Winter came early that year.
Not in snow, not yet, but in wind that cut sharper along the coast and seas that no longer rolled lazily between tides. The water turned darker by degrees, the horizon harder to read. Fishing boats returned sooner than they had in years past, nets left mended on shore rather than cast at dawn.
Orys noticed the change in rhythm first.
The patrol ships had been increased after Greenwater Cove. Riders carried reports daily. Watchfires burned longer on the cliffs. The Stormlands did not wait to be struck twice in the same place.
Still, the second strike did not come where expected.
It came at dusk.
The sky was bruised violet when the horn sounded from the western watchtower, long and urgent, cutting through the roar of surf.
Orys was already armed when the second blast followed. He had not been in the yard. He had been on the battlements again.
From the western wall, beyond the curve of cliff and jagged rock, sails rose against the dying light.
Not three.
Seven.
Black against the horizon.
The sea churned beneath them, long oars cutting deliberate lines through the water. The ships did not anchor at distance. They advanced directly toward the narrower strip of beach below Storm's End's western cliffs, where rock shelves created a treacherous but landable approach at high tide.
"They're bold," Stannis muttered beside him.
"They're confident," Orys replied.
Below, the courtyard exploded into motion.
Armor buckled. Shields lifted. Horses saddled. Torches flared to life as the last light drained from the sky. The wind shifted inland, carrying the smell of tar and pitch from the approaching vessels.
Robert's laughter rose from the yard.
At sixteen, he looked nothing like the boy who had first lifted a practice hammer. The weapon now rested comfortably in his hands, its weight familiar, its balance trusted. He mounted swiftly and rode for the western gate without waiting to be told.
Orys followed.
The descent from Storm's End toward the lower western beach was narrow and steep, carved partly into the rock itself. Riders could not charge blindly there. Foot soldiers took the lower path faster, shields raised against arrows already beginning to arc from the approaching ships.
The first flaming bolt struck the cliffside and shattered against stone, sparks scattering harmlessly. The second found a wooden watch platform near the base of the slope.
Flame bloomed.
"They're trying to blind us," Orys said.
Robert did not slow.
The tide was nearly full when the first pirate vessel scraped against the rocky shelf. Men leapt from its sides before the hull had fully settled, boots splashing in surf as they formed ranks on wet sand.
They carried shields this time. Large, round, reinforced.
Disciplined.
A horn sounded from the lead ship. The line advanced in tight formation up the narrow stretch of beach.
Stormlander soldiers met them halfway. Steel met steel in a crash that reverberated between cliff and sea.
Robert reached the clash first. He did not slide into formation. He broke into it.
The hammer rose high above his shoulder and came down against the first shield he met. The impact cracked wood and drove the shield-bearer backward into the man behind him. The formation wavered for half a heartbeat.
Robert stepped into that space and swung again.
The second blow crushed through the edge of a shield and caught collarbone beneath. Bone broke audibly even above the surf.
The pirate line responded swiftly, closing around him in a crescent meant to contain his advance. Orys saw it forming from the flank.
He moved left instead of forward.
"Push their right!" he called to the knights nearest him.
The beach narrowed toward the rocks. If the pirate line could be bent there, their disciplined advance would fracture against uneven ground.
Orys entered combat not with roar, but with calculation.
A blade thrust toward his midsection met his shield's rim and slid aside. He stepped inward and struck across the attacker's wrist, forcing the sword from his grasp before pivoting toward the next man in line. Sand shifted treacherously underfoot, wet and unstable near the tide.
Arrows fell from the ships overhead, some glancing off shields, others embedding in sand.
The pirate captain barked orders, attempting to maintain cohesion as Robert's assault tore at the center. Robert was not subtle. He was catastrophic.
Each swing of the hammer created space through sheer destruction. Shields splintered. Helmets dented. Men stumbled under the force even when not directly struck.
But the formation adapted.
Two men engaged Robert high, drawing his guard upward, while a third lunged low toward his unprotected thigh.
Orys reached him first.
His blade intercepted the low strike with a sharp clash. He drove forward with his shoulder and forced the attacker off balance, then slashed across the man's exposed side before he could recover.
Robert did not look back.
He never did.
The pirate line buckled under the combined pressure of force and flanking maneuver. Orys's push along the right forced them toward the rocks, where footing failed and spacing collapsed.
Men slipped.
Shields overlapped poorly.
Stormlander knights pressed hard.
The beach devolved into close-quarters brutality.
Steel rang against steel. Breath came harsh and fast. The smell of salt and blood mingled heavily in the air.
A second ship attempted landing further along the rocks, hoping to split attention.
Orys saw the shift immediately. "They're dividing!" he shouted toward Lord Steffon.
But Robert had already turned.
Hammer raised, he waded through the collapsing first line and sprinted across uneven sand toward the second landing point.
The tide surged higher with each passing moment.
Pirates leapt from the second vessel into waist-deep water, shields held above their heads to protect against arrows from the cliffs above.
Robert met them at the water's edge.
The first blow landed as the pirate's boots touched sand. The hammer struck downward, and the man disappeared beneath surf and steel.
Orys followed close behind, blade flashing in tight arcs to prevent the formation from stabilizing.
The water complicated everything.
Footing was uncertain. Waves crashed unpredictably. A misstep could drag armor downward into choking depths.
Robert did not slow.
He advanced into knee-deep surf, hammer rising and falling in devastating rhythm. One pirate captain attempted to rally his men from atop a rock shelf, shouting commands over the din.
Orys marked him immediately.
He shifted trajectory, weaving through combatants until he reached the base of the rock. A pirate lunged from his right, Orys caught the strike on his shield and answered with a thrust beneath the ribs.
He climbed the rock in two swift movements. The captain swung a curved blade downward, expecting overreach.
Orys did not overreach.
He waited half a breath, then stepped inside the arc and drove his sword forward under the man's raised arm. The captain gasped once and collapsed into the surf below.
Without command, the second landing faltered.
Robert drove forward with renewed fury, hammer smashing through the last of organized resistance. Pirates began retreating toward their ships in disorder now, discipline shattered.
Arrows from Storm's End's cliffs rained down with greater accuracy as the light from torches illuminated retreating figures. The tide worked against them as they tried to reboard.
Several fell before reaching hull.
The remaining ships withdrew in frantic coordination, sails catching wind unevenly as oars beat water in desperate rhythm.
Silence did not fall immediately.
It crept in between heavy breaths and the groan of wounded men. The coast rolled red where bodies lay half-submerged.
Robert stood waist-deep in water, hammer resting against his shoulder, chest heaving. "They won't test us again," he said.
Orys emerged from the shallows more slowly. "They will," he replied.
Robert turned, grinning through blood and seawater alike. "Then we'll be waiting."
Behind them, the cliffs of Storm's End loomed black and unbroken.
The sea had struck harder this time.