The great halls of Storm's End basked in golden sunlight streaming through tall windows.
Joffrey sat enthroned at the chamber's highest point, upon the ancestral seat of House Baratheon—a chair that had witnessed centuries of lordship and now bore witness to a new age of power.
Below him stood but a single man.
"Lord Mace," Joffrey said, inclining his head with a gracious smile, "these past days have been tumultuous, and I fear I may not have proven the most attentive host. Please, do not take offense if my hospitality has fallen short of what your station deserves."
"Your Grace shows too much kindness—how could I possibly find fault?"
The portly Lord Mace Tyrell beamed in response, his face a carefully constructed mask of smiles and deference.
He occupied a large, comfortable chair, unbound by any restraints, yet his hands pressed tightly against his thighs—as constrained as any prisoner awaiting final judgment.
Perhaps that was precisely what he had become.
Ever since his capture the day before, the notorious "bloated fish" had completely deflated, no longer the spirited and self-satisfied lord who had once strutted through Highgarden's gardens.
The punctured blowfish had lost all capacity for inflation.
The scope of his failure lay glaringly obvious to any with eyes to see.
Almost without bloodshed, his vast host had been utterly destroyed in a single morning's work! The linchpin of their rebellion, Renly Baratheon, had become the King's prisoner, while forty or fifty thousand soldiers had already bent the knee in surrender!
Nobles and knights had either perished, yielded, or found themselves in chains—none had escaped the realm's judgment.
All thanks to that shadow creature from the deepest hells!
No—and the strange powers emanating from Storm's End itself! Those cannons that launched thunder and fire like the wrath of angry gods!
How could mere mortals hope to stand against such divine might?
Renly was finished. Highgarden was finished.
Even were they to raise another hundred thousand swords, their defeat could never be undone.
Mace Tyrell, at least, possessed wit enough to recognize this bitter truth.
He could only bow before fate's inexorable judgment.
Fortunately, he had suffered no mistreatment or deliberate humiliation following his capture.
His Grace had provided a rather comfortable chamber and even granted permission to move freely throughout the castle's halls.
This suggested the King retained some measure of regard for Highgarden's importance. In that moment, Lord Mace could not suppress a flutter of secret relief.
Indeed, the Reach remained the Seven Kingdoms' most prosperous region.
Surely His Grace would not seek their utter destruction? After all, Renly had been the rebellion's instigator—Highgarden merely one among his many supporters.
All that was required was to kneel in submission, was it not?
Assured that his life faced no immediate threat, Lord Mace finally found some measure of peace and even managed restful sleep.
The next morning brought awakening and a desire to explore his surroundings.
As expected, none moved to stop his wanderings.
In the span of a single night, he discovered a Storm's End utterly alien to his memory.
The castle had become more solid and imposing than before, more strangely magnificent than ever in its long history.
The drab gray stone walls now bore countless golden patterns and crimson sigils that seemed to pulse with inner life.
The square battlements had transformed into thousands upon thousands of proud knights, each bearing meticulously detailed faces and heroic postures—so lifelike they seemed ready to draw sword and charge.
At first glance, they resembled the gargoyles adorning Dragonstone's ancient walls.
Yet these sculptures depicted only human forms.
Lord Mace even recognized faces among the carved knights—visages identical to soldiers from yesterday's army, now wearing stone cloaks emblazoned with stag, lion, and six-pointed star.
So they used living men as models. What profound honor! What reason could such folk have to betray Joffrey's cause?
Lord Mace immediately grasped this crucial insight.
As he walked along the walls, though few living soldiers stood nearby, he felt countless piercing gazes upon him—as if surrounded by a vast, silent army.
Looking about, the stone sentinels numbered beyond counting.
Lord Mace then turned his attention toward the castle's interior.
He had visited Storm's End on several occasions, yet had never beheld it in such state.
The central tower appeared to have shrunk considerably, allowing him to observe figures moving upon the rooftop terrace.
It also seemed to have retreated much farther, with each room and window in his field of vision appearing diminished.
These disorienting sensations left Mace stunned for considerable time.
Then, after careful examination of his surroundings, understanding dawned: the tower had not grown shorter—rather, the walls had risen dramatically, almost matching the great tower's height!
Nor had the tower moved—the walls themselves had shifted, expanding the castle to more than double its original size!
Within this enlarged space, countless new buildings and halls had sprouted like mushrooms after rain, each rising over a hundred feet—tall, wide, and sturdily built—with captured soldiers laboring within their shadows.
Was this Joffrey's sorcery?
Mace could not contain his amazement.
Had this transformation occurred during the night? Why had he felt nothing, and why had his sleep remained so peaceful?
Sorcery.
Lord Mace placed his palm against the wall, stroking the surface gently. The texture proved identical to ordinary stone.
Where lay the magic? Was some spell woven into the very rock?
He could discover no answers.
Releasing the stone, he turned to observe the lands beyond the castle walls.
Workers labored to mend the earth's wounds.
Craters and scorched patches gradually disappeared, blending seamlessly with the land's original appearance.
Many carriages traveled the connecting Kingsroad as well.
Yet now the Kingsroad had been widened several times over, broad enough for dozens of wagons to proceed side by side.
The road stretched northward beyond sight's limits, all the way to King's Landing's distant gates.
Lord Mace completed his circuit of the walls.
To the west, the road leading toward Ashford was also undergoing repair and expansion.
Ashford still holds several thousand troops and considerable supplies, Lord Mace recalled with growing resignation.
Yet beyond surrendering them freely to King Joffrey, such forces had lost all meaning.
Southward, the rugged paths received similar attention and widening.
Toward the Stormlands' heart? Was such effort necessary?
Eastward lay the blue sea's endless expanse.
Sailing along Cape Wrath's coast offered undoubtedly the most convenient passage.
Griffin's Roost, Estermont, Rain House—a swift vessel could reach any in a single day's sailing.
Mace peered downward.
A fleet had already assembled upon the waters, numbering perhaps one or two hundred vessels.
Without question, this was His Grace's royal armada.
Too swift. Mace perceived the troubling implications.
Only a handful of ships had been present when yesterday's battle commenced—how could such a complete fleet have materialized overnight?
Could it be that Storm's End had planned everything in advance, timing each element with supernatural precision?
His doubts received answers soon enough.
Following yesterday's granting of Divine Grace to common soldiers, the captured nobles were uniformly blessed with the same gift.
So that explains it. Lord Mace could not prevent his true amazement from showing upon his features.
Divine Grace!
Such miraculous creation existed! Small wonder King Joffrey emerged victorious from every conflict!
People could actually communicate across vast distances! As if speaking face to face, without restrictions or delays of any kind.
How could ravens hope to compare with such wonders?
Why had the gods chosen to favor Joffrey so completely?
Lord Mace could not help imagining what might have transpired had Divine Grace initially blessed Highgarden instead.
Surely their current situation would prove far, far more favorable.
Considering his present circumstances, Mace Tyrell could not suppress a sigh of profound dismay.
It proved rare for captured nobles to gather in one place.
Randyll Tarly approached Lord Mace to report his observations and discoveries.
The Tarlys had always shown greatest concern for—and skill with—military matters.
Lord Mace thus learned several troubling facts:
King Joffrey's forces continued training with relentless discipline, day after day, as if preparing for fresh campaigns.
Storm's End had deployed no fewer than six hundred cannons within its expanded walls.
According to casual remarks from soldiers, the "ship cannons" aboard the naval fleet possessed even greater power and numbers.
His Grace's Kingsguard had all received the "Power of Divine Grace," each wielding unique abilities.
Based on their performance during training exercises, defeating ten foes represented common achievement, while overcoming a hundred enemies lay within possibility.
The King continued selecting additional candidates worthy of receiving Divine Grace's power.
In summary: they had become invincible.
Randyll Tarly's words offered little comfort.
Yet Lord Mace recognized their likely truth.
Highgarden must not be buried alongside Renly's failed ambitions!
Lord Mace steeled his resolve.
At last, today brought opportunity for proper surrender.
He must consider his approach with utmost care.
Raising his head, he summoned what he hoped appeared as his most sincere smile for the King's consideration.