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

Wooo... Woooo... Woooo...

The shrill sound of flutes echoed across the night sky without cease.

They wailed like vengeful spirits, crying out to the cold, angry waves; they hissed like beasts of legend, screaming toward the walls of Rain House City upon the shore.

All at once, the warships activated their lights, and Broken Boat Bay—shrouded in darkness mere moments before—blazed as bright as midday.

Great schools of fish, drawn to the sudden brilliance, swarmed curiously around the vessels, crowding together in the sea until they nearly filled the deep waters.

In Rain House City, men worked with fearful haste to light beacons, ring alarm bells, and rouse those still abed.

"To arms! We are under attack!"

"Hundreds of ships approach from the sea! The fleet of King's Landing!" The terrible light revealed both the enemy's numbers and their majestic appearance.

"Wake up, you fools!"

"Every man to the walls! Don your armor! Take up your weapons!"

The desperate shouts of the night watchmen, accompanied by the clanging of bells, spread from the watchtowers. Yet the terrifying, drawn-out cries from the sea rolled like thunder, their eerie tones setting hearts to trembling and souls to stirring.

Human voices could scarcely carry ten paces against such a din.

The guards quickly realized the futility of their efforts, though they took some small comfort in the knowledge that the enemy's alarm served their purpose better than they ever could.

Lights kindled one after another in the towers and houses within the city. Many rushed out to see what was happening, not even pausing to dress properly.

The watchtower beacons and the guards' frantic gestures eventually conveyed a clear message to the city: enemies invaded from the sea, and they were mighty beyond reckoning!

Could it be pirates from the Stepstones? Squids of the Iron Islands? The royal fleet of some would-be king?

Upon climbing to the battlements, the people of Rain House City saw the answer with their own eyes.

Countless warships emitted bright white light, and the flags adorning their sails and masts were uniform: black crowned stags upon fields of gold.

The royal fleet!

"How could there be so many ships?"

The knight who uttered this exclamation carried a gleaming helm beneath his arm, its crest inlaid with the blue-green whirlpool sigil of House Wylde.

"Lord Casper." The guards saluted the master of Rain House City with respectful bows.

Every eye turned to Casper Wylde, filled with unease and desperate hope, as if the fate of all rested upon whatever words might next pass his lips.

Casper Wylde's expression was grave as he rapidly calculated their present circumstances.

For various reasons, he had not personally led troops to answer Storm's End's call, but had instead allowed his uncle, Ser Mond Wylde, to command their forces in the war.

Later intelligence, however, had caused him to regret this decision.

The Northern kingdoms' support for the Iron Throne had proven less substantial than expected, while Highgarden's commitment had been firmer and more generous than anticipated.

Victory had seemed beyond doubt.

But what if His Grace Renly misinterpreted House Wylde's loyalty?

Casper Wylde had gathered additional troops and prepared further supplies, intending to lead his army north as reinforcements himself.

They had been scheduled to depart on the morrow.

But now... Casper Wylde stared at the fleet upon the sea, a sight so bizarre it belonged in the realm of myth, and felt the scales in his heart tipping once more.

Could it be that those outlandish rumors from King's Landing were not merely rumors after all?

Those descriptions that had seemed absurd even when heard as tavern tales—were they all, in truth, the reality that King's Landing now lived?

At the very least, the formidable fleet before him was real enough.

Casper Wylde stared at the ships, and alongside everyone in Rain House City, listened to the seemingly endless wailing, trying to divine its meaning and the power it heralded.

After what felt like an eternity, the soul-stirring cries finally subsided, replaced by a calm declaration that resonated throughout the castle:

"By order of His Grace King Joffrey, First of His Name, of Houses Baratheon and Lannister, to punish rebellion and cleanse the coast.

House Wylde blindly serves the usurper Renly, fueling the arrogance of rebels, disregarding peace, ignoring the welfare of the people, and betraying the king to whom they swore allegiance. Their crime is enormous—how can it be tolerated?

We come across the waves to clarify truth, to correct the public perception, and to serve as warning to others.

Hear this:

Rain House City is given one quarter of an hour to raise the white flag and welcome the King outside the city with all its members. You may yet be pardoned for your sins, retain your lands, and be permitted to serve as the King's vanguard.

Should you refuse, the hour when men and horses fall, when castle stones crumble, and when your family name is erased will arrive without delay.

Do not say you were not warned."

The emotionless, flat tone of the male voice pronounced the fate that Rain House City had most feared, heralding a doom beyond imagination.

No one could ignore these words, for though invisible and intangible, they carried the weight of steel.

The fleet in the sea emitted its strange light, standing unmoved amid the angry waves, lending the proclamation the heaviest gravity and most dazzling authority.

All eyes fixed upon their lord.

Casper Wylde clutched the helm before his chest, his expression solemn.

Who would win the throne in the end?

What choice should House Wylde make? Was this truly the moment to decide?

Casper Wylde's thoughts whirled in confusion.

This war should not have spelled disaster for House Wylde.

House Wylde needed only to follow tradition: pledge firm allegiance to its liege lord, fulfill its duties faithfully, fight with honor, and abide by its oaths, surrendering only when dignity demanded it.

Then, whether in victory or defeat, they might at least continue to exist under whichever king prevailed, and keep their ancestral castle.

But...

To surrender now, even in the face of an irresistible fleet—could that be considered loyalty?

He knew the answer all too well.

The war had barely begun. After Massey's Hook, Rain House City was likely the second patch of land to welcome the flames of conflict.

Surrender at this juncture would never be understood by the other lords, let alone tolerated by Storm's End.

If Storm's End achieved final victory, and His Grace Renly happened to remember this betrayal, House Wylde would face not merely decline, but utter destruction.

Compared to such a risk, even having their castle razed to the ground by the royal fleet seemed more acceptable.

Dying in loyalty to one's liege lord would only enhance the family's reputation. The other lords would admire and praise such sacrifice, and even the victorious king could not openly condemn it.

Once everything was settled, the new king would not dare damage the bonds and traditions of nobility. House Wylde would rise anew, continuing to hold the lands, collect the taxes, and bear the titles it had maintained for a thousand years.

"My lord, time is nearly spent." His servant couldn't help but remind him.

"I know."

Casper Wylde stroked the familiar sigil upon his helm a few times, then placed it firmly upon his head.

Besides, Rain House City was a fortress carefully built by generations of his family. It could hold out for some time at least, awaiting reinforcements, or perhaps a great storm that might drive the royal fleet away.

Casper Wylde remained puzzled by the fleet's attack.

Why was the royal fleet so eager to occupy this rain-soaked forest of Cape Wrath? Why make such a display of force here? Surely they would be better served sailing to Storm's End, or to the Eyrie.

Why waste precious time on Rain House City?

There was no more time to ponder. Casper Wylde instructed his maester: "Release the ravens with news of our plight—to Storm's End and to Stonehelm."

The black birds circled the tower several times before flying northward, unhindered by any obstacle.

The quarter hour elapsed.

Aboard the God's Grace, Joffrey sighed.

"All troops, commence bombardment."