Beneath the walls of Stonehelm, the Vulture King's rebels suffered a nightmarish defeat. They had expected to take the castle with ease, never imagining they would face Orys Baratheon, the veteran of the Stormlands whose right hand had been severed.
Orys wore heavy iron armor that gleamed darkly like bronze beneath the blazing sun, making him look like an unshakable fortress. Shadows hid his face, leaving only a pair of cold eyes visible, filled with boundless hatred for his enemies.
When Walter Wyl was dragged before the ranks, a flicker of cruel amusement crossed Orys's eyes. He clamped the poisoned dagger into the iron hook on his stump, then drove it into Walter's body without hesitation. Walter let out an agonized scream, his body writhing in pain.
Orys watched Walter's suffering without expression. His movements were precise and merciless, each cut like a stroke sculpting a work of art. Before long, he had hacked away Walter's limbs, leaving nothing but a mangled lump of flesh.
"The interest must be reckoned properly," Orys murmured to the severed limbs strewn across the ground. His voice was low and cold, as though he were settling a blood debt thirty years overdue.
Davos Baratheon later discovered those dried limbs in the cellars of Storm's End. The old lord had strung them together with thin cord and hung them from the ceiling. Stirred by the north wind, they knocked against one another with crisp clacks, like a grotesque set of victory wind chimes.
The Vulture King's rout was even more absurd. When Lady Caron of Nightsong mounted her horse and gave chase in a star-patterned surcoat, a moonstone her husband had given her on their wedding day was tied to the tip of her spear. That gem later lodged in the rebel leader's eye socket,