The kettle felt warm against Stannis Baratheon's hand as he raised it to his lips. He moistened his parched throat, his stern eyes lifting to the sky. The Reach had always been a land of golden fields and gentle warmth, but today the heavens seemed intent on mirroring the tension of men at war. Heavy banks of dark clouds had gathered, blotting out the pale afternoon sun. A faint wind whispered through the grass, carrying with it the smell of iron, leather, and sweat.
In the Reach, autumn weather turned swiftly. A bright dawn could shift to overcast gloom by dusk. Stannis thought it fitting—the realm itself seemed just as unstable, every victory turning sour, every calm broken by storm.
"Your Majesty," murmured Ser Alester Florent, leaning close so that only the king might hear, "it is time to withdraw. Randyll Tarly will not give you battle today. He fears your reputation, and his men are worn thin after skirmishing in the heat with full armor. To linger longer would only tire our own soldiers."
Stannis's mouth curled, not quite into a smile, but into something resembling grim amusement. "The Lord of Horn Hill fears ambush more than he fears me. He will not face us on open ground because he believes I have traps waiting."
He shifted in his saddle, gloved fingers tapping Lightbringer's hilt. "Ser Hoph has already intercepted more than a dozen of their scouting parties. That alone has made Tarly cautious. He has learned not to underestimate me, though it seems he has learned too well."
Florent inclined his head. "So you would retreat?"
"I will not call it retreat." The king's voice was iron. "He dares not face me in honest battle, and so the shame is his, not mine. Better to draw back in good order than waste lives in waiting."
He knew too well what such decisions meant. Stannis's command was a hard one—discipline before plunder, justice before indulgence. Soldiers often hated him for it. Many knights had lost their heads for rapine and murder. Many common soldiers had swung from ropes for lesser crimes. Only through strict fairness did he maintain any measure of loyalty, and even that often required spoils divided more generously than he liked. If ever he faltered, if ever he showed weakness, his men might abandon him altogether.
He could not afford to be seen as timid. Nor could he afford a defeat.
Raising his voice so all nearby captains might hear, Stannis barked, "Orders! Spearmen to the flanks, infantry at the fore, archers in the rear. We march back along the road in formation. No straggling. No disorder." He pointed his whip northward toward the dark forest that loomed in the distance. "And find Ser Hoph. Bring him to me."
The messengers scattered, horses pounding along the lines, repeating his commands. The orderly clamor of movement began as companies shifted into position. No panicked flight, no signs of weakness—only soldiers marching as Stannis demanded.
Soon, Ser Richard Hoph rode forth, blood still caked on his cheek from the afternoon's skirmishes. His armor was dented, his horse foaming, yet he held himself proudly. "Your Majesty, you sent for me?"
Stannis measured him a long moment. The man was loyal, brave, and reckless—qualities that could either serve or doom an army. "You are bloodied. Can you still fight?"
Hoph straightened, his jaw tightening. "Of course. For Your Grace, I would shatter myself to pieces if need be."
"I require no shattered men," Stannis replied coldly. "Do you see that forest to the north?" He gestured with his whip. "You will take two thousand cavalry there. Watch the Reach host. If they do not pursue before midnight, rejoin me on the road. If they do—" His voice sharpened, like steel on stone. "Then give them such a welcome that they never dare follow again."
Flushed red with excitement, Ser Hoph bowed deeply. "It will be done, Your Majesty. I swear it on my honor."
---
In the Reach camp
Across the fields, within the Reach encampment, the young knight Ser Hugh Beesbury paced like a restless colt. His cheeks burned with frustration as he confronted Randyll Tarly. "Lord Tarly, must we sit idle? Can a show of stillness truly drive them away? Honeycomb City lies south of us, perhaps under siege. My kin may already be imperiled!"
Tarly, seated stiffly on a stool, ground his teeth against the constant ache in his knees. Age and weight had begun to betray him, but his mind remained sharp. He ignored Hugh's plea and turned instead to Ser Desmond Redwyne, commander of Oldtown's cavalry. "What news from your scouts?"
Desmond's expression was grim. "None have returned, my lord. I sent men seasoned in the saddle, veterans who have won honors at tourneys, yet even they vanish in the woods. Stannis's outriders are ghosts. Every party is intercepted."
The shame stung him visibly, for the Redwynes prided themselves on their horsemanship.
"That," Randyll declared flatly, "tells us all we need to know. Stannis Baratheon has laid snares. He is waiting for us to ride foolishly into his trap. Only imbeciles would oblige him."
"But Honeycomb City—" Hugh tried again, desperate.
"Enough," Tarly snapped, voice harsh as a whipcrack. "Would you risk ten thousand men to gamble on a maybe? No sane commander endangers an army for one town. Not even for your bees."
The rebuke silenced Hugh. His fists clenched helplessly.
Tarly rose with effort, wincing, and issued a final decree. "Hear me well: without my explicit order, no one rides. Disobey, and you are rebels. Rebels are hanged." He turned his back and left the tent.
Humfrey Hightower, the youngest of Oldtown's lordly brood, clapped Hugh's shoulder with a half-smile. "Be easy. Reinforcements come. Ser Loras marches with five thousand horse, joined by ten thousand Lannister foot. They ride south along the coast road. Soon we will crush Stannis between hammer and anvil. Honeycomb will be retaken swiftly."
"Retaken," Hugh muttered bitterly, "as ashes." Yet he held his tongue. He could not gainsay Randyll Tarly, not here, not now.
---
The March
Days bled together as Stannis's host marched north along the Rose Road. From Honeycomb to Highgarden was less than five hundred kilometers, and the journey should have taken little more than a fortnight. Fifteen days passed in weary monotony, broken only by the constant struggle of scouts and raiders. Every forest seemed haunted, every stream or hill contested. Bodies left behind in ditches fed the crows.
At last, rounding a low ridge, Stannis's army beheld a grim sight. Ahead, smoke rose in dark plumes. A vast camp lay aflame. Cavalry galloped around the perimeter, torches arcing into the air. Over the chaos fluttered the golden rose of House Tyrell, alongside the crimson lion of House Lannister.
The Stormlands' stag still flew defiantly above the camp walls, but its defenders fought desperately. At the gates, Lannister soldiers pressed hard, while Tyrell knights harried the flanks. Arrows rained in deadly volleys, men screaming and falling amidst the tilled fields now soaked in blood. The earth itself seemed to weep.
"Sound the horns!" Stannis commanded. Deep notes boomed across the valley. From three sides his cavalry emerged—under banners of griffin, raven, and fox—charging like unleashed storms.
At the gates, Lannister spearmen tried to form a wall, but they were too slow. Stormland cavalry smashed through them, trampling men like grass. Elsewhere, the griffin and raven banners plunged into reserves waiting idly, while the fox-banner knights collided with Highgarden riders beneath the triple golden flower.
The infantry advanced more slowly, spears bristling, shields overlapping like the hide of some monstrous hedgehog. In their midst, atop a tall destrier, Stannis Baratheon rode, gleaming crown aflame above his brow. Unlike Robert, he never led the charge. His place was here, at the center, to command and to endure.
---
Clash of Flowers and Fire
The Highgarden cavalry, momentarily shaken, quickly rallied. They wheeled beneath Loras Tyrell's banner. The Knight of Flowers, resplendent in gilt plate, urged them on with burning fury. His eyes blazed as if Renly's ghost rode with him. With cries of vengeance, thousands of riders thundered toward Stannis's spear lines.
"Archers, looseshafts!" cried the captains. A black rain fell, yet heavy armor turned most aside.
The impact was dreadful. Warhorses, armored and blindfolded for terror, crashed into spears and shields. Men were skewered, shields splintered, lines broken. Screams filled the air as cavalrymen rose from falls, hacking with greatswords, only to be stabbed down by relentless spears. Still, the hedge faltered beneath sheer momentum. Another wave came, then another, until the Stormlands line wavered like grass in a gale.
At their head, Loras Tyrell drove forward, his lance skewering foes. "Stannis!" he cried, voice ringing above the din. His rage was a torch, burning bright.
Beside the king rode Melisandre, her ruby pulsing with inner fire, her eyes reflecting the fury of battle. She whispered words no one else heard, lips shaping prayers or curses. The Knight of Flowers seemed haloed in flame to her gaze.
"Stop him," Stannis ordered, drawing Lightbringer. Its blade glowed with fiery hues, casting light even through the dark clouds.
"I'll meet him!" roared Ser Hoph. With a handful of loyal retainers, he spurred forward. Lowering his visor, he leveled his lance.
The distance closed swiftly. Loras, confident, remembered the tourney at King's Landing, when he had unhorsed this very man. He aimed for the throat. Victory seemed certain.
But then—a searing pain struck his mind, a fire scorching his very soul. He screamed, distracted for an instant. In that heartbeat, Hoph's lance slammed against his chest. The Knight of Flowers toppled, cast down from his saddle.
A stunned silence rippled. The golden flower banner faltered as its bearer was struck by axe, collapsing into dust. Seeing their champion fall, Highgarden riders wavered, then fled in disarray. Tyrell retainers scrambled to drag Loras away, retreating through the chaos.
The field turned. Stannis exhaled, relief tempered with resolve. He was ready to order pursuit—when horns blared behind him.
---
The Turning Tide
From the south, a new force appeared: two thousand cavalry in dark blue armor, banners of the White Tower flying high. Oldtown had arrived.
"Griffins! To me!" cried Ser Roland Connington, rallying under his red griffin. "For Baratheon!" He charged to intercept. Earl Morrigen of Crow's Nest joined him, their banners plunging into the melee against Hightower's horse.
The camp gate remained contested. Lannister soldiers rallied desperately, while Stormland defenders pressed outward under the sea turtle banner. For a moment, all hung in balance.
Then Stannis saw it: Randyll Tarly's swift hunter banner advancing with thousands of spears behind. His jaw clenched. Too soon. Too fast.
"My orders," he declared sharply. "Regroup. Fall back into the camp in order. No more open battle."
He could not allow weary men to break against fresh foes. If Loras rose again to rally, disaster would follow.
The battered hedgehog formation withdrew step by step, horns guiding them. The onion banner charged forth, escorting Stannis into the safety of camp walls. Behind them, the fields lay carpeted with corpses, banners torn, horses shrieking.
Seeing pursuit was hopeless, Randyll Tarly blew retreat. The Hightower horse wheeled away. Stannis's banners likewise drew back. Both sides had bled, neither victorious.
"Clear the field," Stannis commanded, voice weary. On the other side, Tarly gave the same order. The battle was done—but war was not.
---
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