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Above, the heavy, ink-black clouds continued to pile upon one another, forming what looked like a floating island of darkness, solid enough to build a fortress upon.
On the decks of the Redwyne fleet, the Wildfire burned on. The intense heat and rising smoke poured into the sky, feeding the clouds until they grew even denser and more oppressive.
Thunder rolled within the thick gloom, flashing with terrifying brilliance. It rumbled with a deep, muffled sound, as if a great beast were trapped within the black mass, roaring and thrashing to break free.
The sailors across the entire fleet gazed up at the terrifying canopy. Not a soul spoke. Between heaven and earth, there seemed to be nothing left but the booming thunder.
They knew only one thing: if they were out on the open sea, facing a storm of this magnitude, they would almost certainly be doomed.
Then, with a sharp crack—as if the sky itself had been slashed open with a blade—the deluge began. Rain poured down in sheets.
"Toss the braziers! Over the side!" Paxter Redwyne roared from the deck the moment he snapped out of his daze, his eyes darting frantically between the burning Wildfire and the menacing clouds above.
Fearing the heavy rain might splash the volatile substance onto the decks, their plan had always been to jettison the braziers the moment the storm broke.
Raindrops the size of beans hammered the deck, hissing angrily as they struck the eerie green flames.
Occasionally, the rain would scatter sparks of Wildfire, forcing sailors to rush forward and smother them with sand.
But the rain was simply too heavy. It fell so hard it began to obscure vision. At first, ships could still see their neighbors, but soon, sailors standing on the same deck had to shout to be heard over the deafening roar of the downpour.
"Horas! Hobber!"
"Father! We're here!"
Paxter couldn't see his sons through the deluge; he could only confirm they were safe by their voices.
Hearing them reply, he relaxed slightly, though the world around him had turned into a white blur, as if he were trapped in a dense fog.
His fleet of over a hundred ships stretched for leagues, yet he could see nothing. Even the colossal form of Casterly Rock and its great stone mountain were reduced to a faint silhouette.
Is all the rain falling here? Paxter wondered. With his vision so limited, he couldn't see what was happening over the castle.
So, the Northerner's plan actually worked? Surrounded by the relentless roar of water, Paxter found his mind racing faster than usual.
He still couldn't understand how lighting fires on the water caused rain to fall from the sky.
He recalled Jon's explanation—a jumble of words about "thermal currents," "condensation nuclei," and "pressure differentials." Not a single word had made sense to him.
Paxter decided it must be a spell.
As a Redwyne, he had sailed since he was a boy, and men who live their lives on the sea are prone to superstition.
He was now inclined to believe Jon had used sorcery—perhaps with the help of that Red Priestess. How else could fire summon water?
Thinking of his lost ship, Paxter decided not to ask Jon for compensation. A man who could command the weather was far too dangerous to trifle with.
Paxter tried to look up, but the rain was like a physical blow, forcing his eyes shut. He would have to wait until the storm passed.
---
Meanwhile, on the shore, Jon watched it all with crystal clarity.
Above the Redwyne fleet, it looked as though a giant watering can had been tipped over. It seemed as if all the rain in the world was concentrated on that one patch of sea.
Compared to the violent tempest battering the fleet, Casterly Rock was receiving only a light drizzle. It was barely enough to wet one's hair, let alone fill the castle's massive cisterns. That was now an impossibility.
Even from his room, looking out from the balcony, Tywin could see the gathered storm clouds dumping their payload madly into the sea.
A wall of white mist rose from the ocean, blocking the view entirely.
"Long live the Lord of Casterly Rock!"
"Long live Jon Stark!"
In stark contrast to the impending doom facing Casterly Rock, Jon's camp erupted in cheers.
Sandor Clegane felt a growing sense of awe. Jon's power seemed bottomless. Unmatched military genius, superior combat prowess, and now... the ability to control the weather.
Although Jon was far from truly controlling the elements, in Sandor's eyes, there was no difference between this and godhood.
If Sandor had first pledged his sword to Jon merely to survive, and later grew to respect him when Jon insisted on calling him "Ser Sandor" instead of "Dog," now he was bordering on worship.
After all, for a bastard to rise this high, there had to be a reason.
Even if he is a bastard, Sandor mused, he's probably a bastard of the gods. Ned Stark just lent his cock for the occasion.
Sandor had served at Casterly Rock; he knew the castle's water reserves couldn't last more than a month.
Without water, every second of thirst is torture.
Get ready for your new master, Casterly Rock, Sandor thought as he watched Jon address the men.
He recalled Jon explaining why he had polluted the wells despite his plan to stop the rain: to break Tywin's hope.
Though the wells weren't enough to sustain thousands of men, the mere hope that "we still have water" could prolong their resistance.
Jon didn't have unlimited Wildfire; sacrifices had to be made.
Of course, there was another reason Jon hadn't stated outright: many of his allies were hoping for a prolonged siege or a negotiated peace where Jon and the Lannisters split the West. If things dragged on, loyalties might shift.
Ser Marq Piper felt much the same as Sandor.
Once Jon became Lord of Casterly Rock, Marq could claim land in the Westerlands and re-establish House Darry. Just as Jon would be known as the "Stark of Casterly Rock," his own house would become the "Darrys of the West."
It's just a pity, Marq thought, that Jon isn't a Targaryen.
House Darry had always been loyal to the Dragon Kings. Marq longed for the day he could fight beside a dragon once more. But alas, the dragons were gone.
Ser Loras Tyrell had fallen silent. He no longer spoke of honor or glory. This was weather control. This was the domain of the gods.
The idea of his sister marrying a man who could command the skies... suddenly didn't seem so unacceptable.
Brynden Tully stood with his mouth agape, Myrish lens in hand, watching the distant clouds and the deluge. He had never imagined Jon would take Casterly Rock this way.
There was no bloody slaughter, yet the sight was impactful enough to shake the soul.
Realizing the shift in how the nobles perceived him, Jon felt a wave of satisfaction.
Then he noticed Melisandre nearby. She wasn't cheering or gasping like the others. Instead, she was looking at him with... pity?
Why does she look like she feels sorry for me? Jon thought, reading the emotion in her red eyes.
Honestly, being looked at like that by someone who could see the future was unsettling.
He didn't know what it meant.
Melisandre just stared, saying nothing, until Jon felt a shiver run down his spine. He pushed the feeling aside and addressed the group. "My Lords, though victory is within our grasp, we have not won yet. My banner does not yet fly above Casterly Rock. Tywin Lannister is not a man to sit and wait for death; he will likely launch an attack! Ser Sandor Clegane!"
"My Lord!"
"Tell the army: whoever brings me Tywin Lannister's head will be given Sarsfield! The man who kills Tywin will be the future Lord of Sarsfield!"
From this moment on, he was truly exercising his authority as Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West.
---
Inside Casterly Rock, almost every soldier was watching the torrential rain falling on the distant sea.
It was a magnificent sight, rare to behold. Unfortunately, they didn't understand what it meant.
"Looks like the bastard's fleet angered the gods. They're getting soaked out there," a Lannister soldier said foolishly.
"Aye, Casterly Rock must have the favor of the Seven."
Some of the slower soldiers were actually gloating, but others were beginning to realize something was wrong.
I do have a way to stop the rain from the sky.
Jon's words echoed in Ser Addam Marbrand's mind. He shuddered involuntarily.
Does he... does he truly know sorcery?
Looking at the thick black clouds in the distance, Addam felt as though he couldn't breathe.
Turning clouds and calling rain—that was a power reserved for gods. To face an enemy who wielded such power... how could he not be terrified?
By now, Damion and Damon Lannister had also realized the gravity of the situation and hurried to find Tywin.
"My Lord... My Lord?"
Tywin stood on the balcony, staring at the distant storm. He was motionless, like a statue carved from stone.
Damion tried to call to him again. When Tywin finally turned around, they saw eyes devoid of spirit.
Those green eyes were filled with fear, helplessness, and shock.
Tywin took a deep breath, closing his eyes to steady himself. It took a long time before he finally spoke.
"Write a letter. Tell Stannis... I only want Casterly Rock. He can have the rest of the Westerlands. House Lannister only asks to keep the Rock!"