A Book of Ice and Fire / Game of Thrones : Magic Network

"Lay down your weapons, surrender and you will not be killed."

The voice boomed across the beach, echoing against the rocky cliffs. Then again, tireless and unyielding.

"Lay down your weapons, surrender and you will not be killed."

This voice had become the nightmare that haunted every man in the Stormland army. The soldiers who had been resting in the thin shade of the beach scrambled to their feet, running wildly forward as if driven by some primal instinct. None dared think of resistance.

Their steps soon faltered, slowing dramatically until they stood frozen in place or collapsed altogether, as though caught in quicksand of salt and stone. The reality that faced them was far more terrifying than any sucking earth.

Demonic figures blocked the path ahead, armored in fiery red plate with cloaks of silver-white flowing behind them like banners of death. Those soldiers whose spirits had not yet been entirely crushed began to retreat, their eyes darting nervously to survey their surroundings. Dozens more of these monsters stood behind their company, while the eastern rocky mountains and earthen slopes were dotted with shadowy figures, forming a loose ring around them.

Sparse, yet indestructible. A circle with no escape.

"We could not escape after all," Ser Norbert Grandison sighed, feeling a strange lightness wash over him. It was as though the heavy stone he had carried within his chest these past weeks had finally been set down, allowing him to face the fate that had always been waiting.

Beside him, Bruce Buckler finally broke his silence. "I wonder how much we are worth?"

Norbert glanced at him in surprise. The man had always been taciturn, resolute in action rather than word. Now he speaks of surrender?

How could Buckler not know his own value? Norbert knew well enough that a healthy knight general from House Buckler would command a ransom of one or two hundred gold dragons—not an outrageous sum.

As for the other knights and cavalry... those with family names would likely be guaranteed their safety. Those who could not afford the price of freedom would be at the mercy of their captors' moods.

By comparison, Norbert himself and Bruce were fortunate. They would be closely watched by Lannister men, spending their days on horseback, in secret chambers, or in dungeons, awaiting the exchange of prisoners or for Lord Renly and their families to send the demanded gold.

At least such a fate was more welcome than death.

Moreover, he had proven his loyalty to His Majesty to the fullest measure of his ability. Even in failure, he would preserve the dignity of his house and face whatever came with calm resolve.

Norbert Grandison stood in silence.

If he surrendered, would he truly see the day when prisoners were exchanged? When would this war end?

Recalling the scalding white steam from the night of the raid, Norbert felt a strange premonition take root in his heart. The day he might return to his family—to his parents, wife, and children—seemed at once both impossibly distant and unexpectedly near.

"Bruce, Norbert, everyone!"

Norbert raised his head to see a familiar pockmarked face appearing behind the Lannister soldiers.

Roland Storm called out loudly, "Please stop fighting this pointless battle! We have indeed failed, but not through cowardice or arrogance. This is not our shame."

"In the name of a warrior, brave men should face life or death, victory or defeat with equal grace."

"I have received the promise of Earl Dondarrion. I, Roland Storm, swear upon my honor that every warrior who offers his sword and relinquishes resistance will be properly treated, with his life secure and free from humiliation."

"Indeed, I guarantee it in my name." A red-armored warrior removed his helm, revealing golden-red hair and a handsome face beneath.

Norbert saw the purple forked lightning emblem upon the starlit breastplate.

The Earl of Blackhaven, Beric Dondarrion.

Lord Beric showed no sign of nervousness. From the moment he had departed King's Landing, he had known his mission would be accomplished. The only question had been the cost in lives.

To ensure that none of the two hundred Holy Warriors King Joffrey had entrusted to him would be lost needlessly, Beric Dondarrion had maintained a humble and measured approach.

He had not charged directly at his target.

Instead, he had chosen to sail to Tidehead Isle north of Massey's Hook, where he made contact with the Dragonstone fleet to prepare his battle plan.

The information provided by the Security Bureau had proven, as always, detailed, accurate, and timely.

Beric Dondarrion quickly identified an opportunity to strike and led his men aboard warships to land on the western coast of Massey's Hook, twenty leagues south of Sharp Point.

This was the closest approach on the western shore to the rebel encampment.

Without a moment's rest, the Holy Warriors marched on foot, sustained by the priests' restorative powers. They moved in silence, avoiding scouts and eliminating outposts based on the Security Bureau's intelligence.

In less than half a day, they had drawn near the unsuspecting rebel camp.

Night had fallen deep.

The ruined remnants of the small town had drifted into uneasy slumber, with only a handful of men patrolling its broken streets.

Under the protective veil of divine grace, the two hundred Holy Warriors communicated silently, dispersing according to their plan to form a perfect circle around the camp. As one, they reached for the "Droplets" secured at their waists.

The "Droplet" was a weapon crafted specifically for the Holy Fire Warriors by the Logistics Bureau.

Spherical in shape, with horizontal and vertical grooves carved into its steel shell, it resembled nothing so much as a peeled pomegranate. One hand could grasp it firmly or hurl it through the air.

Inside the sealed steel shell rested a small sphere of clear water.

To use it, a Holy Fire Warrior needed only to infuse it with flame power. After a breath or two, steam would burst forth, the steel would shatter, and scalding mist would spread in all directions, transforming the area within ten paces into the seventh hell.

After their first use, all the Holy Fire Warriors had sung the praises of the Droplet.

Before this weapon, their flame power could only be contained within their bodies. Once released, it would instantly manifest as fire and heat.

But flame power had its limits.

If they attempted to project a wide area of effect or a dragon-shaped flame to strike distant enemies, the consumption of power would be so great they could not sustain it through an entire battle.

Thus, close combat had always been the Holy Fire Warriors' preferred approach.

But now...

The Droplet addressed this very weakness.

Though none could say how the device delayed the release of flame power, this did not prevent the Holy Fire Warriors from using it to achieve a flawless victory.

Once all were in position, Beric Dondarrion gave the order.

Throw! Throw! Throw!

Each Holy Fire Warrior hurled three "Droplets" in the span of half a breath.

The town's patrols had no time to react.

Continuous explosions drowned all other sounds as fragments, searing heat, and clouds of white and pale red mist swept through the encampment.

Beric Dondarrion led the charge, two hundred Holy Warriors attacking as one.

Stables, baggage trains, barracks.

The Holy Fire Warriors surged toward their targets, unleashing flame and destroying any means by which the rebels might mount a counterattack.

Holy Shield Warriors charged back and forth among the enemy ranks without concern for defense, focused solely on slaying those before them. They emerged unscathed, while their foes lay dead or wounded.

A handful of priests and warlocks remained behind to support their comrades, not engaging directly in the killing.

Yet any who dared challenge them were met with fleeting wounds and the disturbing sight of earth, stone, and steel bending to unnatural forms—enough to make a man question the very fabric of reality.

The night raid succeeded beyond expectation.

Half of the two thousand rebels perished or surrendered on the spot, while those who fled had neither horses nor provisions, having abandoned armor and swords in their desperate flight.

Now came the cleanup.

Compared to the scattered remnants of defeated soldiers in the inland regions, this large group of broken men on the western coast proved easier to hunt down. They were pursued relentlessly.

Originally, the pursuit might have stretched on for days, but time was precious.

Stone Dance City awaited them before sunset.

Calculating the journey ahead, Beric Dondarrion pressed for an answer: "What have you decided? Will you live to witness the future, or sleep silently beneath the waves?"

Norbert and Bruce exchanged a long look.

Then, as one, they cast their swords into the sand.