Was the war truly over?
Not for the Hound.
Standing atop the gate tower of Storm's End, he could make out with his naked eye the chaos and confusion that had consumed the enemy encampment below. Smoke still rose from scattered cookfires left untended, and men wandered about like lost sheep, their formations broken, their purpose scattered to the four winds.
Nothing proved more fatal in battle than distraction, and the rebels had given themselves over to it completely.
"Begin the assault," he commanded, his scarred face illuminated by the pale glow of the light screen displaying the battle formations.
For days, hundreds of cannons had lined the battlements like iron teeth, waiting to feast. Now, at last, they would taste war. The gunners stood ready, their excitement matching that of their deadly charges, hands hovering over the firing mechanisms with barely contained eagerness.
The Hound's finger traced across the control panel's surface, and the gunners could scarce contain themselves as they awaited his signal.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The Hound watched with cold satisfaction as the cannons roared their thunder, yet their fury was spent upon empty ground hundreds of paces from the enemy camp. Earth and stone erupted skyward in great fountains, a scene of devastation that yielded no corpses, no blood—only fear.
Far from anger, the Hound was well pleased with this display.
He was no fool. Joffrey had commanded him to capture the flock intact, these sheep who had followed false shepherds. How could he use cannons to slaughter indiscriminately what his king meant to claim? This would serve his purposes far better.
To tame unowned sheep, one need only frighten and guide them toward the proper fold.
"Soldiers of the Reach and Stormlands!" The Hound's voice boomed across the field, amplified by the devices Joffrey's sorcery had provided. "Renly's rebellion has failed! Let no man die for a pretender's folly—surrender now! Your lords have already—"
The Hound's eyes returned to the tactical display upon his light screen. Throughout the night, the Royal Fleet's Second and Third Marine Regiments had crept ashore like wolves in darkness, approaching the enemy camp from the north. The Fourth and Fifth Regiments had taken position to the south, while the Sixth and Seventh had completed their flanking maneuver, sealing off all retreat to the rear.
The trap was set. The net drawn tight.
The Hound felt no concern regarding the strength of his Marine Regiments. Though most were recruited from sailors and men of recently reclaimed castles—green as summer grass in matters of war—each possessed a light screen, and many had been blessed with the divine grace that flowed from Joffrey's growing power. Cannons would provide the thunder to their lightning. Though they could not match the Kingsguard in prowess, they would prove more than sufficient against this rabble, this chaos of men who had already tasted defeat and found it bitter.
The Hound nodded his approval. "Continue the bombardment."
The voice that echoed across the wilderness changed its refrain: "Behold the devastation before your camp—witness the cannons wrought by His Grace's divine power!"
The roar and thunder of the artillery had long since ended all disputes between Stormlander and Reachman. Men stood frozen like statues or wandered in aimless circles, but all heard the voice that carried from Storm's End's ancient stones, promising destruction to any who defied the Iron Throne.
Cannons. The word burned itself into every mind present. They would not soon forget this name, nor the terror it brought.
"The cannons advance even now, preparing to level your camps to ash and memory!"
Panic rippled through the ranks like wildfire in dry grass.
Randyll Tarly struggled to his feet, pain evident in every movement. "Lord Mace, Lord Renly—we must away from here at once! Preserve your lives first, and we may yet speak of other matters."
"Soldiers, abandon the camp and abandon death! You have but ten heartbeats to decide!"
"Ten... nine..."
Mace Tyrell's strength returned as if by magic. He lurched upright, using a campaign table for support, then fled without a backward glance, his dignity forgotten in his haste to preserve his considerable flesh.
The surviving lords of the Reach attempted to follow their liege, but even in their terror they could not match Duke Mace's surprising turn of speed. Fear, it seemed, had given the Lord of Highgarden wings.
The Stormlanders scattered like leaves before an autumn gale, each man seeking his own salvation.
Randyll Tarly's weathered face darkened with disgust, and he caught several fleeing lords by their arms. "Even if you mean to bend the knee to King Joffrey, at least fulfill your final duty to the lord you have served!"
"There is no need," came Renly's voice, steady despite his circumstances. Several guards still loyal to their fallen king helped him stand, though his legs trembled with the effort.
"Lord Randyll, you are truly an honorable man," Renly said, his voice heavy with sorrow and regret. "The gods show favor most unevenly in their gifts. Yet I accept this defeat—I have earned it fairly."
"Six... five..."
Time fled like water through cupped hands. Randyll Tarly could not suppress his growing alarm, his eyes darting between the countdown and Renly's pale face.
Renly forced what might have been a smile. "Come then, let us depart together. I have no intention of throwing my life away in futile gesture. At the least, I should see Joffrey once more and ask him the questions that burn within me."
"Three..."
Renly turned his back upon Storm's End, his steps uneven and hesitant. He moved not in the desperate flight of a routed man, but with the measured pace of one walking to his own judgment.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The cannons extended their deadly reach, devouring tents and fortifications like some great iron beast feeding on the works of men. The destruction crept ever closer to Renly and his small party, yet still the pretender king refused to quicken his pace.
His gamble proved sound. The artillery's fury spread and raged behind him like the fires of the seven hells, but not once did it cross before his path, not even when he had quit the camp entirely and stood upon open ground.
The Hound's scarred lips twisted in disdain. A broken king playing at dignity, he thought. Pretty gestures from a man who lies in ruins.
Yet he dared not end Renly's life without clear orders from Joffrey. Who could say what machinations turned in his king's mind? Perhaps it was a matter of perception among the smallfolk, or the hearts of lords, or the crown's credibility—or perhaps something else entirely, some deeper game the Hound could not fathom.
Whatever the reason, Renly Baratheon would live to see another sunset.
"Reporting, Commander! Artillery strike complete!" The chief gunner approached at a run, his expression properly respectful, though sweat gleamed on his brow.
The Hound's patience had worn thin. "Waste no more of my time with words! Speak through the light screen as you should!"
"Yes, ser!" The artillery chief straightened like a plank.
Ding~
The Hound glanced at his light screen and immediately regretted his decision to look. The man's message was barely coherent, filled with unnecessary pleasantries and formal language that belonged in a maester's solar, not on a battlefield.
"Next time, keep it brief! You... forget it. Return to your post."
"Yes, ser!" The chief scurried back to his guns like a chastened hound.
The Hound shook his head and returned his attention to the tactical display. "The rebel army scatters like grain before the wind. All Marine Regiments, advance and accept their surrender!"
"Cannons, execute the second phase of support!"
The tens of thousands of soldiers trapped in the killing ground heard that thunderous voice once more, carrying judgment on the wind.
"Soldiers of the realm! To the west, to the south, to the north—the royal army stands ready to accept your surrender in three directions. Mark this well: do not gather in groups! The cannons will destroy any formation of fifty men or more. Disperse, or face annihilation!"
"Ten heartbeats remain! Ten... nine..."
Randyll Tarly looked about him at the press of men—easily more than a hundred souls clustered together like sheep in a storm.
Renly sighed, the sound carrying all the weight of his shattered ambitions. "Lord Randyll, we must part ways here. I believe you have duties that call to you."
Randyll Tarly stepped back two paces and offered a final, formal salute—the honor due to one who had worn a crown, however briefly.
"Lord Renly, fare you well."
Renly's smile held more bitterness than a draught of wormwood. "Perhaps I shall soon be lord of nothing more than regrets. You as well, Lord Tarly—may the gods preserve you."
Randyll Tarly spoke no more words. He turned and strode away with purpose, his mail glinting in the afternoon sun.
Some few soldiers looked to one another with uncertainty before quietly slipping away from the group, following in Lord Tarly's wake like iron filings drawn to a lodestone.
The cannons spoke twice more, their voices final and absolute.
Having witnessed hundreds of their most stubborn companions reduced to nothing more than red mist and scattered earth, the flock was well and truly broken. No man dared stand with his fellows any longer.
The threat had passed like a summer storm.
The Hound's grin held no warmth, only satisfaction. "Send forth the priests. The King has commanded—all who surrender shall find forgiveness and be granted divine grace."
Once the divine grace cores were implanted, all resistance would flow away like water finding its level...
By the time the sun reached its zenith, Storm's End overflowed with countless prisoners. Only knights merited cells or proper chambers; the common soldiers were forced to return beyond the walls and construct their own camps under guard, a city of the defeated sprawling in the shadow of Durran's ancient seat.
This is what victory looks like, the Hound reflected with grim satisfaction as he completed his report to the king.
Ding~
The war had ended. Jon Snow felt a complex stirring of emotions as the news reached him through his light screen.
So swift.
How long had it truly been? Jon Snow counted the days carefully and found that scarcely two moons had passed since the first banners were raised in rebellion!
Yet this had been no mere skirmish or border dispute—this was a war that had shaken the Seven Kingdoms to their very foundations.
The Stormlands and the Reach had raised their banners in open revolt. The Westerlands and Crownlands had committed their full strength to the fight. The Riverlands and Vale had sent what aid they could. Even the distant North and Dorne, separated by hundreds of leagues and ancient grudges, could not remain untouched by the conflict's reach.
No matter how one reckoned it, Renly had failed utterly, and the war was indeed at its end.
Yet the ripples of what had transpired would spread far and wide, like stones cast into still water.
Jon Snow raised his eyes to study the path ahead.
The castle before them perched upon a small hill deep within the forest, its slopes covered in green grass where once mighty trees had grown. Military camps dotted the cleared ground, providing excellent visibility in all directions—a sensible precaution against surprise attack, though one that would avail them little now.
For what need was there of surprise when overwhelming force would serve as well?
Jon Snow glanced at the knight riding beside him, his smile holding winter's chill. "Ser Harth Fell, you know Stonebridge better than any man here. You shall lead our vanguard."
Harth Fell gazed upon his own fortress with eyes full of conflicted emotion—regret, perhaps, or the peculiar sorrow that comes from viewing one's former life as if from a great distance.
"As you command," he said simply, though his voice carried the weight of choices that could never be undone.