Chapter 173 – Summerhall, Shattered!
The Stormlands.
At last, winter's tendrils had fully swept south.
The howling north wind carried snow fine as salt grains, lashing across every marching face like the whip of the Seven.
"Haah—!"
Riding at the very front, Robert Baratheon exhaled sharply. His breath crystallized into a white plume in the frigid air before slowly fading.
He wore thick, heavy plate. The towering stag antlers crested upon his helm made the already massive man look even more imposing. His resolute face was reddened by the cold, yet in his emerald eyes burned a blaze of unrestrained fury.
Summerhall.
On the horizon ahead, the blurred outline of the castle gradually sharpened.
Robert roared, "Faster!"
"I want Fell, Cafferen, and Grandison — those ungrateful bastards — to open their dog eyes wide and see exactly what becomes of men who betray their liege!"
Within moments, urged on by their lord, the soldiers pushed their snow-choked march into an even quicker pace.
They were exhausted. They were freezing.
But compared to the long swords of the sergeants and drillmasters behind them, what were a little fatigue and cold?
Better a wretched life than a quick death — even if they lived no better than beasts of burden.
Before long, Summerhall was nearly surrounded by Baratheon forces.
Years of peace had eroded most of its former grandeur. A few low stone walls and a long-abandoned moat trench made up the castle's entire defensive works.
Reining in his horse, Robert gazed ahead. He could see figures moving along the battlements, stones being hurriedly hauled up, and crude, sharpened stakes set into place.
So—they truly had chosen this hard-to-defend deathtrap.
"Seal every exit!"
Robert's order was crisp and decisive. He sent men to deliver his words:
"Tell those three honorless fools their liege lord has arrived. They can crawl down and surrender now — or wait until I smash the gates in and crack their skulls one by one!"
---
Inside the castle hall, beneath the domed ceiling that once hosted lavish feasts, the hearth fire crackled.
The faces of the three Lords seated around it flickered in and out of the firelight, drained of all vitality.
"One month."
The short, stocky Lord Fell scraped dried mud from his boot with a dagger, his voice sharp with suppressed rage.
"Our letters have been sent for a full month!"
"That damned Mace Tyrell hasn't made a single sound. I said from the start we shouldn't trust that blind, deaf fat pig!"
The lean Lord Cafferen tightened his wool cloak, teeth chattering as he replied,
"Don't think so bleakly. The blizzards are fierce — the Tyrell host may simply be delayed on the road…"
"Bullshit!"
Fell slammed his dagger into the floorboards.
"That dogspawn's afraid to fight Robert Baratheon, that's what!"
"Just watch. When we're all dead and no one holds this pass, the Stormlands army will flood straight into the endless plains of the Reach. Sooner or later that stupid rose will join us in the seven hells — hahahaha!"
In only a few sentences, he gave Mace Tyrell three or four colorful new "titles," making his hatred crystal clear.
And honestly, it was understandable.
Over a month ago, they had seized this place and written to Highgarden, requesting reinforcements from House Tyrell.
More than a month had passed — and not the slightest response had come.
To put it bluntly, they were like watchdogs guarding the gate for the Reach. Now the dogs' throats were hoarse from barking, the wolves were already at the door…
…and the master of the house was still fast asleep.
How could they possibly not be bitter?
"Blaming the Tyrells now is meaningless, Lord Fell."
The eldest of the three, Lord Grandison, finally spoke.
Frost clung to his graying beard. He rubbed his stiff hands hard and edged closer to the fire, voice low and hoarse.
"A raven from Highgarden may never come. We should never have placed hope in that man to begin with. That was my mistake."
"Who could have imagined a lord paramount would ignore the most critical pass in his own domain? Perhaps… had we sought aid from the Iron Throne earlier—"
"What's the point of saying that now?!"
His self-reproach only enraged Fell further. He shot to his feet, face flushed red.
"Instead of whining, think about how we're supposed to hold this castle! We've barely five or six hundred men. That Baratheon whelp has at least two thousand!"
Cafferen added weakly, "Our food stores are nearly—"
"Thank you for that brilliant reminder, my lord!"
Fell spun around, spraying spit across Cafferen's face. He let out a short, shrill laugh and jabbed a finger at the draft-riddled walls.
"At this rate we won't even need Baratheon to kill us. In a few days we'll starve to death in here — and go keep King Aegon V Targaryen and those two famous 'Duncans' company!"
Silence deepened in the hall.
Only the crackle of the hearth and the scream of the wind outside remained. They glared at one another now and then, only to quickly look away.
The air reeked of blame and embarrassment.
They had gathered here to hold the key route linking the Reach, Dorne, and the Stormlands.
Now, betrayed by useless allies, the castle felt less like a fortress and more like a tightening noose.
---
"My lords! My lords!!!"
A messenger burst into the hall, snow clinging to him, face blue with cold. In his hand, he clutched a small parchment scroll so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
All three men stood instantly, hearts leaping into their throats.
"They… they've broken in?" Cafferen asked fearfully — earning two scornful looks.
"News… from King's Landing… great news!!!"
---
Outside the walls:
"Surrender, you damned traitors!!!"
Robert's herald had been shouting himself hoarse, receiving no reply.
Just as Robert Baratheon was about to lose patience, a rider galloped up recklessly, nearly trampling a shieldman.
"My lord! You must see this — now!"
"Seven hells, Dondarrion, we're at war!"
Robert snapped around. "Whatever it is, even if you pissed yourself, hold it in and get out of my sight!"
Laughter erupted among the knights.
But Lord Simon Dondarrion showed no embarrassment. He stubbornly held out the scroll again.
"You must read this. Now."
His grave expression stirred unease in Robert. He snatched the parchment and scanned it.
Dragon.
Regent Prince.
Summons.
Robert's eyes went wide. His fingers clenched the scroll until the parchment creaked.
You've got to be joking…
He had only just steeled himself — and now the enemy had dragons?
The world seemed to freeze, wind howling in the silence.
"…Is this reliable?" he asked at last.
"From King's Landing. Bearing both the Targaryen seal and the Hand's."
Dondarrion lowered his voice. "Perhaps… we should stand down. Making enemies of dragons is unwise."
Surrender?
Withdraw?
The thought surfaced — but another image rose with it.
A stubborn, lively smile.
Lyanna.
"No!"
Robert's voice exploded like thunder.
"They're hatchlings — barely out of their shells! I doubt their fire could light a candle!"
"Once I take King's Landing, I'll smash their heads in with my hammer all the same!"
"Sound the horns! Attack the castle — now!!!"
---
Inside the castle…
The three lords who'd been arguing moments ago now embraced like brothers.
They sang around the fire, joy bursting through the air.
"Fuck the Tyrells — the Seven be praised, the true dragon has returned!" cried Fell.
"The Regent will see our loyalty!" Grandison declared.
"Robert Baratheon won't dare attack now — we have dragons! Hahaha!" shouted Cafferen.
From despair to euphoria in a heartbeat.
Siege? Starvation? Robert?
Meaningless.
They had dragons.
…Did they?
---
"Kill!!!"
"Take Summerhall! Slaughter the traitors!!!"
Fate's cruelty strikes fast.
Even as their laughter echoed, a tidal roar erupted outside.
"The gate! The gate's giving way!!"
A bloodied soldier stumbled in.
"Ba—Baratheon… they're using a battering ram! We only reinforced the gate with timber boards — we can't hold—!"
BOOM!!!
The crash cut him off.
Then came the storm — pounding boots, clashing steel, screaming horses — a flood of destruction.
Summerhall… had fallen.