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The sounds of battle echoed through the air—warhorses galloped, weapons clashed, and sparks scattered like fireflies.
Occasionally, an explosion rang out, sending chunks of heated stone flying. A rabbit, caught in the embers, roasted over the flames, its fat sizzling and popping.
Compared to the fury of fire, the battlefield beyond was a dance of blood.
A man wearing a stag-antlered helmet clutched at it protectively, as if it were a treasured possession.
On the ground, a woman struggled beneath him. He held her down, his hands fumbling to tear away her skirts and bodice. The once-elegant green corset dress was now crumpled in the dirt, a tattered shadow of its former beauty.
The laces were intricate, and he fought with them in frustration. When he failed to undo them, he simply reached down to rip the fabric apart—only to freeze at the sudden sound of a shout.
He barely had time to lift his head before a sword flashed through the air. With a sickening swish, his headless body toppled forward, a fountain of blood spraying in a crimson arc.
His stag helmet was sent flying, spinning through the air before catching the firelight, gleaming steel against the night.
Blood splattered across the woman's face. Trembling, she looked up in horror.
A knight sat astride a horse, clad in silver armor, his long silver hair catching the glow of the flames. He seemed almost otherworldly, like a warrior descended from the heavens, shining amid fire and death.
Cole remained unfazed by the carnage before him. He had seen such sights too many times.
The royal forest harbored many villages, and whenever bandits fled into the woods, they would eventually turn their blades against the innocent—pillaging, slaughtering, leaving ruin in their wake.
Cole cast a glance at the woman but paid her little mind. Instead, his gaze settled on the fallen stag helmet. The dead man wore no proper armor, nothing of note except for that fine helm.
After cutting down a few more foes, the remaining bandits threw down their weapons and begged for mercy.
One of Cole's cavalrymen retrieved the helmet. Despite the blood caking it, its craftsmanship remained evident—thick and sturdy, lined with soft wool, with antlers adorned by inlaid gemstones.
Cole studied it in silence, unable to determine its owner with certainty. But he had a strong suspicion.
He questioned the captured bandits and gathered the rescued villagers before ordering them to join his company. They rode onward, weaving through the royal forest. As their numbers grew into the hundreds, Cole instructed a knight to set up camp and wait for reinforcements.
Before long, banners appeared on the horizon—flames dancing upon crowned stags, flanked by a host of colorful standards. The approaching force was large.
Cole urged his horse forward. His white bird sigil had already been recognized, and as he passed through the vanguard, he finally laid eyes on Stannis Baratheon.
The king wore no finery—his garb was plain, yet a crown still rested atop his head. A circle of knights surrounded him.
Their armor gleamed, adorned with gold and silver. Feathered crests rose high, and intricate house emblems were embroidered onto their breastplates, some further embellished with gemstones.
Cole did not recall Stannis being flanked by so many knights in such lavish armor. Most of Stannis's men were as austere as their king, save for the lords of House Velaryon of Driftmark and House Celtigar of Claw Isle—wealthy men who could afford such finery.
Among them, Cole spotted Montfort Velaryon, the head of the Silver Seahorse. The lord's blue eyes met his, calm and unreadable.
Beside him stood the ever-discontented Lord Celtigar, who greeted Cole with a smile. Word had it he had injured his back—whether in battle or in more private pursuits, Cole did not know.
"Your Grace." Cole inclined his head in greeting, still mounted. The gathered knights turned their attention to him.
Some noted the two helmets hanging from his saddle—one was his own, the white bird helm, adorned with stiff, angular wings. The other was unmistakable: the stag-antlered helmet, both noble and imposing.
Speculation rippled through the ranks.
Only a few recognized the sigil on his armor, but Stannis's voice cut through the murmurs.
"My vanguard returns."
Lord Celtigar, his voice hoarse with age, spoke next. "Ser Cole Julius, I wonder what tidings you bring. You have never failed His Grace—or us."
Cole shook his head. "Aside from cutting down the remnants, there is little to report."
Loras and Garlan had slipped from his grasp.
"Ser, may I ask if the armor hanging from your horse belonged to Renly?" Lord Lister Morrigan inquired.
A sturdy knight stood behind him, clad in a green cloak over white steel armor—remarkably similar to the armor worn by Brienne of Tarth. The knight leaned in, whispering something into Morrigan's ear.
Cole lifted the stag-antlered helmet, and murmurs spread through the gathered knights. Many had seen Renly's armor before, and they recognized this helm as his.
"That's Renly's helmet," someone confirmed.
"Aye, he didn't wear it often, but I've seen him in it."
Stannis studied the helmet in Cole's hands, his expression unreadable. Perhaps he recalled the visions Melisandre had shown him. His brow creased slightly, but after a brief moment, his face hardened once more.
"Where is Renly?" he asked. "Though he committed an unforgivable betrayal, he was still my brother by blood. I trust his body was treated with dignity."
Renly? Cole was momentarily stunned. He had never seen Renly. Even in the dark, he would not have mistaken someone else for him. He had seen Renly himself, holding his standard high on the battlefield.
"This armor was taken from a bandit I slew," he said plainly. "I never saw Lord Renly."
"A bandit? Bring him forward," someone demanded, clearly thinking Cole had failed to recognize the truth.
Cole shook his head. "I know Renly. If I had seen him, why would I deny it? I did pursue him at first, but the Knight of Flowers intercepted me along the way."
"The false king is dead. Why dwell on it?" Melisandre's voice rang out, smooth and exotic. "His death was the will of the Lord of Light."
Renly was dead?
A helmet alone proved nothing—but confirmation soon followed.
Ser Parmen Crane, one of Renly's Rainbow Knights, stepped forward. He wore a purple cloak over gray and white plate armor, a clear imitation of the Kingsguard.
He had been at Renly's side, yet now he brought news of his lord's death.
"Someone saw the white shadow strike," he reported. "Renly fell from his horse, dead before he hit the ground. None could see the attacker clearly."
As he spoke, his gaze flickered toward Cole.
A white shadow? Cole frowned. Shouldn't it have been a black one?
After Renly fell, a cavalry charge had followed, throwing the camp into chaos. The riders had carried the banner of the fire-breathing white bird.
Cole stiffened. That was his sigil.
All eyes turned toward him.
Surely, they didn't think he was responsible?
Stannis dismissed any suspicion of Ser Parmen Crane's role in the events. Though Cole noticed the displeasure in Stannis's gaze, the king accepted the Rainbow Knight's pledge of loyalty without further challenge.
With Renly's forces scattered, Stannis led his army to Storm's End, establishing a siege camp beneath its towering walls. Knights were dispatched to gather the remnants of Renly's host, and soon, lords and noblemen—those who had fled in the chaos—began trickling in to swear fealty.
Within two days, nearly twenty thousand men had gathered outside Storm's End. The siege had begun.