The wind had grown fierce, carrying with it the scent of coming war.
Above Old Oak's weathered battlements, banners snapped and danced in the gusting air. The golden tree of House Rowan blazed bright against the grey sky, its roots spreading wide across silk that cracked like a whip.
Below, soldiers stood in rigid formation, their crossbows gleaming, their swords naked in their hands, their spears thrust skyward like a forest of steel.
The oak leaf of House Oakheart rustled with urgent whispers, calling its sworn swords to the walls, summoning them to raise what defenses they might against the storm that approached.
Renly's crowned stag still flew amongst them, antlers proud and defiant, and even now it stirred the blood of those who gazed upon it.
Yet it was the Tyrell rose that sowed confusion in every heart that beheld it—golden petals unfurled in seeming loyalty, though beneath the walls flew another rose, identical in every detail save for the allegiance it proclaimed.
The enemy had grown bold indeed. Step by measured step, they advanced across the scorched earth before Old Oak's gates, their banners streaming in the wind until they stood but a hundred paces from the walls. Still the defenders made no move, loosed no arrow, spoke no challenge.
There was reason enough for their restraint.
In the days since the siege had begun, these foes who bore the six-pointed star upon their breasts had shown them magic the likes of which belonged in the oldest songs. Each dawn brought the thunder of their great cannon, that terrible engine which could shatter stone and earth with a roar that shook the very bones of the castle.
Yet the weapon's fury had not fallen upon Old Oak itself—whether from caution or mere arrogance, none could say. Instead, it spent its wrath upon the lands beyond, turning field and forest into a wasteland of broken earth and splintered trees.
Even so, every man upon the walls could see their fate writ large in that desolation.
Then had come the walking dead—or so they seemed. Dozens of warriors clad in steel that caught the light like scales, striding toward walls defended by thirty thousand men as though they walked to table rather than to war. Madness, the defenders had named it. Folly beyond measure.
Old Oak had met their approach with all the fury of war. Sorties had ridden out to meet them blade to blade, and every man who rode had died. Yet when the dust settled and the ravens came to feast, not one body bore the six-pointed star. The enemy's dead had simply... vanished.
Arrows fell upon them like rain, yet they walked on untroubled. Stones from the mangonels struck them full, yet they rose again. Burning oil cascaded from the battlements, yet they strode through the flames as others might walk through morning mist. They were as phantoms made flesh, as untouchable as the wind itself.
They would approach the very gates, walking leisurely as lords taking their ease in a garden, the arrows and stones that hammered down upon them no more troublesome than a spring shower. Some would pause to examine the walls, running gauntleted hands along the ancient stones as though taking their measure, before turning and walking back to their lines with the same maddening calm.
It was mockery of the cruelest sort, and every man who witnessed it felt something die within his breast.
Morale had crumbled like poorly mortared stone. With each passing day, fresh rumors arrived of King Joffrey's victories, of ancient magics unleashed, of armies that could not be killed. The will to fight had bled away like water through a cracked cup.
Why struggle against the inevitable? What was the point of dying for a cause already lost?
The word had spread through Old Oak like wildfire: surrender.
It was whispered in the barracks, spoken in the stables, debated in hushed tones upon the battlements. Few voices rose in opposition, and those that did grew weaker with each passing hour. Duke Tywin might hold no love for their houses, but neither was there blood between them that demanded payment in full. When the time came to bend the knee, what shame was there in living to see another dawn?
Lord Mathis Rowan had tried to treat. Five times he had sent envoys forth—learned men, peace-loving lords with silver tongues and wisdom earned through years of service. Each time they had walked beyond the gates with hope in their hearts and words of compromise upon their lips.
None had returned.
The camp of the besiegers had swallowed them as surely as if they had ridden into the depths of the earth itself. Duke Tywin knew well what Old Oak offered, yet gave no answer save silence.
Why?
The question haunted every man within the walls, though few dared voice it aloud. Instead they sent forth fresh envoys and waited with the desperate hope of drowning men who glimpse driftwood in the distance. Each day that passed in silence was another day of life, another sunset to treasure, another night to hold their loved ones close.
Some few voices still called for battle, for a final glorious charge that might break the siege through valor alone. But such talk came mostly from those too young to have seen true war, and even they fell silent when reminded of what waited beyond the walls. What use was courage against iron balls that could shatter a man to mist? What hope had mortal flesh against enemies who rose again from death itself?
And the numbers... seven save them, the numbers. Thirty thousand men flew Joffrey's banners here at Old Oak alone. How many more marched under the stag and lion throughout the Seven Kingdoms? Old Oak stood alone, abandoned by those who might have been their salvation.
The defenders peered down from their battlements as the golden rose of Highgarden drew near enough to make out faces. The knight who led them wore white steel that gleamed like fresh snow, his cloak blazoned with roses worked in golden thread. Even his breastplate bore the flower of his house, petals carved deep into the metal with consummate skill.
"I am Ser Garlan Tyrell!" His voice carried clearly over the wind, trained in the yard and perfected in the field. "Second son of Highgarden, Governor of Old Oak by the grace of His Grace, King Joffrey of the House Baratheon!"
Many knew that voice, had heard it raised in feast and tournament alike. But few could have imagined hearing it thus, with the walls of Old Oak between them and steel in both their hands.
Garlan Tyrell—leading an army against those who had called him friend! How had it come to this? When Highgarden had first raised its banners for Renly, had this been the plan all along?
Treachery. Base, craven treachery.
The defenders' eyes burned with rage, as though their very gazes might strike the turncoat dead where he stood. Yet even as they glared, they could not help but notice what banners flew behind the rose of Highgarden: the crowned stag and golden lion of Joffrey Baratheon, and beneath them the six-pointed star of those dread Guards who could not be killed.
A thousand of them at least—ten times the number that had tormented Old Oak these past days. And beyond them, the golden lion of Lannister stirred and shifted, raising clouds of dust that spoke of armies on the march. Duke Tywin's host was moving, advancing upon Old Oak like a tide that would not be turned.
From Lord Mathis Rowan to the meanest scullery boy, every soul within the castle understood: this was the end.
"Storm's End has fallen back to the true king," Ser Garlan continued, his words cutting through the wind like a blade through silk. "The rebel host has been broken beneath those ancient walls. Renly Baratheon and his fellow traitors are dead or bent the knee—none escaped the king's justice."
The words struck Old Oak like a physical blow. Men staggered as though punched, their faces draining of color.
King Renly... defeated?
Could it be true?
They all knew the plan—had known it before the siege began. King Renly and Lord Mace had marched for Storm's End with the flower of the Reach's chivalry, meaning to take the ancient seat of House Baratheon in one great stroke that would secure the Stormlands and perhaps end the war entire.
If that battle had been lost...
No wonder Highgarden had abandoned Renly's cause and thrown in with Joffrey! The roses had ever been quick to see which way the wind blew, to trim their sails before the storm could dash them upon the rocks.
The older lords remembered the history of House Tyrell's rise, how they had claimed Highgarden through treachery and opportunism rather than blood or conquest. Three hundred years past, they had betrayed the last Gardener king. What was one more betrayal weighed against survival?
"Ser Jon Fossoway's forces met the same fate at Stonebridge," Ser Garlan announced, his voice carrying the weight of doom itself. "They too have bent the knee and sworn renewed fealty to the Iron Throne. Even now they march south along the Mander, putting down the last sparks of rebellion and bringing the king's peace to the smallfolk. Old Oak stands alone—the final ember of a fire that has already died."
He drew a breath, and when he spoke again his words carried the finality of a headsman's axe. "You have no allies left to call upon. Even now, twenty thousand swords march from Highgarden to reclaim Goldengrove in the name of the true king. When that ancient seat falls—and fall it must—Old Oak will have no hope of relief."
Goldengrove—seat of House Rowan for a thousand years. Every eye turned to Lord Mathis, watching as the blood drained from his weathered face. His hands trembled upon the battlements, and when he found his voice at last it cracked like breaking stone.
"Garlan Tyrell!" he roared, spittle flying from his lips. "How dare you speak of faithlessness, you craven dog! Will the gods not curse such treachery? Will the very stones not cry out against your betrayal?"
But Ser Garlan gave no sign he had heard. "The terms offered in previous negotiations are no longer acceptable," he declared, his voice carrying across the field like the tolling of a funeral bell. "In the name of my authority as Governor of Old Oak, I command you to lay down your arms and surrender unconditionally!"
He raised his gauntleted hand skyward, and the very air seemed to hold its breath.
"Those who resist will be destroyed!" he cried. "Attack!"
The thunder came first—that terrible roar that had haunted their dreams for days. The great gates of Old Oak, which had stood for centuries, exploded inward in a shower of splinters and stone. Through the breach came the Guards, their star-blazoned armor gleaming, death walking in mortal form.
Behind them poured thirty thousand swords, crying out for blood and glory as they swept into the ancient seat of House Oakheart like a tide of steel and fury.