Florian Mooton stared at the banners bearing his house's sigil flying in the wind: a red salmon on a white field, surrounded by a golden tressure. The banners snapped and rippled, proud and defiant even as everything crumbled around them.
He stood at the window in his solar, looking out over the walls of his castle. Beyond, he could see the army of ten thousand Stormlanders besieging Maidenpool hundreds of tents, cookfires sending smoke into the grey sky. An army that had come to destroy everything he and his ancestors had built.
The siege towers were nearing completion. They would be rolled forward soon, filled with men who would pour over his walls. He could also see the catapults, a dozen of them positioned at various points around the siege lines. There had been a few volleys last night and again this morning testing shots.
The Stormlanders now looked to be moving and preparing in earnest.
It all meant they were preparing to attack. Soon. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps even today. An attack that Florian knew Maidenpool would not survive.
His garrison was depleted fewer than eight hundred men capable of fighting, many of them wounded from the constant skirmishes and bombardments. Food stores were critically low. The people were starving, eating rats and boiling leather for sustenance. Morale was broken. Hope was dead.
He turned to see his son standing quietly by the door, only a boy of ten namedays, small for his age, with the dark hair and blue eyes of House Mooton. His thirdborn child. His heir now.
His first- and secondborn sons were both dead, killed during this cursed war.
His wife was still in shock and had not recovered from the news. She spent her days in her chambers, staring at nothing, speaking to no one. The maesters said her mind had fled to some place where the pain could not reach her. Florian envied her that escape.
His daughter, his firstborn, was in Rosby which had been captured by the Stormlanders months ago. He had married her to the heir of House Rosby to seal their alliance, binding their houses together in the confederation. There had been no word from her since Rosby fell. No letter. No ransom demand. Nothing.
He had nightmares of her death of what the Stormlanders might have done to her when they took the castle. After what they'd done at Duskendale, after the stories of rape and murder that had spread like wildfire through the Blackwater kingdoms, Florian couldn't let himself hope she still lived.
He blamed himself for all of it: every death, every loss, every moment of suffering.
He was a Riverlander. He should have joined the others against the rebellion against Harren the Black but he did not. He had heard how his fellow Riverlords followed a dark sorcerer who claimed to be sent by the gods. He was a pious man, faithful to the Seven, so, on the advice of his maester and his brother who had become a septon, he stayed loyal to the Ironborn or at least stayed neutral, waiting to see which side would win.
He truly believed the rebellion would fail. Harren and the Ironborn were too strong, he reasoned.
But it didn't fail. It succeeded.
The Riverlords won their freedom. They named the sorcerer Harald Stormcrown, the man who claimed to be the Herald of the Gods. They then began worshipping a heretical faith that combined the Old and the New gods in a blasphemous union the Leonite Heresy, as the High Septon had proclaimed moons ago from Highgarden.
Florian had taken the opportunity to declare independence, to become the first Mooton king in centuries. Everything after that had been like a fever dream unreal and moving too fast to process.
The new King of the Heartlands did not come for him, did not punish his neutrality during the rebellion, did not demand his submission. But the new kings of the Blackwater did come: King Darklyn, King Rosby, King Stokeworth, King Buckwell each of them. They met here and proclaimed a pact, forming a confederation of kings, united to fight against the kingdoms that would seek to conquer them.
And when the Storm King Argilac attacked with his overwhelming host, the others even proclaimed Florian their leader the man to coordinate their defense against the Stormlander invasion.
In the early stages of the war, they had given Argilac a bloody nose. The confederation had fought well, using their knowledge of the land, striking at supply lines, making the Stormlanders bleed for every mile. But the Stormlanders were simply too much too many men, too many knights, too many horses, too much gold.
Then Duskendale happened.
House Darklyn was wiped out every man, woman, and child put to the sword. The city was sacked with such brutality that even hardened warriors wept at the stories. And in that massacre Florian's eldest son had died.
After Duskendale, it all fell apart. The confederation broke. Kings bent the knee or were killed.
And now here he was, the last king standing, facing down death death to his house, to his family, to himself.
In a last, desperate effort he had even sent ravens begging for help from the King of the Heartlands. Sorcerer or heretic, he did not care anymore. Pride and faith meant nothing when your children were dead and your people were starving.
But Florian doubted Harald Stormcrown would come. Why would he? Florian had refused to join the rebellion. He had declared himself a rival king instead of bending the knee. He had chosen neutrality when his fellow riverlords needed him.
No one would come to save Maidenpool.
Not even the gods, no matter how much Florian prayed.
Florian looked at his young son his last son and then turned back to the window and watched the enemy march.
He was just… tired.
So very, very tired.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Florian saw his son startle, the boy's eyes going wide with fear.
Florian put on a reassuring expression. "It is nothing, son. Stay here."
The boy nodded mutely, his small hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Florian walked to the door and opened it. There stood Orys Baratheon.
"Baratheon," Florian said.
"Your Grace," Orys replied with a slight bow.
"Don't call me that," Florian snapped, more harshly than he'd intended.
Orys smiled. "You were very insistent when I made the mistake of not using your title the first time I passed through here moons ago."
Florian glared at Orys, but his expression softened. Orys, rumored bastard of Aerion Targaryen, the former Lord of Dragonstone, had come to Maidenpool moons ago, passing through on his way to see the new King of the Heartlands. He had stopped by on his return journey as well, but his travels had ended here when the lands were invaded and the bay was blockaded by the Stormlander fleet.
Orys had been trapped with them. Florian knew Orys was probably the only one who had a real chance of surviving what was coming. He would likely be ransomed to his brother, the new Lord of Dragonstone, Aegon Targaryen. The Stormlanders wouldn't kill someone who could bring them gold or make enemies of a man who possessed dragons.
"Walk with me," Florian said quietly.
Orys nodded, and they began walking toward the courtyard.
"When it begins… I want you to save my son. Get him out of the castle. Take him anywhere Dragonstone, the Heartlands, the Free Cities. Anywhere but here."
Orys was quiet for a moment. "It won't be easy. The siege lines are tight. The blockade—"
"I beg you," Florian interrupted, stopping and turning to face him. His voice cracked slightly. "Please. He's all I have left. He's only ten namedays."
Orys met his eyes. "I will try, Lord Mooton. I will try."
"I'll make the arrangements," Florian said. "There's a sally port on the eastern wall. When the fighting begins, when everyone is distracted—"
Before they could continue, a guard came running over, his face pale. "Your Grace! They're coming! The Stormlanders are forming up for the assault!"
Florian felt his stomach drop, but he kept his face composed. He nodded to the guard. "Sound the alarm. Get every man to the walls."
Florian, his master-at-arms Ser Morris, Orys, and several other officers walked quickly to the battlements. They climbed the stone steps and emerged onto the walls, looking out at the Stormlander army.
The siege towers were being rolled forward. Thousands of men were forming into assault columns. Ladders were being distributed. The catapults began their bombardment.
Florian was surprised to see that Lord Edward Swann was not leading the assault himself. Instead, at the head of the army, mounted on a struggling horse, was Edmund Swann the fat heir to House Swann.
Orys let out a bark of laughter despite their dire situation. "Poor horse," he muttered, and despite everything, several men nearby chuckled darkly as they faced their doom.
Florian watched the army approaching. They were not being given a chance to surrender no herald had come forward with terms. And after what had happened at Duskendale, Florian did not trust Stormlander words. Surrender meant death, just slower and more humiliating.
"So it begins," Florian said quietly.
Then Orys stiffened, pointing west. "Wait. What is that?"
Florian and the others turned to look, squinting against the light.
To his shock and the shock of everyone on the walls they saw an army approaching from the west: perhaps fifteen hundred men. Banners flew above them—a purple banner bearing a golden, dragon-like creature, and beside it the banners of Tully, Blackwood, Bracken, Piper, Frey, and more.
And to Florian's even greater shock, there were about a thousand more men marching with them, but bearing the banners of Dondarrion and Tarth Stormlander houses.
"Stormcrown," Florian muttered, hardly daring to believe it. "Could it be?"
"Yes!" Orys said, his voice rising with excitement. "Yes, it is! That's his banner! The King of the Heartlands! The Dragonborn!"
Of course Orys would recognize it he had been there, had met the man.
"Looks like we are not dying here, Mooton," Orys said, grinning.
"But twenty-five hundred against ten thousand—" Florian began, trying to do the mathematics of survival, but he couldn't finish the sentence.
A thunderous sound came from the direction of the Heartlands army. A voice impossibly loud spoke words that were not in any language Florian knew.
"STRUN BAH QO!"
Everyone on the walls flinched, many covering their ears.
Florian looked up at the sky as storm clouds appeared from nowhere, forming in seconds where moments before there had been only grey overcast. Thunder rumbled, so deep and powerful it shook the stones beneath their feet. Lightning crackled through the clouds.
A storm. A storm had just been called into existence by a man's voice.
Orys began to laugh manically, hysterically.
"What…" That was all Florian could say, his mouth hanging open.
"What…"
.
.
.
"STRUN BAH QO!" Harald shouted.
One of his most powerful Shouts, Storm Call. He watched as the skies darkened dramatically, grey clouds transforming into roiling black masses that blotted out what little sunlight remained. He could hear his legion and the lords behind him gasp in awe.
They had marched from Antlers to Maidenpool on a forced march, covering ground that should have taken days in a single day with some aid of magical enhancements. They had suffered only minimal losses at Antlers, mainly among the cavalry.
They were also joined by Lords Tarth and Dondarrion, who had pledged themselves to Harald's cause. Dondarrion was driven mostly by his thirst for vengeance against the leader of the army ahead of them Lord Edward Swann, the man he blamed for his father's death during the campaign. Tarth had accepted as well, though his motivations seemed more practical. Both men simply wanted to return to their homes, to their families and lands.
Apparently there was a civil war brewing in the Stormlands as well King Argilac was dying, or perhaps already dead, and the vultures were circling. Harald had tasked Edmyn with learning more about the situation. But for now he planned to relieve Maidenpool of its siege, send what's left of the Stormlanders back to their homes, and then consolidate power in Blackwater Bay.
Harald watched as lightning began forming in the storm clouds above. He raised his hands, palms upward, and began channeling a variant of a lightning spell. Electricity ran through his hands—blue-white arcs dancing between his fingers and running up his arms.
Suddenly, massive bolts of raw electrical energy were drawn down from the storm clouds toward him. Instead of burning him to ash, Harald caught them. All the lightning from the sky was attracted to him, flowing into his body, being channeled and concentrated.
Behind him, men shouted in amazement and terror. Even his legionnaires, who had seen his magic before, were awed by the display.
Harald's entire form blazed with lightning, so bright it was painful to look at directly. Then he hurled that light at the ten thousand Stormlanders. Their assault formation broke apart as the concentrated lightning struck the army.
Bolt after bolt of lightning struck the packed formations. Men screamed as electricity coursed through their metal armor, cooking them alive. Horses reared and threw their riders, their eyes rolling white with terror. The siege towers were struck directly and burst into flames despite the dampness from the rain that had begun to fall.
One bolt hit a group of fifty men and chained between them, leaping from armor to armor and killing them all in the span of a heartbeat. Another struck a catapult and it exploded, wooden splinters and burning pitch flying in all directions.
The chaos was absolute. Men ran in every direction, throwing down their weapons, trampling their fellows in their desperate attempts to escape the lightning that hunted them. Officers shouted commands that no one heard or obeyed. The entire army broke apart.
The legionnaires and lords behind Harald cheered, their voices rising in triumph.
When Harald saw that there was sufficient chaos and the army was broken beyond hope of recovery, he shouted again.
"LOK VAH KOOR!"
Clear skies.
The storm dissipated as quickly as it had formed: the black clouds thinned and broke apart, the lightning ceased, and the rain stopped. Within moments the sky was clear, showing a blue, untroubled dome.
"FORWARD!" Harald commanded, drawing his battleaxe from his back.
The legion moved methodically through the scattered Stormlander forces, accepting surrenders from those who threw down their weapons and cutting down those foolish enough to continue fighting.
Harald fought as well. He swung his ebony battleaxe and cleaved through a Stormlander knight's shield into his chest in a single stroke. He hurled the axe at a charging soldier; the weapon spun through the air and struck the man down. Then Harald raised his hand and the axe flew back to him. He caught it effortlessly and brought it down on another attacker, taking the man's head clean off. The casual, effortless violence and the impossible magic everyone had just witnessed made those around him drop to their knees and submit immediately.
Lord Mooton even surged out from Maidenpool with his remaining garrison, and to Harald's surprise, Orys Baratheon was with him.
What the hell is he doing here? Harald thought.
Soon the Stormlander army was beaten, scattered to the winds or kneeling in surrender ten thousand men reduced to a broken mob in less than an hour.
They celebrated: his legionnaires raised their fists and swords, shouting Harald's name and titles. The lords came to him, roaring in celebration at the second straight victory—this one finishing the war itself.
Harald saw Lord Mooton walking toward him, the man's expression complex relief, gratitude, shame, and awe all mixed together. When he reached Harald, Mooton dropped to his knees in total submission.
"Forgive me," Mooton said, his voice breaking. "Forgive me for not standing with my fellow Riverlanders during the rebellion. Forgive me for thinking you were a dark and foul sorcerer, for refusing your calls to unity. I was a fool. A blind, prideful fool."
The other lords Tully, Blackwood, Frey, and others moved closer. Some looked as if they meant to rebuke Mooton for his decisions, but Harald stopped them with a simple gesture.
He reached down, grasped Mooton's shoulder, and pulled the man to his feet. Mooton looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes, exhausted, broken, and grateful all at once.
"Welcome to the Heartlands, Lord Mooton," Harald said, his voice warm and without judgment. "There is nothing to forgive. You made the choices you thought were right for your people. That is all any lord can do. What matters is not where we were, but where we go from here."
Mooton's face crumpled and tears ran down his weathered cheeks. Around them, the other lords nodded in approval, and Harald could see the loyalty solidifying in their eyes.
The Heartlands had just grown stronger and would grow more as they secured the bay.