Ser Cortnay Penrose stood upon Storm's End's battlements as he had the day before, yet everything had changed beneath the morning sun.
No helm crowned his grey head, no sword hung at his hip.
He wore bronze-scaled mail, the brown and gold of his house colors gleaming dully in the light. Upon his surcoat, two crossed white quills marked him as a Penrose, beneath them the words that had guided his bloodline for centuries: "A Covenant as Proof."
A silver-white cloak bearing the six-pointed star was clasped upon his left shoulder—the mark of his new allegiance.
A Covenant as Proof. Ser Cortnay gazed out at the dust and smoke that rose faintly beyond Storm's End's walls, offering silent prayer to gods both old and new.
May I keep faith with the promise I have made.
For something he could scarce name or understand, Ser Cortnay had wagered all he possessed—his honor, his life, his very soul—upon King Joffrey's word.
For Lord Renly? For young Edric?
Ser Cortnay drew the salt-tinged air deep into his lungs, tasting war and sorrow upon the wind.
Thunder rumbled overhead, and the ancient stones beneath his feet trembled with constant vibration. Was it the sea's eternal song, or the drumbeat of cavalry charging in formation?
Both, most like.
He looked left and right along the battlements, where hundreds of cannons gleamed like the teeth of some great beast, ready to unleash tremors more violent than any wave or warhorse at a moment's command.
King Joffrey had sworn these engines would remain silent—for now. The living were worth more than the dead, he had said, so long as they proved obedient.
Ser Cortnay knew this to be truth.
The fall of Storm's End might be counted peaceful, all things considered. Save for the initial thunder of the guns and the chaos that followed the breach, most souls within the castle had survived to see another dawn.
Few had chosen defiance.
Those who lived quickly bent the knee to King Joffrey, not daring the smallest complaint, much less open rebellion. The strange creation known as Divine Grace served as surety for their loyalty.
Divine Grace.
One night only. Ser Cortnay had possessed the Divine Grace light screen for but a single night, yet already he understood his situation with crystalline clarity.
This was another world entirely—a new realm of possibilities beyond mortal ken.
Through that mystical window he had seen countless tomes, knowledge more precious than gold or gems.
He had witnessed the entire span of Westeros's history unfold before him—from the Dawn Age and the Age of Heroes tens of thousands of years past to the more familiar modern era. The declining Children of the Forest and the First Men, the still-thriving Andals, Rhoynar, Valyrians, and the wild folk beyond the Wall.
Names both familiar and strange, tales of glory and darkness, had left him shocked and mesmerized in equal measure.
Yet something troubled him deeply.
Ser Cortnay was no stranger to history and lore. Some records shown in the light screen dealt with matters long disputed by maesters, events shrouded in uncertainty with precious little evidence. Other accounts he had never heard whispered, not even in the deepest vaults of Storm's End.
Were such things simply decided by royal decree?
He grasped with keen insight the terrible nature of these records within the light screen.
A single day had passed, and already the stable boys, servants, maids, and children—every soul in Storm's End could read letters and witness the same history displayed in their Divine Grace screens.
Most had been illiterate as recently as yesterday, knowing nothing of the knowledge jealously guarded by noble houses, their minds blank as fresh parchment.
And now Divine Grace could write upon those blank pages whatever truths it pleased.
This was merely the beginning.
In years to come, after successive victories, the entire Seven Kingdoms would lie beneath Divine Grace's shroud. When that day arrived, what would be real? What would constitute history?
From whence did the great houses spring? Did extinct bloodlines ever truly exist? Were the Children of the Forest and the heroes of old merely tales for winter nights?
Had the First Men and Andals truly conquered one another in ages past? Were the Rhoynar friends, foes, or figments of imagination?
All would rest upon the king's whim.
The thought of such a helpless and terrifying future sent ice through Ser Cortnay's veins.
Nor was this idle speculation.
For each noble house, the light screen contained information of staggering detail. Every living member, every castle, town, and acre of land, every title, honor, and source of wealth—nothing escaped its mystical sight.
Save for one glaring omission: ancient origins.
Through Divine Grace, the common folk could learn of each family's glamour, wealth, and power, yet they remained ignorant of why the nobles had gained such enviable station.
Aye, the smallfolk passed down many legends and stories, knew well enough their lords' recent glorious deeds. But most understood precious little of the greater noble houses and their histories.
In the past, ignorance and powerlessness had kept them silent. Divine Grace remedied both failings at a stroke.
Ser Cortnay already knew the five thousand Kingsguard beside Joffrey were not the full tale. Tens of thousands more "Holy War Army" soldiers possessed the same terrible abilities, and that was far from their limit.
Without doubt, most came from humble stock. At the king's word, they would gladly pull down any noble house, regardless of how many centuries it had endured.
Would the king give such commands?
Ser Cortnay had also learned a new term through Divine Grace—"Governor."
At first glance, it seemed similar to his own position as acting castellan, but in truth they were as different as fire and ice.
Acting castellans served their liege lords. Governors answered to the king alone, appointed and dismissed at royal pleasure.
A change that would shake the very foundations of Westeros.
And it was no mere possibility. Ser Cortnay had already witnessed the transformation beginning.
Governor of Rain House—Ser Gerold Wylde. Note: The new Lord of Rain House—Richard Wylde.
When he had seen this record, Ser Cortnay's heart had grown heavy as lead.
He seemed to glimpse the future of House Penrose—a minor earl displaced, an ambitious governor from a cadet branch taking his place. Who would be master of Parchments then?
More shocking still, he could witness images of the "Battle of Rain House" through Divine Grace.
It scarce resembled war at all—even more hopeless than Storm's End's fall. The entire castle had been submerged beneath a rain of cannon-fire, reduced to smoking rubble in moments.
Ser Cortnay's suspicions had proved correct. These weapons were indeed better suited to warships than land.
For thousands upon thousands of years, cliffs and coastlines had served as natural barriers protecting seaside castles. But before King Joffrey's fleet, such defenses crumbled like sand, becoming the weakest and most fatal vulnerability.
A single fleet sailing along the coast could reduce any fortress to ash.
The evidence spoke for itself.
Greenstone, Weeping Town, Stonehelm, Amberly, the Eyrie itself...
Reading the battle records within the light screen, Ser Cortnay finally grasped King Joffrey's grand strategy.
Arrogant it might be, yet it possessed confidence enough to match its ambition.
Cape Wrath and the Dornish Marches had been utterly conquered. The entire southern Stormlands had changed hands.
Highgarden stood next in line. Loras Tyrell had been named "Governor of Highgarden," the route of advance already mapped with mathematical precision.
Could Highgarden successfully defend itself?
Ser Cortnay dared not imagine such hope. The only question was whether they would yield from the start, or surrender after their defenses crumbled.
The outcome was already writ in stone.
With Highgarden turning coat, the North remaining hostile, and the Kingsguard of the southern Stormlands watching with hungry eyes—who truly besieged whom?
Ser Cortnay's gaze grew heavy as he watched the countless cavalry beyond the walls draw rein and hesitate, dust settling around their banners like morning mist.
He sighed deeply, the weight of inevitability crushing down upon his shoulders.
A Covenant as Proof.