Storm's End Opens

In an unnamed house, Melisandre lay naked in a bath scented with rose petals.

Steam curled over the water. Her skin looked impossibly smooth, and the face reflected back at her belonged to a young woman rather than the ancient servant she knew herself to be.

Only she understood how wrong that was. Her body had changed in ways she could not explain. The source could only be Ronan.

More unsettling was the intimate proof of it: her body responded like a young woman's, and when she checked herself, she found the unmistakable sign of untouched maidenhood.

When she had weakened before him, he had done something she had not seen. Even her most precious jewel had changed. The ruby that once held only an uneven inner glow now shone with a fierce, steady light.

She raised a hand. Fire leapt beside the tub. Melisandre froze.

The spell had come too easily. Stronger than before. Cleaner. As if fire had become less a gift granted through prayer and more a limb she had only just learned to move.

That should have thrilled her. Instead, fear followed.

She stared into the flame and spoke the words of devotion. The fire answered with heat and color, but no vision opened. No whisper came. No face of the Lord appeared in smoke.

She tried again. Nothing. A third time brought the same silence. Melisandre's hands trembled.

Had her power increased because she had been cut away from the voice she served? Was she still R'hllor's priestess, or had Ronan's light changed the path between them?

The only image that returned to her was the one she had seen at Dragonstone: a man wrapped in fire, conquest taking human form. Ronan.

If an answer existed, it waited with him.

...

Storm's End had been called one of the strongest castles in the Seven Kingdoms for good reason.

Its outer wall rose a hundred feet high in places, forty feet thick, with smooth curved stone so tightly fitted that even wind seemed unwelcome. The seaward face stood above the water like a cliff.

The drum tower within held barracks, armories, granaries, and enough space to make a siege miserable for any attacker. Walls like that made men careless.

Near midnight, a guard on the outer wall accepted the sight of a friendly cup before he accepted the threat behind it.

"Brother, will you drink?"

"I dare not. Ser Fenris will have my hide if he finds out."

"It is night. Look around. Half the men are sharing already."

The guard glanced aside and saw bodies slumped along the wall. For one heartbeat, he thought them drunk. Then he understood.

He tried to shout and died before the sound became useful.

Strangers moved across the battlements with discipline too clean for common raiders. They killed quietly, cleared posts, and opened paths for others. Ser Fenris reached the wall before the matter could be hidden, but he died there as well.

By the time the alarm truly spread, the outer gate had already been taken. Men in the castle woke to the worst possible truth: the great shield around them was gone.

Torches surged in from outside. Stannis's men poured through the breach, and the Blood Wolf infiltrators gave them the one thing no siege engine could have purchased so quickly. An open way in.

When the news reached Renly, the inner gate was already under pressure.

"Who opened it?" he roared. "Who opened my gate?"

Most of the men who knew were dead. Brienne of Tarth, tall and armored at his side, spoke carefully. "Your Grace, we must prepare."

She meant retreat, though she did not say it. The castle had trusted its outer wall too much. With that wall lost, the inner defense had not been organized in time. Regret arrived too late to matter.

Then cheers rose from the attackers. The inner gate had broken. Renly stood on the wall and saw his brother on horseback below. Stannis looked back with open satisfaction.

To Renly, that smile was worse than the attack. Was this how easily his bright crown could be cracked?

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