they saw the truth: this was a man who could be both ruthless and clever.
Dragging every peasant into Storm's End meant starvation—for the civilians first.
But the strategy was brutally effective.
With superior numbers, full granaries, and impregnable walls, they could simply wait.
Wait—and watch eight hundred men die.
"Well said!"
"At last!"
"The Lord is truly wise and mighty—my admiration flows like the Wendwater itself!"
One voice led, then another. Soon the hall was thick with frantic flattery.
After all, a lord might forget who praised him—but he would never forget who stayed silent.
Just as confidence returned to the room, a ruckus erupted outside the doors.
"Out of the way!"
"I've fought for the Stormlands! I've bled for House Baratheon! I demand an audience with the Lord!"
The voice sounded familiar.
Several lords frowned, trying to place it.
Only Ralph Buckler stiffened in terror.
Robert noticed immediately.
"Who's out there?" he barked. "Let him in!"
The guards hesitated—but obeyed.
With a heavy bang, the massive oak doors burst open once more. Cold wind howled in, extinguishing torches and scattering embers.
A battered figure stumbled inside.
Snow clung to his broken armor. Mud and dried blood stained every surface. His face was cracked raw by the freezing wind.
He looked utterly wretched.
"Lord—"
The man dropped to one knee to salute—
—and then caught sight of a massive figure hiding among the nobles, trying very hard not to be seen.
"Fuck you, you shameless bastard."
The words tore out of Sebastian's mouth before he could stop himself.
Sebastian's fury ignited instantly.
His knee never even touched the floor before he lunged forward and kicked Ralph hard, sending the bloated lord sprawling.
Pointing straight at Ralph's nose, Sebastian unleashed a torrent of curses—each word punctuated by another savage blow.
"You fat, shameless, revolting maggot!"
"You ran before the battle even began! You're a coward, a piece of filth—less brave than eunuchs and women!"
He remembered it all too clearly.
Before the armies had even clashed—before blades had crossed—Ralph Buckler had seen Lance Lot's twin swords ignite with fire and immediately wheeled his horse around, fleeing at a speed that would've impressed a courier, abandoning his soldiers and comrades without a second thought.
What horrified Sebastian even more was what he'd heard upon reaching Bronzegate—
Ralph hadn't just fled the battlefield.
He'd abandoned the castle entirely and run straight to Storm's End.
Ralph Buckler was a once-in-a-millennium disgrace to the Stormlands.
Like a wild beast finally unleashed, Sebastian gave him no chance to breathe, no chance to plead. He swung a leg over Ralph's massive belly and mounted him like a beast, fists raining down without mercy.
Punch after punch smashed into the fat man's face until it bloomed purple and blue.
Ralph tried to fight back—but couldn't.
Even wounded and exhausted from days of flight, Sebastian completely overwhelmed him. Ralph could only flail weakly, screaming as blow after blow landed.
Cries and wails echoed through the hall.
And yet—not a single voice rose in his defense.
Not even Lord Robert intervened at first.
Instead, he watched with open amusement, as though enjoying a play performed for his personal entertainment.
Everyone knew Ralph Buckler had no bottom. A lesson like this was long overdue.
Only when Ralph's cries grew weak and hoarse did Robert finally step in.
"Enough!"
But Sebastian had gone red-eyed with rage. His fists kept falling—one of Ralph's teeth even flew loose across the floor.
Robert flicked his fingers.
Two guards immediately moved in, hauling Sebastian off from either side.
"Take him away," Robert ordered coolly. "Have the maester tend to him."
Ralph was dragged out like a slaughtered pig.
Only then did Robert step forward and gesture for the guards to release Sebastian.
"I hear you were defeated, Ser."
His voice was low—but not accusing.
He even reached out and patted Sebastian's filthy shoulder pauldron, his tone noticeably gentler.
"You've worked hard."
The words broke him.
All the exhaustion, bitterness, fear, and pent-up grief burst out at once.
Sebastian's legs gave way. He collapsed forward, clutching Robert like a drowning man.
"My lord—waaah!!"
"It was too hard!"
"That Lance Lot isn't human!"
"You didn't see it—he held two swords, and they were on fire! Whoever he struck just died!"
"Jon Connington—his head was cut off! A dragon flew down and dropped it right in front of me!"
"Seven hells…"
"And that coward Ralph Buckler—he just ran! Left us all behind!"
"I was wrong! I never should've let Jon take the risk—if he hadn't, he wouldn't be dead! If he hadn't died, we wouldn't have lost so fast—"
"Enough."
Robert shoved him away impatiently.
He'd only meant to display a little magnanimity—he hadn't signed up to play mother confessor.
Seven hells. Had this boy picked up bad habits from Jon Connington?
The thought made Robert shudder.
He took a step back.
"How did you escape, ser?"
Robert frowned at the wreck of a man before him. "Didn't Lord Buckler say you were completely surrounded?"
"I…"
Sebastian froze.
In front of so many lords, he couldn't bring himself to admit the truth—that he'd been captured and released.
So he swallowed and spoke carefully.
"My lord…"
"Lance Lot asked me to bring you a message."
---
Bronzegate
"We're fully resupplied, Your Grace!"
Brandon Tully strode along the battlements, voice light and cheerful.
His white cloak snapped in the wind. His steps were brisk, his smile bright—nothing like the grim knight who had ridden out days earlier.
Fighting alongside Lance was exhilarating.
In his entire life, Brandon had never fought a war this easy—or this satisfying.
Even the final clash of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, riding behind Barristan Selmy and picking off enemies, hadn't felt this good.
A commander who could break armies alone was every knight's dream.
He'd followed Selmy once.
Now he followed someone beyond human measure.
And that someone had a dragon.
Lance didn't turn immediately, his gaze fixed southward—toward Storm's End.
For a moment, violet eyes from the tourney at King's Landing flickered in his mind.
Only then did he glance back at Brandon's grin.
"What are you smiling at?"
"The Bucklers…"
Brandon finally let himself laugh.
"Yesterday and this morning alone, Ralph's eldest son came by four or five times with supplies. Kept hinting we should stay longer. Rest more."
"He even offered to 'volunteer' a few hundred men to escort us."
"And his wife—Seven hells—she tried to seduce me outright. If not for my iron will—"
"Heh!"
Lance shook his head, amused.
Iron will?
That woman could crush a boar. Anyone would have iron will then.
Brandon sobered, eyes drifting to the sea of three-headed dragon banners flying above the walls.
"These people don't seem very loyal to the Stormlands."
"That's normal," Lance replied lightly.
He brushed the dragon banner beside him.
They hadn't raised it.
It had already been there when he arrived.
The gates had been wide open.
So open it had nearly felt like a trap.
The Bucklers—every one of them except Ralph—had been waiting at the gate, crying, kneeling, welcoming him like a savior.
"If we lose," Lance said calmly, "do you think the Bucklers will survive in the Stormlands?"
He smiled faintly.
"They want us to win more than anyone."
Brandon laughed again—then grew serious.
"Forgive me, Your Grace… but do you truly believe Robert Baratheon will accept your challenge to single combat?"
"He's lost to you in a tourney before. And after seeing you fight—"
He mimed flaming blades.
"If he rides out now… it would be madness."
Lance didn't answer immediately.
"Storm King," he murmured. "A tempting title."
"North King. Rock King. Any crown with 'king' in it makes men throw away their lives."
He brushed snow from his palm and smiled.
"And the wager includes my dragon."
Brandon whistled softly.
"Still—if he loses, he dies. And loses his bride."
"That's a terrible bargain."
"I'd choose starvation tactics instead."
He outlined it calmly.
"We can't hold these castles. He could retake them, shut the gates, trap us between fortresses…"
"We'd freeze and starve without a single blow."
Lance listened, smiling.
"Excellent analysis, Ser Brandon."
Then, with certainty:
"But Robert Baratheon has no choice."
Brandon froze.
Why?
Before he could ask, hooves thundered below.
A lone rider arrived at the gate, leapt down, and ran up the steps.
Golden hair spilled free as the helmet came off.
"Ser Balman?"
Brandon blinked. "Weren't you sent to Harvest Hall?"
Balman dropped to one knee before Lance, voice shaking with excitement.
"Your Grace!"
"They're here!"
"Four thousand men—House Selmy has answered the call!"
"They're outside Bronzegate now, ready to take over the defenses!"
"This war—"
He grinned.
"—we've already won."