Upon the battlements of Storm's End, Ser Cortnay Penrose stood with shoulders squared against the salt wind, his weathered face carved deep with lines of worry. The castellan's brow was furrowed so tightly it seemed it might crush a gnat between the creases, his grey eyes scanning the enemy lines that sprawled like some great beast before his ancient walls.
Why this sudden assault?
For more than ten days, Storm's End had endured siege without a single escalade. The enemy had shown wisdom in their restraint—they understood well the terrible strength of these storm-carved stones, these walls that had weathered the fury of gods and kings alike for three centuries. Lord Lyonel Baratheon had built well, and his sons after him had built better still.
So why today? What had changed with the dawn that made them bold enough to test Durran's defiance?
The intelligence remained frustratingly sparse, as clouded as morning mist over Shipbreaker Bay.
Ser Cortnay could only cradle his doubts close, nursing them like wounds that would not heal. Storm's End was encircled, caught fast in the jaws of siege, and no word had reached them from the outside world for days uncounted. Ravens that might have brought news now roosted silent in their towers, their masters knowing full well that any message sent might be plucked from the sky by enemy hands—a loss that could shift the very tide of war.
Because of this silence, Cortnay Penrose knew precious little of the great game being played beyond his walls.
Where had Lord Renly taken himself? Had there been battles fought, and if so, where had steel met steel beneath the Seven's gaze? What were the fruits of those clashes—victory or defeat? Did armies even now march upon King's Landing's gates, or had they been scattered like leaves before an autumn gale?
Ser Cortnay possessed no answers, only questions that multiplied like roaches in the dark. He could but hazard guesses untainted by hope or fear, adjusting Storm's End's defenses according to possibilities that shifted like shadows at dusk.
His sole source of intelligence was the enemy encampment that spread before him like some great carnival of war.
Twice daily, Cortnay received reports from his men, and oft would he climb these very walls himself to study any change in that sea of pavilions and cook-fires. What he observed there had proved, if not encouraging, then at least curious.
The great golden stag on its field of black still flew proud above what all presumed to be Joffrey's tent, and directly across from it stood another banner of equal prominence—a golden lion rampant on crimson, beneath which rose a pavilion of matching scarlet silk.
Initially, none within the castle could divine the meaning of this arrangement, but they had soon learned it was merely the boy king's fancy made manifest. The golden pavilion served for feasting and revelry, while the crimson tent satisfied... more private appetites.
Though many remarked that such arrangements seemed reminiscent of Lord Renly's own proclivities, it at least betrayed Joffrey's taste for excess, his willful nature, and his apparent intention to make a lengthy affair of this siege.
Beyond this peculiarity, the state of the rest of the camp proved surprisingly reassuring to watchful eyes.
The enemy host mustered but once each day, voices raised in curious songs and stranger battle-cries, before dispersing without further ceremony or purpose. For the remainder of each day, from dawn's first light to evening's purple shadows, the entire encampment resembled nothing so much as a chaotic marketplace, bereft of military bearing or discipline.
After several days of such behavior, many of Storm's End's garrison had begun to petition Ser Cortnay for leave to sally forth—to strike the enemy when they least expected it, to scatter them like sheep before wolves.
None believed such an undisciplined foe could maintain proper watch or ward.
But Cortnay Penrose remained steadfast in his caution. His nature, forged in the crucible of long service, demanded no unnecessary risks be taken. To hold Storm's End entire was victory enough; even a successful sortie would scarce be counted among his achievements.
The numbers told their own tale—the garrison was smaller than the besieging force, and no relief would come. Even were this no enemy stratagem, a raid would inevitably cost him men, and every sword, every crossbow, was precious as gold within these walls. Cortnay would permit no such folly.
As for whether it might indeed be enemy deception... there was no means to test such suspicions without exposing his throat to the blade.
So the two forces had spent these past ten days in delicate balance, each watchful, neither able to find true rest.
Until this morning.
Ser Cortnay Penrose gazed down upon the enemy formations below and felt something cold stir in his belly—a whisper of unease that spoke of storms to come.
Three enemy columns had deployed to surround them on as many sides, positioned with mathematical precision. Close enough that a keen eye might count their number—a thousand souls in each, arrayed in three neat ranks. Yet far enough distant that they remained beyond reach of Storm's End's engines of war, leaving the defenders naught to do but watch and wait and wonder.
Wooooooo~
A mournful horn's call rose from the enemy ranks, long and doleful, its voice carrying across the morning air like the wail of some great beast in its death throes.
The very atmosphere seemed to thicken and press down upon the battlements.
Along the walls, every defender felt the hair on his neck prickle, hands moving unbidden to check bowstrings, to count quarrels, to ensure the great stones sat ready in their cradles. Such small rituals were all that stood between a man and the gnawing fear that sought to devour courage whole.
The mathematics of siege were well known to all—defenders died in smaller numbers than those who came against them. Every man jack upon the walls knew this truth as certainly as he knew his own name.
But should the castle fall...
Officers moved among the men like shepherds tending their flocks, voices raised to carry orders through the morning air: "Be ready, lads. Wait for the word. Aim true, loose clean, and watch for your brothers' backs. No man advances alone, no man hesitates when death comes calling."
Still Ser Cortnay pondered the question that plagued him: Why choose this day for their assault?
BOOM—BOOM—BOOM!
A thunderous roar shattered his contemplation, silencing officers' commands and stopping hearts mid-beat.
DONG!
The very stones beneath his feet trembled and shook, one tremendous impact following another in relentless succession. Each blow built upon the last, the accumulated force more terrible than any storm that had ever lashed these ancient walls.
Ser Cortnay Penrose stared at the enemy formation before him, his pupils wide with disbelief and dawning horror.
What in the name of the Seven am I witnessing?
Tendrils of white vapor rose from gaps in the enemy ranks like morning mist, but from within that otherworldly fog came black shapes screaming through the air, hurling themselves against the stones below with the fury of the Warrior himself.
The city gate! They were striking at the city gate!
Some few projectiles strayed from their intended path, carving great furrows in the earth before the walls, or blasting craters that smoked and steamed like the wounds of dragons. The very sight of such destruction sent whispers of fear racing along the battlements like wildfire.
Wooooooo~
The horn's voice continued its lament, but now it sounded less like mourning and more like the hungry growl of some vast predator savoring the scent of prey.
"CHARGE!"
Within that deep and resonant call, the Shield Brothers felt no fear, only the iron certainty of purpose burning in their hearts. Forward! Forward! Forward!
Was this not the very essence of their calling, the sacred duty of the shield? Four hundred Shield Brothers surged toward the gate with hearts full of fire and faith.
"Iron Bull" Gendry ran among their number.
For this glorious maiden battle, he had donned his most treasured possession—a helm of his own crafting, wrought in the shape of a bull's head with horns that caught the morning light. From this proud headpiece had come his name among the brotherhood.
Wooooooo~
The horn's long voice sang to Iron Bull not of death but of triumph, of glory yet to come, of destiny fulfilled. In this moment, it was all that filled his world.
War! Victory! These words thundered in his heart like a second pulse.
He threw every ounce of his strength into his stride, determined to reach the gate before any other, to be first through the breach when Storm's End's defenses crumbled.
Wind hammered against his bull-helm, rushing through the gaps with a sound like winter gales, while his mail sang its own steel song with every step.
But all he heard was the whistle of approaching triumph.
All he saw was the shattered drawbridge hanging like a broken jaw, the gate that gaped wide with wounds of wood and stone and twisted iron, the tunnel beyond where debris rained like hail.
Closer! Ever closer!
Suddenly the air filled with dancing shadows—arrows and crossbow bolts, stones flung from desperate hands.
Thok! Crack! Clatter!
The deadly rain fell all around him, most striking earth, some finding flesh among his brothers-in-arms.
DONG!
Something struck his helm with force enough to ring it like a bell, the impact traveling through steel and bone into his very skull.
Iron Bull never slowed his charge, merely shook off the fragments of stone that clung to his armor, lest they catch somewhere vital and impede his advance.
He felt no concern for his precious helm—the accumulated grace of more than ten days' devotion had transformed it into something more than mere steel, a true shield worthy of his calling.
The gate!
Flames already licked at the tunnel's mouth while streams of burning oil fell like deadly rain from the murder holes above.
Iron Bull charged through it all.
Unscathed he emerged, having spent only a portion of his accumulated power—the devotion of ten days would sustain him through this entire battle and more besides.
He paused, breathing hard, eyes scanning the courtyard beyond.
Am I truly first?
"Sergeant Aisi!" he bellowed. "Take second squad and clear those murder holes!"
Aisi, who had fought valiantly to match Lieutenant Gendry's pace, immediately gestured toward the steam apparatus behind him. "Rest assured, Platoon Leader—I'll let none escape my attention!"
"Sergeant Hawke—third squad holds the gate!"
Iron Bull raised his weapon high. "First squad follows me! We take Ser Cortnay alive!"
"KILL!"
Iron Bull plunged forward into the courtyard, his blade finding the throat of the first defender who dared bar his path. Past the twisted remnants of the iron portcullis he ran, and thus did he become the first enemy warrior to set foot within Storm's End's ancient stones.
Soon more warriors poured through in squads and companies, their victory cries echoing from the castle's walls like the songs of wrathful gods...