A great harvest indeed.
Joffrey reaped the fruits of his long patience with gleeful satisfaction, moving through the tent like Death himself come calling.
He surveyed the chaos around him with cold calculation.
Lord Bryce Caron, the self-proclaimed Earl of Nightsong, had once proposed wiping out every last soul between the Wendwater and Massey's Hook—those fierce nightingales he called "sweet as song."
The Shadow Sword flashed like black lightning.
The Nightingale lord's body split diagonally in two, crimson life spilling across the ground and staining his orange hair an even brighter hue.
Horrified screams, desperate curses, and pitiful pleas rang out simultaneously within the silk-walled pavilion.
The Shadow remained unmoved by such mortal emotions.
Lord Lester Morrigen of Crow's Nest and his two brothers, Ser Richard and Ser Guyard, had proven themselves stubborn loyalists to the last. Even the previous night, they had shown no sign of bending. How could such men be permitted to draw another breath?
The Shadow Sword twisted and lengthened with serpentine grace, striking like a viper and piercing all three hearts in the span of a single blink. They hung impaled like grasshoppers upon a pin.
A truly grotesque sight.
Yet the "pin" proved too sharp for mortal flesh to endure. Soon the weight of their bodies tore them free, and they tumbled to the blood-soaked carpets below, their life seeping into the earth beneath.
"Protect the King! Guards!" someone shouted in desperate panic.
All of this carnage had unfolded within mere heartbeats. The stunned guards stood frozen for precious moments before instinct finally drove them to draw steel.
The Shadow Sword contracted, condensing into a more manageable blade, then plunged deep into the ground beneath.
None understood the purpose of such an action, but comprehension came swiftly.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Slender tendrils of darkness erupted from the earth like deadly flowers, piercing every guardsman through!
Witnesses could not suppress their gasps of horror.
Mail and plate proved no more substantial than parchment before such otherworldly force.
Joffrey felt deep satisfaction. This power grew more obedient with each use.
He focused his will with surgical precision.
All the scattered shadow thorns began to rotate, shaking free whatever mortal detritus clung to their substance before flowing back to rejoin their source.
The shadows returned to him like faithful hounds.
By this point, less than ten heartbeats had passed since the slaughter began.
Blood and filth now decorated every surface and survivor. The stench of death pervaded the pavilion, transforming what had been a feast into a charnel house. The living wailed like damned souls.
Still not sufficient.
The Shadow Sword struck again and again, greedily devouring one trembling soul after another with methodical efficiency.
The Stormlands harbored so many traitors, after all.
Ser Roland Clyngton of Crow's Nest—"Red Roland"—died by clean beheading.
Lord Munde Wylde of Rain House, potentially dangerous due to his advanced years, retained some dignity in death; his neck was severed only halfway through.
Sebastian Errol, heir to Haystack Hall, was bisected at the waist.
Lord Robin Peasebury of Poddingfield...
Joffrey had offered them opportunities aplenty. From their initial choice to support Renly, through each leaked piece of intelligence, Storm's End's change of allegiance, and every political reform—there had been more than one chance to reconsider.
They had possessed countless opportunities to acknowledge reality.
Unfortunately, almost none had proven willing to accept the new order, and most no longer retained sufficient value to merit forgiveness.
The Shadow turned toward Lord Hugh Grandison of Grandview—"Graybeard" to his friends.
The elderly lord instantly collapsed to his knees. "Your Majesty, mercy! Your Majesty, I have repented of my folly! Please grant House Grandison another chance! Everyone knows that you are the only true King!"
Renly's eyes grew heavy with sorrow, and he seemed unwilling to waste effort refuting such transparent desperation.
"Your Majesty!" Lord Eldon Estermont of Greenstone scrambled to prostrate himself at the Shadow's feet. "House Estermont stands ready to serve you! Anything you command!"
Men called him the "Golden Lord" for his family's wealth.
The Shadow offered no words in response, yet paused in its grim work.
Joffrey had never intended wholesale slaughter. Some possessed rare talents worth preserving, others retained strategic value, and for certain individuals, the optimal moment for justice had not yet arrived.
He turned toward the opposite side of the pavilion.
The surviving Stormlords could not suppress their collective sigh of relief. It seemed the immediate threat of death had passed. Many collapsed where they stood, no longer able to support their own weight.
Now the Shadow faced the lords of the Reach, and they trembled like leaves before a hurricane, their faces turning several shades paler in an instant.
Lord Mace Tyrell kept his eyes tightly shut, not daring to permit even the smallest trace of light to enter, much less risk looking directly upon that terrifying and bizarre apparition.
Is it coming? Will it kill me?
Lord Mace had never regretted joining this rebellion as deeply as he did in this moment.
He had assumed the worst possible outcome would be Renly's defeat, after which his family could throw their support behind the ultimate victor. Who could have foreseen...
That he would be gambling with his very life?
The Shadow's movements made no sound, yet Mace Tyrell startled at every noise, as though each might herald his doom.
Is it before me now?
Lord Mace's heart hammered against his ribs like a caged bird, the air feeling heavy as steel plates pressing down upon his chest. His face grew flushed with heat while his head buzzed with the sound of rushing blood.
The Shadow, sword in hand, passed him by entirely.
Of course Joffrey would do no harm to Mace Tyrell. He had only just forged an alliance with Highgarden—destroying his own foundation now would serve no purpose.
However, the Reach would need to shed some blood.
Unlike the judgment criteria applied to the Stormlands, the blood debt owed by the Reach had been predetermined long ago.
The Shadow approached Lord Randyll Tarly.
The Shadow Sword rose high above that grizzled head.
Randyll Tarly's expression remained composed as he lifted his gaze to meet the Shadow's ink-black eyes directly, exposing his neck without attempt at protection.
The blade descended.
There was no sensation at all—as though it were truly nothing more than an intangible shadow.
Randyll Tarly's breathing caught in his throat.
Yet he blinked once, then again. His thoughts remained clear, unmarked by pain or confusion.
He turned to examine his flanks, wondering if his head had rolled free. If such were the case, would death by shadow count as suicide?
Fortunately, such philosophical concerns proved unnecessary.
Another's head had fallen instead. "Lord Merryweather," Randyll Tarly observed quietly, understanding that he had been spared.
The Shadow continued its grim harvest.
The Fossoways of Cider Hall, the Appletons of Appleton, the Merryweathers of Longtable, and the Mullendores of Uplands.
None among the eastern Reach nobility were spared this culling.
After all, Highgarden had already provided compensation for their loss. In the agreement between both parties, no place remained for such houses.
Only those bearing the green apple sigil survived—the Fossoways of New Barrel. Even the red apple found no mercy.
Mace Tyrell, ignorant of the true reasons, watched in blank horror as his loyal vassals died one by one. Grief and trembling seized his heart, yet deeper still lay overwhelming relief and relaxation.
Though he could not fathom the logic, he understood that he would probably survive this night.
A silver lining amid the carnage.
To those present, the killing seemed to last an eternity—moments stretched beyond all mortal comprehension.
In reality, less than a quarter-hour had passed.
The Shadow ceased its work at last, standing quietly in the pavilion's center. The Shadow Sword remained pure as ever in its grasp, unmarked by any stain—innocent and pristine as a maiden's blade.
In the Shadow's otherworldly vision, gray smoke filled the air while the silver light of living souls flickered violently, sometimes bright, sometimes dim with terror.
Finally, the Shadow refrained from plucking the most tempting fruit of all.
Renly appeared already dead despite drawing breath—his face rigid and white as marble, eyes dull and unmoving. The soft couch beneath him had become his coffin; only the lid remained to be closed.
The Shadow withdrew the darkness that had enveloped the tent.
Beyond the silk walls, the army continued gathering with enthusiasm, drums and horns surging loud and proud, each note proclaiming confidence in the victory to come.
The Shadow sank into the earth without offering a single word.
The pavilion fell silent as a tomb until finally, some soldier could no longer resist lifting the entrance flap.
Then clamor and chaos reached their peak.
Renly, Mace Tyrell, Randyll Tarly—all witnesses remained silent as stones.
Regardless of all else, the war had ended.
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