The sky over the Reach was a suffocating shroud of dreary gray. Stannis Baratheon raised his iron kettle, moistening his parched lips with a few drops of stale water, and looked up at the sun, now nothing more than a pale, sickly bruise behind the clouds. In this part of the world, autumn weather changed with the speed of a sellsword's loyalty; a morning of golden warmth could turn into a freezing, overcast dusk before the midday meal was settled.
"Your Grace, it is time to depart," Lord Alester Florent whispered, his voice hushed with a nervous urgency. "Randyll Tarly fears your prestige and dares not close the distance. Our men have spent the afternoon in full plate, and the weight is beginning to tell on their stamina."
"Hmph," Stannis grunted, his jaw set in a rhythmic grind. "The Lord of Horn Hill is not afraid of my name. He is afraid that I have learned the Karstark boy's tricks. He suspects an ambush in every shadow, which is why he sits there like a stone."
Stannis twitched the corner of his mouth, a motion that passed for a smile in his grim world. "Ser Richard Hope has intercepted a dozen of his scout teams. After being caged by the 'Winter Wizard' at the Crossing, Tarly has become more cautious than a virgin in a brothel. Since he refuses the challenge, we shall give him the road."
Stannis understood the fragile nature of his command. He was not a King people loved; he was a King people feared, or at best, respected for his rigid adherence to justice. He had beheaded knights for looting and hanged commoners for theft. To maintain the loyalty of the Stormlands and the Florents, he could never show a hint of cowardice.
"Spearmen to the flanks! Infantry in the vanguard! Archers to the rear!" Stannis's voice cut through the wind. "Withdraw in an orderly fashion. And bring Ser Hoph to me."
Ser Richard Hope rode over, his face still streaked with the dried, black blood of a scout skirmish. "Your Grace?"
"Can you still fight, Ser Richard?"
"For you, Your Grace, I would fight until I am broken into pieces," the knight replied, his gaze sharp and resolute.
"I do not need you broken," Stannis said, pointing his horsewhip toward a dense forest a few miles to the north. "Take two thousand cavalry. Monitor the Reach army from those trees. If they pursue us before midnight, give them a proper welcome. If not, catch up to the main force by dawn."
"I will not fail you, Your Grace," Ser Richard vowed, his face flushing with the heat of the assignment.
Inside the Reach camp, the atmosphere was one of simmering frustration.
"Lord Tarly, can we truly scare off a King by simply staring at him?" Ser Hugh Beesbury demanded, his face red with anxiety. He was the messenger from Honeycomb City, and in his mind, every hour spent in this standoff was an hour his family spent under Stannis's heel.
Randyll Tarly ignored the boy, his eyes fixed on the reports brought by his sub-commanders. Desmond Redwyne, who commanded the Oldtown cavalry, stood nearby with a grim expression. "None of the scouts have returned, My Lord. Stannis has a perimeter of iron."
"That means he has prepared a 'gift' for us," Tarly said, his voice a cold rasp. He rubbed his aching knees, a lingering reminder of his time in the Karstark dungeons. The defeat at the Crossing had changed him. He no longer believed in his own invincibility. "Unless we are fools, we do not step into a trap when the bait is so obvious."
"But Honeycomb City-" Hugh started.
"Ten thousand men do not risk a slaughter for the sake of one small castle," Tarly interrupted, his gaze turning lethal. "Without my order, no one moves. Those who disobey will be treated as rebels. Is that clear?"
Humfrey Hightower, the youngest son of the Lord of Oldtown, patted Hugh's shoulder as Tarly walked away. "Patience, Ser. The ravens say Loras Tyrell has rendezvoused with the Lannister veterans. They are marching down the coastal road. Soon, we will have Stannis in a pincer. Then, we retake everything."
Fifteen days passed in a blur of monotonous marching and bloody scouting skirmishes. The road from Honeycomb City back toward the base camp near Highgarden was a five-hundred-kilometer trek that tested the endurance of every man in the host.
When Stannis's army finally rounded the last ridge, they found a nightmare waiting for them.
Their base camp was a sea of fire. Squads of Highgarden cavalry were galloping around the perimeter, tossing torches into the dry tents. The banners of the Golden Rose and the three flowers of Loras Tyrell fluttered in the smoke, alongside the red-and-gold lions of Lannister.
The base camp's defenders, those Stannis had left behind to block the junction were fighting a desperate battle at the gates against gold-clad Westerlands spearmen. The Crowned Stag still flew over the central command tent, but it was a lonely island in a sea of enemies.
WHOOOO--OOOSH!
The Stormlands horns blared. Stannis didn't hesitate. He had the advantage of the heights and the momentum of the return.
"CAVALRY! CHARGE!"
A steel torrent descended. Roland Connington led the griffin banner into the melee at the camp gate. Lester Morrigen followed the black raven into the Lannister reserves. Alester Florent led the red-gold fox to meet the Tyrell riders gathered under the flower banners.
Stannis sat in the center of a massive infantry hedgehog, his flaming crown conspicuous against the gray sky. He was no Robert; he did not seek the glory of the first blood. He was the conductor of this orchestra of death, directing the flow of his reserves with a cold, analytical eye.
At the camp gate, the Lannister infantry tried to form a spear-wall, but the Karstark-trained (and now Stannis-hardened) cavalry were too fast. They trampled the red-cloaks into the mud.
But Loras Tyrell was not his father. The "Knight of Flowers" saw Stannis and felt the heat of a thousand grievances. To Loras, Stannis wasn't a King; he was the kinslayer who had murdered the man Loras loved.
"STANNIS!" Loras roared, his voice cracking with fury.
He led a wedge of fifty heavy, horse-armored knights straight for the King's position. They ignored the archers. They ignored the pikes. They were a silver blur of vengeance.
The first wave of Stormlands archers loosed a volley, but the arrows skipped off the polished Tyrell plate like rain. The blindfolded warhorses crashed into the Stormlands shield-wall with the force of a falling star. Men were impaled, shields were shattered, and for a moment, the hedgehog began to leak blood.
Loras Tyrell's lance took two men down before it snapped. He drew his sword, his eyes burning.
Melisandre rode beside Stannis, her copper-red hair moving without a breeze, the ruby at her throat pulsing with a rhythmic, sickening heat. She watched the Knight of Flowers approach.
"Stop him!" Stannis commanded, drawing Lightbringer. The blade glowed with a blinding, unnatural radiance that rivaled the sun.
"I've got him!" Ser Richard Hope spurred his horse forward to intercept Loras.
Loras recognized the skull-moths on the man's chest, a foe he had unhorsed at the Hand's Tourney. He raised his blade, aiming for the throat-guard. But as the steel was about to meet, Loras's world suddenly turned into an inferno.
A sharp, searing pain exploded behind his eyes. It felt as if a branding iron had been thrust into his brain, the heat of a thousand fires scorching his soul. Loras let out a scream of pure, unmitigated agony. His vision went white.
In that heartbeat of weakness, Ser Richard's lance struck Loras's breastplate with a resounding CRACK. The Knight of Flowers was lifted out of his saddle, falling into the mud in a blur of silk and silver.
With the fall of the three golden flowers, the Tyrell cavalry faltered. Shouts of alarm rippled through their ranks. Their retainers scrambled to recover their fallen lord, dragging Loras's unconscious body away as they began a frantic retreat through the gap they had just carved.
"It is over," Stannis whispered, preparing to order the pursuit.
BARRRRR-RUM!
A new horn blast echoed from the south. A fresh cavalry unit of two thousand men in dark blue armor appeared, led by the white tower of House Hightower. Behind them, the Striding Hunter of House Tarly slowly emerged from the mist.
Tarly had arrived.
Stannis ground his teeth. His men were exhausted. They had marched for fifteen days and fought a desperate melee. They could not face Tarly's fresh vanguard in the open field.
"REGROUP!" Stannis commanded. "ENTER THE CAMP IN AN ORDERLY FASHION!"
The much-reduced Stormlands formation backed into the fortified camp, escorted by the Onion Knight's personal guards. Seeing the pursuit was hopeless and the Lannister infantry had been saved from total annihilation, Randyll Tarly signaled the retreat.
The field fell silent, save for the groans of the thousands of wounded lying in the churned mud of the Reach.
"Clear the field," Stannis and Tarly commanded simultaneously from their respective lines.
The hunt was over for today. The harvest of bones had just begun.
[Narrative Shift: The Battle of the Highgarden Junction ends in a Stalemate.]
[Strategic Status: Loras Tyrell incapacitated (Mental Trauma).]
[Casualties: High (Both Sides).]
[Soul Power Potential: Immense (Scavenging needed).]
Drop Some Power Stones Plz.
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