Chapter 186 — I've Got Aerial Recon Drones. Do You?
The Stormlands.
Outside Felwood Castle.
This fortress—linking the Stormlands to the Crownlands—stood northwest of Storm's End and southeast of the Kingswood, straddling the Kingsroad like a choke point.
But now, the banners flying from its battlements bore bronze buckles, a clear sign that Felwood Castle no longer belonged to House Fell.
Tents sprawled endlessly along both sides of the road. A sea of people surged within—several thousand at a glance.
Banners were everywhere, large and small, bearing the sigils of Stormlands nobles from every corner of the region.
The clatter of weapons colliding, horses neighing, boots crunching on snow, and bursts of coarse laughter or drunken arguments echoed through the camp.
The air was thick with the unmistakable stench of an army—sweat, horse dung, cheap leather, and the acrid smoke of half-burnt campfires.
To keep warm, soldiers wrapped themselves tightly, crowding around leeward tent flaps or weak fires. Discipline was lax at best. Patrols wandered sluggishly, and it wasn't rare to see small groups sneaking swigs of harsh liquor.
Most absurd of all, ramshackle huts had sprung up at the edge of the camp—merchants and fallen women ready at a moment's notice to provide "premium services" for these campaigning "heroes."
A textbook medieval army.
At this moment, thousands of troops stood arrayed along the Kingsroad in grim readiness.
"Fuck—it's freezing!"
A loud, vulgar curse shattered the stillness inside the central command tent.
Ralph Buckler, Lord of Bronzegate, flung open the tent flap, letting in a blast of snow and icy wind. His face was beet-red from the cold, thick graying stubble crusted with frost, his hands rubbing together furiously to restore feeling.
As he entered, a young knight—barely in his early twenties—set down the short sword he'd been polishing and rose with a courteous, well-measured smile.
"Please, take a seat, Lord Ralph."
Sebastian Errol—the heir of Haystack Hall and eldest son of Lady Errol—gestured toward the brazier.
"The fire's strong. Have some hot ale to chase away the cold."
With a signal, a guard poured steaming malt ale from a pewter jug and offered it to Ralph.
"Hmph."
Ralph grunted, dropped heavily into a chair, snatched the cup, and downed a huge gulp.
"Ahhh—warm…"
Exhaling a cloud of alcohol-scented steam, he wiped his beard with his sleeve and continued to gripe:
"Seven bloody hells, this weather's cursed! This isn't fighting weather. I should be back in Felwood, hugging some warm, fat little whore, sipping mulled mead, listening to dirty songs!"
"It's your turn to patrol tonight, boy."
Sebastian merely smiled faintly.
He remembered well how—after Lord Robert crushed those three unlucky fools at Summerhall—their lands instantly became juicy prizes. And Ralph Buckler, being closest to Felwood, had arrived first.
Back then, he hadn't complained about the cold at all—storming into Felwood flushed with excitement, seizing the castle… and the late Lord Fell's wife.
"You're not wrong, my lord," Sebastian replied smoothly.
"The soldiers have it hard—so do we."
Then, without a hint of mockery, he added:
"But when our liege calls, we answer with sword in hand. That's a vassal's duty, isn't it?"
"And from what I hear, your men aren't exactly suffering. One of them even froze his cock off outside a brothel while… entertaining himself."
Ralph shot Sebastian a sideways glance and took another long drink.
He understood the warning—but didn't care.
Just an heir with a smaller domain than mine, he thought disdainfully. Who's he trying to impress?
"I just can't fucking understand it!"
Fueled by ale, Ralph slammed his cup onto the table, spittle flying dangerously close to Sebastian's face.
"What's that Baratheon pup thinking?"
"I'm a seasoned veteran, and he puts Jon Connington—that thick-headed brat—in charge?"
"Can that boy fight? Has he ever fought?"
He thumped his chest armor proudly.
"In the War of the Ninepenny Kings, I cut down Maelys myself!"
"I took more enemy heads in that war than you've seen cunts in your entire life!"
Sebastian's smile twitched.
He'd heard this speech enough times to grow calluses on his ears.
Yes—brave Lord Buckler had indeed fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings.
But listening to him, you'd think Maelys the Monstrous had personally died by his hand.
Moreover, according to Sebastian's mother, by the time Lord Ralph's "mighty" host finally ambled onto the battlefield, the war was already in its final moments—
Maelys the Monstrous had long since been beheaded by Barristan Selmy.
As for this fellow…
He hadn't even caught sight of an enemy's shadow. His sole contribution to the war had been hauling away two wagonloads of loot once everything was over.
"Ahem."
Sebastian cleared his throat, suppressing the ridicule swirling in his mind, and spoke in a calm, measured tone:
"This was Lord Baratheon's appointment, my lord."
"And besides…"
"Three days ago, weren't you the one who openly challenged Lord Jon Connington for command—right there in the war council, in front of everyone?"
"But the result—"
"Shut up!"
Before he could finish, Ralph slammed a hand on the table and glared furiously at Sebastian.
Damn this brat—always bringing up the one thing that hurt!
Didn't he know how to respect his elders?
If I were just ten years younger—no, five years—there's no way I'd have gone down in two exchanges flat!
…That excuse works. I'll use that next time I talk to my wife.
"You don't know shit!"
Ralph slapped his armor-covered belly, blustering defensively.
"That day—I hadn't loosened up properly, so I wasn't in form!"
"And besides, that was between Stormlands lords—how does that even count as losing?"
His voice grew softer with every word, because even he could hear how hollow it sounded.
"Enough of this!"
Seeing the faint, knowing smile on Sebastian's face, Ralph hastily changed the subject, scrambling for a way out.
He redirected his anger back where it felt safer—toward Jon Connington.
"That bastard took the elite cavalry and ran off, leaving us to freeze our asses off out here in the snow—I spit on him!"
"If you ask me, you don't need tactics to deal with some piss-ant regent."
"There are over five thousand Stormlanders outside right now! At least a thousand more holding Felwood Castle—that's six thousand men!"
"They've only got eight hundred! We could drown them in bodies in a straight charge—why bother with some stupid field defense?"
Growing more animated, Ralph's spit began flying again.
"And if we really wanted to be cruel, we'd all hole up behind the castle walls—light fires, roast meat, and sleep with whores!"
"This whole damned Stormlands is frozen solid. When those eight hundred idiots finally stumble up to the walls, what can they do?"
"Go fishing for ice in the frozen moat?"
Sebastian, who had remained composed until now, finally frowned.
Ralph wasn't wrong. With only eight hundred enemy riders, if they refused to engage and stayed behind fortifications, the attackers would be left to freeze in the open.
But that kind of turtle strategy was not how he, nor Jon Connington, defined honor.
"With all due respect, my lord," Sebastian said carefully, choosing his words.
"If six thousand Stormlands warriors cower inside castles, slam their gates shut, and refuse to meet eight hundred enemies in open formation…"
"Then you, I, and the entire Stormlands will be shamed—laughed at across the Seven Kingdoms."
He raised his head, gazing north along the Kingsroad, his voice firm.
"Lord Jon Connington's judgment will not be wrong."
"If we fight, then we fight decisively—crush that arrogant regent and annihilate all eight hundred of his men on Stormlands soil!"
"Let the Iron Throne see what Storm's Fury truly means!"
---
The Kingsroad
Eight hundred elite light cavalry surged southward like a black torrent, slicing through the gray-white curtain of snow.
Each rider led a second mount, maximizing speed—but at the cost of relentless exhaustion.
Heavy breaths condensed into white mist. Armor clinked in monotonous rhythm. Hooves thundered—the only sound breaking the frozen silence of the plains.
"Rest!"
At Lance's command, the exhausted riders halted and dismounted.
He wasn't a seasoned general, nor did he possess any special talent for warfare—but after everything he'd been through, he wasn't completely green either.
This was his first time commanding nearly a thousand men. He was a little stiff, a little inexperienced—but he wasn't showing weakness.
"Eat."
A lively voice sounded—jarringly energetic in the freezing cold.
Brynden Tully looked up to see Ser Balman Byrch, still wearing that infuriatingly bright smile.
Wind, snow, and days of forced marching hadn't dulled his spirits in the slightest.
He snapped off a chunk of rock-hard frozen bread and handed it over.
"Thanks."
Brynden accepted it, then awkwardly pulled out the waterskin tucked against his groin.
Everyone carried theirs the same way—otherwise the water would have frozen solid long ago.
He unscrewed the cap and took a small sip. The icy liquid stabbed his throat, making him cough.
Gnawing on the bread—each bite like chewing stone—his gaze drifted toward the front of the column, to the figure clad in white armor just like his own.
After a moment, Brynden made up his mind and hurried forward.
"This has gone too smoothly, Your Grace. We're nearly at Felwood, and we haven't seen a single enemy."
"I suspect… they're deliberately letting us in."
As a veteran of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, Brynden didn't believe the enemy was hiding out of fear of the Regent's name.
He was simply stating the obvious.
Lance didn't turn immediately.
He tore off a piece of bread, took a savage bite, then lifted his waterskin and drank deeply—his eyes fixed on the swirling snow ahead.
"They are," he said plainly.
No hesitation. No concealment.
Then he turned back with a grin.
"So what? Knowing it's a trap—does that mean we don't go?"
"Or are you afraid, Ser Brynden Tully?"
The question stunned Brynden into silence.
He opened his mouth—then closed it again.
Yes, their objective was clear: Storm's End. Robert Baratheon.
But every instinct born of experience screamed that this wasn't how wars were fought.
Who willingly marches into an encirclement?
"Your Grace."
Brynden inhaled the icy air and forced calm into his voice.
"We can't just plunge in like fools. This is the Stormlands. If we're surrounded, it's over."
"I propose we leave the Kingsroad, head west through Summerhall, and link up with Lord Randyll Tarly's Reach forces to encircle Blackhaven."
"Once Blackhaven falls, the Reach can advance unhindered into the Stormlands. Then we strike east with overwhelming force—while the royal fleet attacks Storm's End from the sea."
"That's the safest course."
He finished and waited.
Lance nodded slowly.
A sound plan—worthy of the finest knight of the Riverlands.
Then he said calmly:
"No time."
Two words.
Final.
Brynden froze.
Why?
Why the urgency?
Why rush Storm's End at such risk instead of choosing a certain victory?
For the Dragon's Festival?
No.
The Lance Lot he knew wouldn't think that way.
Then what was he racing against?
Seeing the determination etched into Lance's face, Brynden knew—there was no persuading him.
Fine.
As a Kingsguard—willing or not—he would do his duty.
He glanced at the silent knights around him and resolved himself.
If it came to it, he would die in front of the Regent—cutting a path through hell itself if needed.
Perhaps that was the death Hostar had always expected of him.
Then—
A faint, unfamiliar cry pierced the howling wind.
"Sss—raaah—"
At first it sounded like imagination.
Then it came again, sharper.
One by one, riders looked up.
A small, gray-white shape tore through the snow like an arrow, diving from the sky.
"A dragon!"
"It's a dragon!!!"
A hushed cry rippled through the ranks. Fatigue vanished. Eyes ignited with fervor.
Absolute power.
The dragon pulled up at the last moment, wings beating gracefully, snow spiraling outward as it settled onto Lance's shoulder armor.
It was already the size of a calf—and still insisted on perching there. Much bigger, and it wouldn't be able to.
"Grrr~"
Under countless awestruck gazes, Ilyon rumbled contentedly and nuzzled Lance's cheek.
Even Brynden couldn't hide his shock.
He'd thought the dragon left behind in King's Landing.
Instead—it had followed them through storm and snow.
The knights felt warmth surge through their chests.
Stormlands?
Robert Baratheon?
Who cares?
We have a dragon.
Lance spoke softly.
"What did you see?"
Ilyon leaned close, hissing urgently in a strange rhythm.
Lance tilted his head, listening.
He understood the dragon?
Brynden frowned—but before he could dwell on it, Lance strode to his horse and mounted in one smooth motion.
The stallion reared, and Lance's voice thundered through the storm like a war drum:
"Makeup's done, ladies!"
"It's time—for the ball!!!"