The bustling castle breathed with peaceful activity, yet beneath that tranquil surface lay the steady pulse of war's preparation.
Men garbed in mail and plate, homespun and silk, moved like ants through the hill's slopes and surrounding meadows. Some labored with purpose, others rested in contentment born of duty fulfilled. Iron forks, wooden spits, and stone cookpots stood arranged before countless tents, with charcoal fires crackling merrily beneath them, sending thin ribbons of smoke into the afternoon sky.
All looked forward to their evening meal, simple though it might be.
Beyond the immediate bustle, the road that once connected the castle to the wider world—formerly so narrow that two riders could scarce pass abreast—had been transformed by the demands of war. The trees on either side had fallen to axes and saws, their timber repurposed as firewood, tent poles, materials for siege engines, and planks to reinforce the muddy ground beneath countless feet and hooves.
The new road stretched four or five times wider than its predecessor, its surface beaten hard as stone by the endless passage of men and beasts. No grass dared sprout upon it now; it resembled nothing so much as the great roads built by ancient kings, worn smooth by generations of use.
Even at this hour, heavy streams of wagons and mounted men continued their journey southward, bearing supplies to Renly's forces outside Storm's End. They remained faithful to their "king," these merchants and teamsters, unaware that their loyalty was spent coin cast into a well that had already run dry.
They knew not that Renly's cause was lost, nor that Stonebridge itself had been encircled by two thousand men since the previous night.
Jon Snow had his reasons for the delay. Why strike at dawn when patience would yield a cleaner victory? Why risk unnecessary bloodshed when time itself fought as his ally?
Thus it was that two hours after Storm's End's gates had opened to the Hound's triumph, the Security Bureau's remaining operatives delivered their final intelligence regarding Stonebridge to Jon Snow's light screen.
Stonebridge held no more secrets, harbored no more unknowns. Every passage, every guard post, every potential escape route lay mapped before him with the precision of a maester's diagram.
With such operational certainty, this moment represented the most favorable possible conditions to begin the assault. Fortune favored the prepared, and Jon Snow had learned much from the tactical examples provided by his light screen's vast repository of military knowledge.
The wars of yesterday belonged to yesterday; the wars of today would shape tomorrow. Intelligence, equipment, planning—these mattered more than luck, treachery, or bloody attrition.
It was time to begin.
After ordering the assembly of artillery and the careful alignment of their aim, Jon Snow shared the gathered intelligence with his vanguard commander—Ser Harth Fell.
As Harth Fell absorbed the information flowing across his light screen, he understood with crystalline clarity that the moment of choice had finally arrived.
Stonebridge.
This castle had served as the vital terminus for Renly's supply lines, the beating heart that pumped lifeblood to his doomed rebellion. What had once been a quiet market town now groaned under the weight of sixty thousand souls—merchants, laborers, camp followers, and hangers-on drawn by war's dark promise of profit. Countless wagons filled with grain, weapons, and sundries crowded every available space, while a garrison of more than four thousand six hundred men manned the walls and towers.
And presiding over this chaos, ruling from the lord's seat with the authority of blood and law, sat Harth Fell's dear uncle—Earl Haywood Fell.
Uncle. The word carried weight beyond its simple meaning.
Harth Fell's father had been Haywood's elder brother, but the Stranger had claimed him in his prime, leaving behind a widow and a babe barely old enough to crawl. When their grandfather lay dying, racked with fever and age, this eldest grandson was not yet two years old—scarce more than a mewling infant who could neither speak nor understand the gravity of inheritance.
It was whispered that the child himself had fallen grievously ill, his tiny body wracked with the same wasting sickness that had claimed his father. Few expected him to see another winter's end.
Even so, according to ancient tradition and the immutable laws of succession, so long as breath remained in his small body—however feeble, however brief that breath might prove—the new Earl would undoubtedly be him. Blood called to blood, and the dead hand of law reached from beyond the grave to protect even the weakest heir.
Yet in the end, the Fell family's lands and titles had passed to his uncle as smoothly as water finding its course downhill.
Clearly, precious few had been determined to champion the cause of a dying babe against a grown man with proven competence and ready allies.
His father had been in his tomb for scarce half a year when the transfer of power was completed.
Why had it happened so? Why had none spoken for the rightful heir?
In later years, Harth Fell had come to understand the answer with the bitter clarity that comes with age. During those crucial months, his father's most trusted men had been systematically dealt with—some bought, some banished, some simply made to disappear into the night like morning mist. Those who might have fought for a child's rights found themselves with more pressing concerns, such as preserving their own necks.
Earl Haywood Fell's methods had been nothing if not thorough.
Yet whatever the means, the end remained unchanged: within half a year, both the heir and the Earl of Stonebridge had perished, and the uncle had claimed the legitimate rights of his nephew, who was still learning to walk when his birthright slipped from his tiny fingers.
Such a dramatic succession could not pass without comment, however much gold changed hands or threats were whispered in dark corners. The noble houses of the Stormlands were not blind, nor were they fools.
Rumors spread like plague through the great halls and solar chambers of neighboring castles.
After reaching manhood, Harth Fell had never actively sought knowledge of those old whispers, yet they reached his ears nonetheless, carried on the wind of servants' gossip and the loose tongues of cups-deep knights.
Men speculated in hushed tones that the deaths of both the old Earl and his son bore the mark of Haywood Fell's ambition—murders disguised as illness, poison served with honeyed wine, pillows pressed over fevered faces in the dark of night. All for the glory and station that should never have been his by right.
During Earl Haywood's early years of rule, there had indeed been an unusual number of personnel changes throughout the castle—old servants dismissed, new faces brought in from distant holdings, positions of trust filled with men whose loyalty had been purchased rather than earned.
Yet such actions could hardly be deemed proof of any crime. Many lords engaged in similar housecleaning when they assumed power, promoting their own adherents and removing potential threats to their authority. Did such common prudence make every new ruler a kinslayer?
Rumors remained merely rumors, after all—smoke without fire, shadows without substance.
His uncle's reign had proved both calm and prosperous. Under Haywood's steady hand, Stonebridge had flourished, the family coffers had grown heavy with gold, and their name had accumulated the slow, steady accretion of honor and reputation that was the hallmark of ancient noble houses.
Harth Fell had grown to manhood in safety and comfort, receiving his spurs and the title of "Ser" from his uncle's own hand in a ceremony that lacked nothing in pomp or dignity.
Through all the years that followed, no one had deliberately made his life difficult or reminded him with cruel words of his theoretical "inheritance rights." He himself had never raised the matter, content to let sleeping dragons lie. The Fell family had presented a face of harmony and mutual affection to the world—a loving family bound by blood and shared interest rather than divided by ancient grievances.
Setting aside those poisonous whispers that might or might not hold truth, Harth Fell had been well content with his lot in life.
The title of "Ser" opened doors throughout the Seven Kingdoms that remained forever closed to common men. Fine wines flowed like water at his approach, succulent dishes appeared at his smallest gesture, soft beds awaited his pleasure, crowds cheered his name in the lists, and maidens gazed upon him with favor bright as summer stars. The wonderful things that countless men dreamed of possessing were simply the fabric of his daily existence.
He had made friends among knights both great and small, received courtesy and hospitality from lords in their halls, and enjoyed the supreme honor of meeting the noble king and queen themselves at court.
When he reached his twenties, after earning some measure of fame and growing the beard that marked him as a man full-grown, his uncle would arrange a suitable marriage for him. He would wed a lady of noble birth and proper breeding, one whose bloodline complemented his own. She would bear him legitimate children and raise them with all the grace and wisdom befitting their station, ensuring that another generation of respectable nobles would carry the Fell name forward.
He would also enjoy wonderful encounters with common women from all corners of the realm, and if fortune smiled or frowned upon him, many bastards would spring from such unions. He might remember their mothers fondly, or he might not—such was the way of things for men of his station.
When these by-blows reached their majority, some might come crying to his door, making scenes and tearful pleas, begging him to acknowledge them and provide for their future. By then he would be a man of middle years, forty or fifty summers behind him, grown weary of the adventurous life and ready to settle into the steady rhythms of home and hearth.
His uncle would likely be white-haired by then, bent with age and grateful for capable hands to help shoulder the burdens of rule. Harth would be granted lands appropriate to his station—a town or two, perhaps a small castle—where he could spend his declining years in comfort and dignity.
His trueborn children would continue his line and honor, inheriting titles, winning knighthood, or marrying into other noble houses as politics and affection dictated. Some distant descendant might achieve even greater glory, earning promotion through valor or wisdom, elevating the branch descended from Ser Harth Fell to baronial or even comital rank.
He would die satisfied, knowing that his name would live on in song and story.
Everything should have unfolded exactly as he had envisioned.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans entirely.
War had erupted like a summer storm, sudden and all-consuming!
Duke Renly had placed a crown upon his own head and declared himself the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, raising his banners in open rebellion against King Joffrey and the golden lions of Casterly Rock!
Stonebridge, like every other holding in the realm, was forced to make a choice.
Liege lord, or king? Loyalty, or ambition?
His uncle had chosen to support the liege lord of the Stormlands and their proclaimed rightful monarch, His Grace Renly of House Baratheon.
Harth Fell had possessed no choice in the matter whatsoever. Like iron filings drawn to a lodestone, he had been pulled into the great game of thrones, whether his heart filled with excitement and anticipation or dread and foreboding.
All he could do was fight bravely when called upon and strive for victory in whatever battles lay ahead.
Perhaps he might win great glory in the coming conflict? Perhaps his name would be remembered in the songs of future generations?
But that terrible night at Massey's Hook had shattered all such dreams like glass against stone.
King Joffrey, blessed by the gods themselves with power beyond mortal understanding, was winning victory after victory with methodical precision. King Renly and his assembled lords were sliding inexorably toward defeat and destruction, their cause lost before it had truly begun.
Now, at long last, Harth Fell found himself presented with a choice—his first real choice since the war had begun.
He could have his revenge. He could reclaim what had been stolen from him in his cradle. He could balance the scales of justice that had been tilted against him for so long.
The question was: would he take it?
Boom—
Thunder rolled across the sky above Stonebridge like the voice of angry gods.
Artillery fire shattered the ancient stones of the curtain wall, leveled defensive works that had stood for centuries, broke apart the carefully maintained roads, and reduced the armory to burning rubble and twisted metal. Smoke rose in great black pillars toward the heavens, carrying with it the acrid scent of saltpeter and destruction.
Divine punishment, sent by the gods themselves to cleanse the earth of wickedness?
Every soul within the castle's walls trembled with primal fear as the earth shook beneath their feet.
"I am Harth Fell!" The voice carried across the chaos like a war horn, amplified by devices that seemed touched by sorcery. "Haywood Fell murdered his own father and brother, usurping their rightful titles in defiance of gods and men! Storm's End has fallen, and Renly's rebellion lies in ruins! In the name of the true Earl of Stonebridge, I command you all—lay down your weapons! Otherwise..."
Someone within the castle recognized that voice, and the recognition spread like wildfire through the ranks.
The terrifying explosions continued their methodical work, each blast creeping closer to the huddled masses of soldiers and servants who had nowhere left to run.
"Long live King Joffrey!" The first man to cast aside his sword and kneel upon the blood-soaked earth was a green recruit, barely old enough to grow a proper beard.
And then, like dominoes falling in sequence, the whole city followed his example...