Helpless fury ultimately served no purpose in altering the current state of affairs, a realization that dawned on George fairly quickly. He sat dispiritedly on the lord's throne and gave a dismissive wave of his hand. The steward waiting at the entrance immediately scuttled forward with a bow, starting to pick up the fragments of the teacup from the floor. Observing this, George's anger subsided and he began to ponder strategies against the enemy.
It might appear George successfully repelled an attack from the allied forces, but in his heart, he knew it had been just a probing attempt. Should the full might of the allied army besiege the city, how many could he actually stop? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? Perhaps fifty thousand? It was futile; the enemy had the numbers to pile bodies high enough to form a gentle slope.
Now, his objectives were twofold: firstly, he had to defend the city because his role as a figurehead came with the arrival of a war commissioner, and showing cowardice before the battle would relegate the Bradlay name to the mockery of nobility, leaving them no ground in the capital to stand on.
Secondly, he could not die. Causing significant casualties to the allied forces would surely infuriate the dukes, heralding the fall of the city as his death knell. What would become of his family? His house?
Thus, he sought a path that spared the wrath of both sides, feeling like he was tightrope walking over an abyss where the tiniest misstep could undo all prior successes.
Damn it! If they'd just arrived two days later, he could have awaited reinforcements. Such rotten luck!
---
Outside Carnwen Stronghold, with less than a month passing, the meticulously uniform ranks of the allied army were drawn up once more. Raventa, adhering to noble etiquette, arrived at the base of the city to demand surrender, while above him, the ramparts bristled with banners, and tense, alert warriors awaited the appearance of their lead commander.
George surveyed the orderly enemy lines from atop the walls and noticed they seemed prepared for a drawn-out siege, with camps being built by auxiliaries (lightly wounded soldiers) and laborers.
Gray and white tents rose against a wooden fencing background which extended out to chevaux de frise and trenches. Two watchtowers matching the wall's height were under construction on either side of the camp's main gates – soon, soldiers would monitor the city walls around the clock.
There they were setting up camp, while George couldn't muster a response, striking the wall beside him in sheer frustration.
As George sought the opportune moment by observing the enemy's camp arrangements, a robust voice reached his ears.
"George Bradlay, ain't got time for small talk – you giving in or what?" bellowed Raventa from below.
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Oh, how I wish to surrender, George screamed internally while maintaining a visage seething with loathing. "Spencer! Does your insurrection do your lineage justice?"
"If you won't yield, then don't!" Raventa grabbed at George's sore spot and began an incessant taunt. "The Bradlay family's so 'loyal', yet not even a patch of land to your name? Ha!"
For nobility, land is more than bragging rights; it's leverage for conducting affairs – property in hand, and they could do whatever they pleased.
As such, landed nobles like Raventa inherently looked down upon landless Bradlays with a mix of scorn and amusement.
Stumped on how to counter Raventa from atop the walls, George's face slightly reddened, a sense of inferiority welling up from within.
But then George recalled his motivation – a secretive surrender to preserve life and reputation. Bolstering his courage, he shouted, "Enough idle chatter, Spencer, today we shall defend Carnwen Stronghold with certainty."
He promptly turned towards the king's vanguard and the local garrison, raising his voice, "Stand firm for Carnwen Stronghold!"
"To the death for Carnwen Stronghold!" his subordinates cried out, matching their leader's determination.
"To the death for Carnwen Stronghold!" the chorus echoed to Raventa.
"Good," the Northern Duke laughed almost hysterically, "Just don't forget those words when your walls fall."
By then, I'll surely have forgotten, George retorted to himself.
Then silence fell. There was no 'after'...
The two-hundred-thousand-strong army seemed only there to pressure George – they flaunted their valor with gusto. Some officers rode right under the walls, unleashing provoking jeers before ducking away from retaliatory fireballs and bladewinds, returning triumphantly to their ranks. And, believe it or not, a minor unit resembling a performing arts troupe pranced under the elite troops’ protection, literally staging a song and dance below the battlements.
Meanwhile, the beleaguered mages atop, ever attempting to reduce the derisive ones to cinders with great fireballs, were consistently foiled by the protecting elites. The target of scorn himself, George, stayed sequestered in his chamber upon the wall, a sneer of disdain on his face as if the mockery inflicted no wounds.
Truth be told, Mr. George had had his defenses shattered. His soldiers only witnessed their commander's apparently unfazed demeanor, not the cracks he'd wrought upon his teacup. At that moment, George resembled a predatory beast, his abstaining from taking the field only because he held onto the last vestige of his nobility – the guise of disdain for the commoners' mockery.
As the defenders silently admired the spectacle below and inwardly lauded their commander for a composure beyond their ken, an unexpected turn of events occurred...
The performances came to an abrupt end.
And why? Because the night descended, and the show could no longer be seen.
Thus, the performers wove their way back to their nearly completed encampments under a myriad of complex stares from above, and the whole allied army orderly retreated to their camp, showing no signs of attacking.
After a half-day deadlock, alertness waned amid the city's defenders. A relief squad took on their watch, and the quiet contest between the guard and the watchtower sentries resumed.
Midnight came, and as the majority slumbered, those vigilant upon the walls and those sensing the ether remained awake. But it was then, in the silent depths of the night, that a muffled detonation echoed throughout Carnwen Stronghold and its vicinity, startling forest birds into a frenzied exodus toward the dark sky.
George, who had been dozing fitfully within the stronghold due to restless thoughts, wasn't yet lulled into deep sleep. The massive roar snapped him back to wakefulness.
As he burst from his chambers, he yelled, "Enemy attack! Enemy attack! Don't panic! You must hold firm and..."
But as he took in the scene before him, George's command faltered into self-doubt: "...where's my wall?"