"Form orderly lines to receive the grace of the gods! Form orderly lines to receive the grace of the gods! Form orderly lines..." The commanding voice echoed endlessly through the courtyards and halls of Stonebridge, carried on the evening air like a herald's call to salvation.
Harth Fell and a thousand men had already passed through the castle's gates, their boots ringing against ancient stones that had known his family's tread for generations uncounted. The irony was not lost on him—he had returned home as a conqueror rather than a son.
The Royal Fleet's First Marine Regiment held positions at every key point beyond the walls, a steel net cast to prevent flight or uprising should any prove foolish enough to resist the inevitable. The disparity in numbers was stark enough that even the most dim-witted soldier could grasp their situation at a glance.
Perhaps some few might harbor thoughts of defiance or desperate last stands, but such possibilities grew more remote with each passing hour.
The priests had brought sufficient divine grace cores and prayer stones to accommodate ten thousand souls, enough to bathe every inhabitant of Stonebridge in the king's new blessing and welcome them into the dawning age. Once touched by that power, rebellion would become not merely unlikely but impossible—their very nature would be transformed, their loyalty ensured by bonds stronger than fear or gold.
The strongest and most dangerous knights and men-at-arms received the divine grace first, their potential for resistance snuffed out like candles in a storm. Then came the squires and household servants of noble families, followed by the logistics personnel and merchants who had flocked to Stonebridge like carrion crows to a battlefield.
By the time only the last crimson gleam of sunset painted the western sky, Stonebridge had been completely annexed to King Joffrey's growing realm.
"Long live King Joffrey! Long live His Grace!" The chant rose from countless throats, a thunderous chorus that carried even to the highest chamber of the main keep's tower, where the sound arrived still clear and strong despite the distance.
Jon Snow stood beside the narrow window, satisfaction evident in the slight curve of his lips as he gazed down upon the transformed castle below.
Harth Fell maintained his position by the door, a dutiful guard watching over the chamber where the old order met its end. Before him stood his uncle's back, rigid with the dignity of defeat, while the condemned man faced Commander Jon's turned shoulders. There was something desolate about the scene, yet also strangely peaceful—as if all three men understood that this moment had been inevitable from the first horn's call to war.
Whatever else might be said, his uncle was now a prisoner, his authority as dead as yesterday's sunset.
Commander Jon turned slowly, his pale eyes fixing upon Harth's face with the intensity of winter's bite. "Earl Harth, what would you have done with this kinslayer? Betrayal of crown, family, and faith all in one—I confess myself uncertain what punishment would prove adequate."
Earl Harth?
The words struck Harth Fell like a physical blow, driving all other thoughts from his mind.
Earl Harth.
A strange sense of unreality washed over him, as if he watched these events unfold from outside his own body. Am I truly the Earl of Stonebridge?
Jon Snow—Commander of the Kingsguard, Castellan of the Eyrie, King Joffrey's most trusted confidant—had spoken those words with his own lips, acknowledging Harth's claim before gods and men!
The recognition he had craved without daring to name it was his at last. Not some hollow courtesy or empty promise made to secure cooperation, but genuine acknowledgment of his birthright. Earl of Stonebridge! The title that should have been his from his first breath was finally restored to him.
He no longer needed to wonder where he belonged in this world, or what future awaited him beyond the next battle.
It felt as though a crushing weight had been lifted from his shoulders—years of accumulated resentment, frustration, and carefully buried ambition exploding outward in a single moment of triumph that left him dizzy and disoriented.
Stonebridge. His Stonebridge.
For so many years, he had forced himself to forget, to accept his lot as a landless knight dependent on his uncle's charity. He had not dared even dream of reclaiming his inheritance, fearful that he might speak aloud in his sleep and reveal the traitorous thoughts that gnawed at his heart like worms.
But now it had come to pass, as sudden and startling as lightning from a clear sky!
How should an earl rule? How did one govern lands and lead men? The questions swirled through his mind like autumn leaves caught in a whirlwind, equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.
"Harth, Ser Jon has asked you a question," his uncle said calmly, as if they were discussing the weather or the quality of the evening's wine.
Harth Fell blinked, shaking off his momentary bewilderment, and offered Commander Jon a respectful bow. "Your pardon, Commander. I am unlearned in such weighty matters and dare not presume to offer counsel. Let justice be done according to the law."
According to the law, such crimes could bear only one penalty. Death.
Jon nodded slightly, his expression unchanging. "Then it shall be the headsman's block. A clean death, which will preserve some measure of dignity for Stonebridge and demonstrate His Grace's mercy."
It was far more merciful than hanging or burning—deaths fit for common criminals rather than fallen lords.
Haywood Fell smiled with what might have been relief, or perhaps simple acceptance of the inevitable. "I thank you for this kindness, Ser. What more could any man ask than a swift and honorable end?"
He turned to face his nephew directly, and for a moment the years seemed to fall away, revealing the uncle who had taught a boy to hold a sword and sit a horse.
"Harth, I would ask one final favor—see that my head is sewn back upon my shoulders afterward, that I might be buried whole. Lay me to rest in the Old Woods, beside my father and elder brother."
His uncle's tone remained unchanged from their countless past conversations, as if he were still giving instructions for the management of the household rather than preparing for his own execution.
Why? Harth Fell thought with growing discomfort. He speaks as if he were still the Earl of Stonebridge, still the lord giving orders to his subordinate.
"Who shall carry out the sentence?" Haywood Fell inquired with the same casual interest he might show when asking about dinner preparations.
Jon looked expectantly at Harth Fell, causing the newly acknowledged earl to blanch and wave his hands frantically. "My lord, the gods themselves have decreed that no man may commit kinslaying with his own hand. Such an act would damn my soul for all eternity."
Jon sighed, a sound like wind through bare branches. "Then I shall do what must be done."
His pale fingers closed around his sword's hilt, and Harth could see the beginning of that unnatural flame that marked Jon's blade as something more than common steel.
"My lord," Haywood Fell said softly, inclining his head with the humility appropriate to a condemned man, "before you execute your justice, might I beg a few moments alone with my nephew? A dying man's final request."
Jon's hand moved away from his weapon. "A quarter hour, no more."
The Commander moved toward the door with measured steps. "Earl Harth, bring the prisoner to the training yard when you are finished."
Bang~
The heavy oak door closed with finality, muffling the sounds from beyond and creating an island of quiet in the midst of the castle's transformation.
"Sit down, good nephew."
His uncle settled into his accustomed chair behind the great table, claiming the lord's seat as naturally as breathing.
Harth Fell's lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, he moved to the chair farthest from the head of the table, selecting a seat of equal height to his uncle's own—neither subordinate nor superior, but equal.
"Sit closer," his uncle commanded with gentle authority.
"For the last time, Harth. Even for the sake of all our happy years together, come give your old uncle what comfort you can in these final moments."
Harth Fell moved reluctantly to the side chair, resentment and grief warring in his breast. "You murdered my father! And my grandfather too!"
"Who told you such lies?" His uncle's voice carried the sharp crack of command that had once made Harth jump to obey.
"Do not imagine that shouting accusations during battle makes them true! Truth and falsehood are not so easily sorted, nephew."
Harth Fell's response was a bitter laugh. "You think I'll still believe your denials?"
"Why should you not?"
Haywood Fell's expression radiated the same firm honesty that had guided Harth through childhood, the same straightforward manner that had never failed to convince. "I raised you from a babe, placed the sword upon your shoulder to make you knight, planned to see you wed and granted lands of your own. I ruled Stonebridge with all my heart and never once brought harm to our people..."
"I should have been the Earl of Stonebridge!" Harth Fell could no longer contain his rage, the words bursting from him like wine from a punctured cask.
"Not you! Me! I should have done all those things! Your seat belongs to me by right! I should have been the one to knight your son!"
His uncle regarded him with an expression of infinite pity, the look one might give a beloved child who refuses to accept some necessary truth. "Little Harth, are you still so innocent of the world's ways?"
Harth Fell's face flushed crimson. "Do not call me that!"
His uncle continued as if he had not spoken. "Laws are merely words written on parchment, nephew. If everything were done according to law and custom alone, tell me this—must you pay compensation for trampling a farmer's crops? Must you forfeit your life for killing a peasant? Is it rape when you take a girl who cannot refuse you? Answer me honestly."
Harth Fell found himself speechless, for he had done all three things during his years as a knight errant, and no one had ever demanded recompense or punishment.
His uncle leaned forward earnestly. "My elder brother and father died within months of each other, leaving our family exposed to the hungry eyes of rivals and enemies. Tell me truly—could I have allowed an infant to shoulder such burdens and navigate such dangers?"
Harth Fell opened his mouth to respond, but his uncle raised a weathered hand to forestall him.
"But there is no time for such debates now, and more pressing matters demand attention." His uncle rose from his chair with the dignity of kings. "Do not become the Earl of Stonebridge."
Harth Fell's eyes widened in shock. "Have you gone mad?!"
His uncle remained perfectly calm, his voice carrying the weight of hard-won wisdom. "For your own sake, and for the future of our family, petition the king immediately to dissolve the title of Earl of Stonebridge. Request instead to be named Castellan of Stonebridge!"
Understanding struck Harth Fell like a crossbow bolt to the chest.
Castellan?
Yes, castellan!
Why did I not see it sooner? I witnessed what happened at Rain House, saw how the king's new order works—why did I not comprehend the lesson?
His uncle moved closer, and when Harth looked up, he saw only love and trust shining in those familiar eyes—the same expression that had watched over him through childhood fevers and adolescent folly.
"From this day forward, the fate of House Fell rests in your hands alone."
An inexplicable sadness washed over Harth Fell, drowning his earlier anger in something deeper and more complex.
"Time grows short," his uncle said with a gentle smile. "Take me to the training yard. I chose the wrong path in this game of thrones, but you—you will walk more steadily and travel much farther."
Harth Fell found that all his arrogance had fled like morning mist before the sun.
He followed his uncle down the worn stone steps, through the courtyard where he had played as a child, and onto the training yard where he had learned to swing a sword. The wooden platform that had once been used for ceremony and celebration now served a grimmer purpose.
Tens of thousands of newly converted subjects watched in silence as justice prepared to take its course.
Commander Jon drew his longsword, and flames immediately wreathed the blade in crimson and gold—a weapon touched by powers beyond mortal understanding.
The burning sword fell with inevitable finality...
It was well past midnight when Storm's End finally began to settle into peaceful quiet.
Joffrey stood beside his chamber window, gazing out at the night sky where stars glittered like scattered diamonds above the moonlit sea. Below, the castle grounds remained brightly illuminated by countless torches and braziers, creating a constellation of earthbound lights that mirrored the heavens above.
Much like the people of the Seven Kingdoms themselves—each a small light in the greater tapestry of his realm.
Highgarden, Stone Hedge, Storm's End, Stonebridge—all had fallen into his hands like ripe fruit. The war in the south was finished, his authority established beyond question or challenge.
But even as one threat ended, another stirred in the western waters.
The Shield Islands called for aid, their messages growing more desperate with each passing day.
Sea monsters were coming.