"Storm's End stands not alone in its fall."
Ser Cortnay's words fell like hammer blows upon anvil. "Storm's End and every castle in the Dornish Marches have been reclaimed by His Grace the King."
What?
The expressions around the pavilion grew even more strained, disbelief warring with dawning horror across noble faces.
Lords and knights whose families held lands in those regions could scarce contain their anxiety and panic, hands drifting to sword hilts as if they might rush forth immediately to aid their fallen kin.
Renly remained silent, his eyes heavy with gathering storm clouds, waiting for his former castellan to reveal more of this catastrophe.
Ser Cortnay's face was carved from stone, showing nothing of the pain that surely lay beneath.
"Ser Gyles Wylde of House Wylde has joined the Kingsguard, and now governs Rain House under the title of 'Governor.'"
Shocked murmurs rippled through the assembly.
"Richard Wylde has inherited the family name and submitted to the Iron Throne as Lord of Rain House, swearing to dissolve all previous oaths, including his fealty to Storm's End."
The sound of shifting feet filled the silence outside the pavilion.
Many bowed their heads in troubled thought, others looked to King Renly for guidance, while still more cast worried glances toward elderly Ser Mond Wylde.
Ser Cortnay's gaze found the old knight.
"I am grieved to report that your nephew, Lord Casper Wylde, fell in battle. Those warriors with stronger claims to succession than Lord Richard showed great valor, but they too..."
Ser Mond Wylde's grey beard trembled with suppressed emotion.
"Glorious death should breed no hatred between honorable men. Yet I must ask—what manner of office is this 'Governor'?"
Every ear in the pavilion strained to hear the answer.
Following the guidance that compelled his words, Ser Cortnay explained with grave formality:
"The age is changing, my lords.
For the unity and lasting peace of the Seven Kingdoms, to better face the challenges of these troubled times and ensure the realm's prosperity and strength, His Grace will gradually implement reforms across his domains, governing through appointed officials such as Governors.
However..."
He paused, as if offering comfort. "The nobility retains its honored status. Inheritance of titles continues unchanged, and Governors may be chosen preferentially from within noble families themselves."
The reassurance in those final words rang hollow. Men seized upon the treacherous phrases that had no place in proper discourse.
Preferentially? Chosen?
Was it not the natural order for lords to rule their ancestral lands?
Even should a lord prove witless or incompetent, such matters were handled within the family. How could the king presume to meddle in noble affairs?
There was no precedent for such interference!
The Free Cities across the Narrow Sea used their ridiculous elections to choose rulers, resulting in endless turmoil, constant conspiracies, and frequent assassinations. How could such chaos compare to nobility that had endured for thousands of years?
The air within the pavilion grew thick as pitch.
Yet the king had already acted. With the war turning sour, how should they respond?
Each face told its own tale of worry and calculation.
"Lord Eldon Estermont." Ser Cortnay's gaze fell upon three generations of that ancient house.
"Your brother, Ser Lomas Estermont, has been appointed Governor of Greenstone. Fortunately, Greenstone suffered little damage. I believe you will find it more beautiful than ever upon your safe return."
The heir to old Lord Estermont, Ser Aemon, could no longer contain his indignation. "Whether in power or ability, I am better suited than my uncle Lomas!"
Ser Cortnay shook his head with something approaching pity. "Unfortunately, you were not present when the choice was made, Ser."
Before Ser Aemon could voice further protest, Ser Cortnay had already turned to his next victim. "Ser Donnel Swann, your brother Ser Barristan Swann of the Kingsguard has become Governor of Stonehelm."
Ser Donnel's expression was a tangle of emotions, but he held his tongue.
The litany continued.
"Lord Bryce Caron, your bastard brother has been legitimized by His Grace and serves as Governor of Nightsong under the name Rolland Caron."
"Lord Leyton Morrigen, you..."
Within the pavilion, only Ser Cortnay's pronouncements could be heard. With each declaration, at least one face crumbled in shock and despair.
Finally, the killing blow.
"Ser Loras Tyrell of the Kingsguard has been appointed Governor of Highgarden and rides even now to arrange the grace marriage with Lady Margaery Tyrell."
Ser Cortnay bowed deeply, his grim duty complete.
After a moment of stunned silence, the pavilion erupted like a pot boiling over. Every man vented the emotions that had built within his breast—arguing and quarreling with flushed faces, some demanding immediate battle, others offering euphemistic counsel, still more asking pointed questions or speaking with desperate passion.
Lord Randyll Tarly alone observed King Renly's reaction in calculating silence.
The situation had reversed utterly in the span of a single day.
North and south had become enemy territory, while Storm's End and the eastern coast blocked any advance. The Queen of Thorns' choice would determine whether the west offered salvation or merely another dead end.
Would Highgarden choose the losing side?
King Renly's face remained a mask of calm. Lord Randyll withdrew his scrutiny and instead studied his son Dickon.
Three to five years of training would forge Dickon into an excellent warrior and commander. In a decade, he might prove a worthy lord.
Is there time enough?
Would Horn Hill too receive a "Governor"? Whom would the king choose—Sam, perhaps?
Does any hope of victory remain?
Lord Randyll was never given to blind optimism. Even analyzing only the intelligence at hand, King Joffrey's power had grown far beyond what their coalition could hope to match.
The Royal Fleet's size would be limited only by the number of skilled sailors, maintaining hundreds of warships at minimum.
Castles and fortifications remained stout shields against King Joffrey's land forces, but they offered little protection to his enemies—indeed, they sometimes hindered necessary mobility.
Blinding light and deafening thunder, and if the unconfirmed reports of healing flames proved true...
Lord Randyll could not suppress a silent sigh.
Battlefield wisdom accumulated over centuries would soon prove worthless. Would there ever again be evenly matched wars? What would such conflicts resemble?
Despite everything, Lord Randyll found himself curious to witness it.
The tumult gradually subsided as the assembled lords looked to their king, hoping he might offer some decision, some path forward.
Renly and Ser Cortnay locked gazes across the pavilion's breadth.
"Ser Cortnay, if my answer is no—will you continue serving Joffrey? Will you draw steel against me?"
Renly spread his arms wide, baring his chest.
"If that is your choice, come then. Drive your blade home, for I shall not resist. Let us end this war here and now!"
The assembled lords stared in bewilderment, unable to fathom their king's meaning.
"Alas..."
Ser Cortnay's sigh carried the weight of ages. "Look well, Your Grace—where would I find a sword?"
In that instant, the words upon his Divine Grace screen flashed crimson, while Edric's face and King Joffrey's voice filled his mind entirely.
What choice should be made? What constitutes betrayal? What is truly worth protecting?
Ser Cortnay fell to one knee.
"Since you are determined upon this course, I have no choice but to follow you to the very end. Death comes to all men, after all. Though it would be far better to succeed and see you claim the Iron Throne that is yours by rights."
"Your Grace, King Renly."
Every soul in the pavilion froze in shock, unable to accept this stunning reversal.
"Your Grace."
Ser Cortnay raised his head with newfound resolve. "I have a plan."
Renly's laughter rang out like bells across a battlefield.