In the Drum Tower of Storm's End, the sea breeze pours in through the narrow arrow holes, bringing with it the salty smell of Shipbreaker Bay.
A roll of parchment was spread out on a rough oak table, its edges tightly held down by a calloused hand.
"Warrior of the 10,000 urgently recruited Stormlands have already gone north."
Twelve-year-old Renly. Baratheon spoke, his voice was clear and full of the unique confidence of a young man.
He straightened his small chest, as if he was wearing not a velvet jacket, but a set of gilt armor.
Cortnay. Sir Penros did not look at him.
The acting city lord's eyes were like nails on the urgent letter, and his bald head was glistening in the flickering candlelight.
His shovel-like red beard moved.
"Not enough."
His voice was hoarse and firm.
"Ten thousand farmers and fishermen are not enough to deal with that Black Lion."
Renly. Baratheon's eyebrows wrinkled.
"Lord Selwyn Tarth is battle-hardened."
"They will guard Kingsroad like the walls of Storm's End."
Cortnay. Sir Penros finally raised his head, his weather-beaten face showing no emotion.
He spoke slowly, "That young man, Suleiman."
"If he really raises the flag of rebellion, Crownlands will be filled with his flags within ten days.
He stretched out his finger and drew a shocking trajectory on the map on the table.
"In half a month, his vanguard will appear in our field of vision."
"Bingwei Storm's End."
Renly. Baratheon looked along his fingers, and a trace of disapproval flashed across his face.
"He would never dare!"
"My brother is the king and he gave me Storm's End."
"No one dares to act recklessly in the land of Baratheon."
Cortnay. Sir Penros withdrew his hand and clenched it into a fist.
"The Reach will watch the fire from the other side."
"Dornish wishes we would die."
"No one will come to save us, my lord."
Renly. Baratheon stood up, walked to the arrow hole, and looked out at the gray sky and sea, the wind blowing his shoulder-length black hair.
His voice was not loud, but there was a sense of stubborn pride. "Then let them come."
"Stannis brother could hold on to this place back then, and so can I."
"Storm's End is the strongest castle of Seven Kingdoms."
"I'll let them beat their heads to pieces outside the city walls."
Renly. Baratheon turned around, his blue eyes shining with excitement.
He regarded this as a game, an adventure to prove himself.
There was a long silence in the castle.
There is only the roar of the sea breeze.
Cortnay. Sir Penros looked at the boy in front of him, at his handsome but immature face, and at the courage that did not know the feeling of sorrow in his eyes.
He thought of Lord Steffon. Baratheon, and of King Robert. Baratheon and Stannis. Baratheon when they were young.
"But you are not him, my lord."
Cortnay. Sir Penros's voice was very soft, but it was like a slap in the face.
Renly. Baratheon The smile on his face froze, "What did you say?"
Cortnay. Sir Penros stood up, his tall figure cast a shadow, completely covering Renly. Baratheon.
"When Lord Stannis was defending the city, he had nothing but this castle and his own surname."
"He gnawed tree bark, ate rats, and ate everything he could eat."
"He is a man, a desperate man."
He took a step forward and looked down at his little master.
"And you are just a twelve-year-old child."
"You are Storm's End's hope and House Baratheon's future."
"I can't let you eat rats here."
Renly. Baratheon's face turned red, showing offended anger.
"Are you calling me cowardly? Sir Penros!"
He raised his voice and tried to overwhelm the other person with his title.
"I am your lord! Stormlands Governor! Storm's End Lord!"
Cortnay. Sir Penros' eyes did not give in at all.
"It is precisely because you are my lord that I must ensure your safety."
Renly. Baratheon waved his hand disdainfully.
"That Riverlands cat won't come at all!"
"He will obediently run to Iron Islands, kneel in front of my brother, kiss his boots, and beg for forgiveness."
"He didn't even dare bring a squire with him!"
"You think too highly of him and underestimate Baratheon's reputation."
Cortnay. Sir Penros looked at him, a trace of emotion flashed in his eyes.
He stopped arguing. There was no point in arguing.
It's just because of this naivety that doesn't understand the world.
Just when Renly. Baratheon was about to say something.
A knight in full armor walked in quickly, his armor making a dull clanking sound.
He held his helmet in his arms, and his voice was a little unsteady due to his rapid breathing. "Sir Penros, Lord Renly."
"Sir Bonifer Hasty... He gave up the name and territory of House Hasty."
Cortnay. Sir Penros' eyebrows knitted together as he looked at the knight.
"He took his Holy Hundred, joined Poor Fellows, and swore to protect them and went north to King's Landing."
There was dead silence in the Drum Tower.
The wind blew in from the arrow stack and rolled up the parchment on the table, making a rustling sound.
Cortnay. Sir Penros's face turned livid.
His voice was low, like a roar squeezed from his throat, "Why?"
"Why did someone tell me now?"
The knight lowered his head, not daring to look at him.
"The news has just arrived, sir, and the messenger crow's wings are broken."
Cortnay. Sir Penros did not look at him again, and turned around suddenly to look at Renly. Baratheon.
His movements no longer have the slowness of an old man, but are full of the determination of a soldier.
"Sir."
"Prepare the fastest boat."
There was no room for negotiation in his voice.
"Choose the twenty most reliable people to escort Master Renly to Dragonstone."
"Riverlands people don't have a navy, Dragonstone are safe."
"Go now."
Renly. Baratheon's eyes suddenly opened wide.
He rushed to Cortnay Sir Penros and looked up at the weathered face.
"You can't do this!"
He screamed, his voice twisted with rage.
"I am Governor Stormlands! You are just my acting city lord!"
Cortnay. Sir Penros lowered his head and looked at the young face that was flushed with anger.
The face was handsome and perfect, like the work of a sculptor, but at this moment it looked a little childish due to anger.
He stretched out his hand, his movements a little awkward, as if he wanted to pat the boy's shoulder, but stopped mid-air.
Finally, he just said in an almost tired tone.
"I'll hold on to this place."
"For House Baratheon."
"This is my duty."
The knight raised his head, looked at the furious little lord, and then at the acting city lord whose face was as sinking as water.
He didn't hesitate. "Yes, sir."
Renly. Baratheon looked at all this in disbelief.
His orders were ignored.
His authority was trampled on in public by a stubborn old man.
"No!"
He tried to grab the arm of Sir Cortnay Penros, but was gently avoided by the other party.
The movement was not fast, but he missed it.
"I'm not going anywhere!"
"This is my castle!"
Cortnay. Sir Penros did not look at him again.
He turned around and walked back to the table, picking up the urgent letter from King's Landing again.
His back was like a silent stone mountain, blocking all the noise behind him.
"Send your lord to Dragonstone."
His voice spread throughout the drum tower, clear and cold.
"Let's go now."
The knight and two guards immediately stepped forward and grabbed Renly. Baratheon's arms, one from the left and the other from the right.
Their hands were as strong as iron vices, tightly clasping his luxurious silk sleeves.
Renly. Baratheon's face turned red, and his anger overwhelmed him like a tide.
Stannis. Baratheon can guard Storm's End, why do you think he can't guard Storm's End.
He roared in a sharp voice, "Cortnay!"
"You ungrateful old creature! Traitor!"
"My brother will hang you!!"
"I'm not afraid of any war!"
"Storm's End has been besieged countless times! It has never fallen!"
"I am the master here! I should stay! Be with my people!"
"This will gain me prestige!"
Cortnay. Sir Penros still turned his back to him, as if he didn't hear.
He picked up a quill on the table and wrote something on a piece of parchment.
He looked so focused, as if he was the only one in the room.
Desperation seized his heart. This was not a joke, nor was it an exhortation.
This stubborn old man is serious.
He really wants to pack himself up and send it away like a piece of luggage.
Cortnay. Sir Penros finally turned around and looked at Renly. Baratheon. For the first time, there was a trace of sadness in his eyes. "Reputation cannot fill the stomach, nor can it block the sword, my lord."
"You are still young."
"Living is more important than anything else."
"You should remember this."
This time, Renly. Baratheon finally stopped struggling.
He just stared at Cortnay Penros, as if he wanted to carve this man's appearance into his bones.
Renly. Baratheon was half pushed and half carried out of the Drum Tower by the guards.
His angry shouts and threats went down the spiral staircase, getting farther and farther, and were eventually swallowed up by the thick stone wall.
Silence returned to the Drum Tower.
Cortnay. Sir Penros walked to the window and looked into the distance.
The sea is sparkling in the sun, looking calm and gentle.
But the name of this sea area is Shipbreaker Bay.
Under its calmness, there are countless reefs and whirlpools hidden.
Cortnay. Sir Penros turned around and looked at everyone present.
The afterglow of the setting sun shone in from the arrow stack behind him, coating his old profile with a layer of gold.
His eyes were no longer tired, but as sharp as an eagle.
"Give me my orders."
"Close all outer doors of the castle and raise the drawbridge."
"Double sentries are posted on the city wall to patrol day and night."
"Count all inventory, grain, arrows, and kerosene, and record every barrel."
"Send out all the messenger crows and notify every vassal of Stormlands, asking them to return to their castles immediately and strengthen their defenses."
Everyone took the order and turned around to leave, their steps heavy.
Cortnay. Panglos was the only one left in the Drum Tower.
He walked back to the table and unfolded a huge Stormlands map.
The finger moved slowly on the map, from Storm's End, to Kingsroad, to the border with the Reach, Dorne.
The church's armed forces, those Poor Fellows, those fanatical believers, will soon no longer be a mob.
There will definitely be more experienced noble commanders like Sir Bonifer Hasty joining them.
A well-trained knight group like Holy Hundred serves as the backbone.
He closed his eyes and seemed to be able to hear the sound of hymns coming from the distance and the sound of swords being unsheathed.
Storm's End The sound of thunder and wild waves could also be heard faintly outside.
The storm is coming again.
The huge black tower of Harrenhal is like the skeleton of Giants, standing silently on the horizon.
Its shadow casts across the vast plain, shrouding the two opposing armies.
The wind blew through the dead grass, making a rustling sound.
Walter. Hean tightened the reins, and the horse under his crotch paved its hooves uneasily.
The steel armor on his body was polished to a shine, and the black giant bat House Whent was engraved on the breastplate.
Behind him is the phalanx of the coalition forces of the East Riverlands lords.
Spears are like a forest, shields are like walls, hundreds of them belong to He An, Darry, Leger, Mooton, Guburk...
The flag of. is flapping in the wind.
Opposite him was another completely different sea of people.
They do not have a unified flag, only some crude Seven-Pointed Star holy emblems.
The crowd was mixed, including farmers holding pitchforks, the Smith carrying hammers, more men and women in ragged clothes, and even children.
They are the so-called Poor Fellows, Wildfire ignited by faith.
Suleiman was at the front of the group, riding on a war horse, surrounded by Long Retainer Guard.
Walter. Hean looked at him with an undisguised mockery at the corner of his mouth.
"Suleiman-sama."
He spoke in a loud voice, ensuring that the surrounding lords could hear him.
"You don't think you can fight us with that group of ragged old women and children behind you, do you?
Several lords around him let out low laughter.
In their view, if Suleiman wants to suppress them, this is not a battle at all, but a massacre and farce.
Suleiman ignored his taunt and just looked at him calmly. "I came here to integrate my army, Lord Walter."
Walter. Hean seemed to have heard the funniest joke, "Integration?"
"Of course we have to integrate it."
"But you are not qualified to negotiate with me! Suleiman!"
He waved his riding crop and pointed at the neat military formation behind him.
"This is the army representing Riverlands. They need a commander from the "Governor Family"."
"You are the adopted son of Governor Lymond, Sword of the Seven, the spokesperson of God."
"This position belongs to you."
The sarcasm in his tone almost overflowed.
"Leave the war to us mortals to direct it."
"You are in the army and pray for us to Seven."
The implication couldn't be more obvious.
The command of the army must be handed over.
Suleiman can be a respected puppet and a spiritual totem.
Suleiman finally smiled.
The smile was very light, but it made Walter. Hean feel an inexplicable feeling of palpitations.
"Walter-sama."
Suleiman spoke, his voice was not loud, but it spread clearly throughout the dead silence in front of the formation.
"Look at your army."
Walter. Hean glanced back subconsciously.
His soldiers were lined up neatly and silent as iron. What was there to see?
Suleiman raised his hand and pointed at the military formation of Walter. Hean.
"There are at least 10,000 people in your army."
"They followed me in the battle West Riverlands, and washed their swords with the blood of Ironborn."
"Each one of them received a generous Gold Dragon from my hand."
His finger moved to Walter. Hean.
"The other half is the army composed of West Riverlands refugees who have returned home during this period."
"When they were on the run and had no choice but to live or die."
"It was I who gave them food, weapons, and copper coins as travel expenses. It was I who expelled Ironborn for them."
Suleiman put down his hand and looked back at Walter. Hean's face that started to stiffen.
He asked the last question, "Who do you think their swords will pierce when the trumpets sound."
"How many losses will your army suffer?"
Walter. Hean's expression changed.
He wanted to open his mouth to retort, but found that no words could come out from his throat.
The lords behind him also stopped snickering, and the expressions on their faces became solemn.
They suddenly realized that they seemed to have overlooked something crucial.
Walter. Hean's face turned from white to green, and then from green to purple. "Suleiman! Don't insist on having your own way!"
"Join us! There is no other way for you!"
"Don't let the blood of Riverlands people flow in the hands of brothers!"
Suleiman stopped looking at him.
He slowly raised his right hand.
No words, no commands, just a simple action.
There was an eerie moment of silence on the plain.
The wind stopped.
"Suleiman! Little father!"
Immediately afterwards, an uncontrollable shout broke out from the Walter. Hean military formation.
The cry was like a spark thrown into a frying pan.
In an instant, many people in the military formation in Dong Riverlords of the Riverlands were excited.
"Suleiman! Suleiman!"
A tsunami-like roar rose into the sky, completely tearing apart the discipline and silence of the army.
A large number of soldiers began to hit the shields with the ends of their spears, making a thunderous noise.
The phalanx on the right wing immediately became commotion. Many people raised their weapons high above their heads and waved them desperately in the direction of Suleiman.
The originally neat and uniform army formation suddenly became chaotic.
The officers' scoldings were completely drowned out.
"Quiet! Go back to your place!"
"Go back! Go back!"
"Go back!"
"Shut up, everyone!"
Lord East Riverlands roared and hit the helmet of the soldier closest to him with his riding crop.
"I am your commander!"
The soldier was beaten so hard that he staggered, but showed no fear at all.
"Master Suleiman gave me fifteen Gold Dragon!"
"I only listen to Master Suleiman!"
The surrounding soldiers cheered louder, as if in response to him.
The other lords also rode back and forth, using whips, scabbards, and the most vicious curses to try to restore order.
But it's all in vain.
The soldiers paid no attention to them.
Some even used their shields to violently push away officers who tried to stop them.
The military formation was completely dispersed.
The soldiers no longer stood firm in their positions, but flowed in all directions like floods that had burst their banks.
The fanaticism on their faces was exactly the same as that of the Poor Fellows believers opposite.
More and more knights and officers also made the same choice.
They did not obey the orders of their lords and joined the carnival and rioting crowd.
Walter. An He stood on his horse, the sword in his hand becoming extremely heavy.
The mockery and arrogance in his eyes had long since disappeared, leaving only defeat.
Suleiman didn't look at those fanatical soldiers.
His eyes fell on Walter. Hean, whose face was ashen, and his voice remained calm.
"Walter. He An, behind me are twenty thousand ragged Poor Fellows."
"When you sound the trumpet, half your army will turn against me."
"You are not qualified to talk to me."
"You damn old thing!"