The morning light, warm as a hearth fire, spilled across the clear river and golden fields of wheat.
"Your Grace, the city will soon fall."
Davos Seaworth stood upon a grassy slope, squinting through a spyglass at Honeyholt, which lay ringed by soldiers. He lowered the glass and turned to his king. "I still counsel that once Honeyholt is taken, we should march back to the Stormlands. We have ventured too deep."
Since crossing the mountain paths with twenty thousand Stormlanders, Stannis Baratheon's host had advanced with startling speed. They had swept through the Reach like a brushfire, capturing Bitterbridge, Longtable, Cider Hall, and more than a dozen lesser manors and villages. The thunder of their hooves had scarred half the fertile land.
The Florents had been restored to Brightwater Keep, which Stannis claimed as his command seat. From there, he pressed the war deeper into the southern Reach.
Now, as he stood watching the siege towers grind forward under a storm of arrows, he knew Honeyholt's fate was sealed. Once engines were raised and ladders planted, few castles of Westeros could withstand a determined assault. And Honeyholt, small and built by the river, could not compare to strongholds like Storm's End or Harrenhal.
Stannis's jaw tightened. "This is rebellion, Ser Davos. Rebellion must be answered to the end. The Tyrell strength is held at Bitterbridge. My men are eager, my lords crave victory. If I retreat now, what will they think? That their king is a man who begins but does not finish? That he fears?"
His blue eyes turned cold as iron. "And what king who fears can make others fear him?"
Davos met his gaze, uneasy. "It was I who urged you to strike the Reach, Your Grace. Yet now it is I who urge caution."
"Then tell me," Stannis said, voice flat, "how I am to explain retreat to Caswell, to Haywood Fell, to Alester Florent—and to the host of other lords who bleed for me now?"
The Onion Knight had no answer. He had urged this campaign for plunder and position: to weaken the Reach, to shake the court at King's Landing, to reward the Stormlander houses. Three gains with one blow. But wars, once set in motion, did not halt so easily. Victories had come too swiftly, spoils too rich. Few men would willingly abandon what they had taken—not even a king.
Then another voice drifted from the royal tent, low and languid.
"Your Grace, the night is dark and full of terrors. In the flames I beheld a crowned stag caught amidst beasts and thorns. Ser Davos speaks wisely."
Melisandre of Asshai stepped forth, copper-red hair blazing like fire in the sunlight, the ruby at her throat pulsing as if alive.
Davos stared, surprised to hear her agreement. At the beginning of the campaign, the queen's men had railed against this venture, declaring the Lord of Light demanded war on King's Landing itself.
Stannis folded his arms. "Visions will not sway my bannermen."
Yet inwardly, he could not deny the grim satisfaction of his march. The Reach lords had starved Storm's End for a year during Robert's Rebellion. He had survived on onions then—onions brought by Davos. If not for that, rats might have been his only fare.
Blood and fire were vengeance enough.
"The omens will come swiftly," Melisandre said. "Your knights need only stand true."
"Then let us see," Stannis muttered, turning back to the walls.
Honeyholt's gates shuddered, then splintered. Smoke coiled into the sky. Soon the crowned stag of Baratheon and the flaming heart of R'hllor were raised side by side upon the battlements. Within the hour the king would be ushered into the fallen holdfast, where spoils would be tallied and rewards distributed, as had been done a dozen times before.
But before the ritual could begin, a shout broke through the camp.
"Make way! Urgent news!"
A rider burst from the southern road, his armor dented, an arrow still jutting from the plates. Freckles and old scars marred his face. The guards let him pass without hindrance.
He dismounted and dropped to one knee. "Your Grace. Reachmen march from Oldtown—no fewer than ten thousand. Their banners are Tarly of Horn Hill, Hightower of Oldtown, Costayne of Three Towers, Bulwer of Blackcrown, and Redwyne of the Arbor."
Stannis's brows drew tight. "Tarly? Randyll Tarly was my prisoner in Twinsford, was he not? How does he ride free here?"
He had bypassed Horn Hill on his advance—it was stoutly held and not worth the delay.
Lord Estermont, old and sharp-eyed, stepped forward. "Wars shift swiftly, Your Grace. The Young Wolf fights Ironborn and rebels in his north. Riverlords, weary of blood, may well have bargained with the Iron Throne. They are fickle men."
Stannis's lips curled. "What in the seven hells is Robb Stark about, to release so vital a captive?"
"Perhaps Lord Tywin sent back Stark's sister and the great sword Ice," Estermont said. "A bargain he could not refuse. They still keep the Kingslayer in chains, which grants them comfort enough."
Davos seized the moment. "Your Grace, we cannot dismiss this. The Hightowers do not ride to war lightly, and Tarly is their spearpoint. You know well his—"
"Yes. I know it." Stannis cut him short. His voice was grim. "Randyll Tarly does not fight battles he cannot win. If he leads ten thousand, then more are behind. Lannister strength, most like."
Estermont offered quickly, "We might march north along the Rose Road. Infantry in line, cavalry on the wings. Tarly's force is lesser. He will not dare press too hard."
Melisandre's eyes glowed like embers. "Your Grace, the stag is in the thorns. The beasts circle. Choose well—for the true war yet to come."
Stannis's jaw hardened. "I will not be chased from the field like a craven. If I must leave, it shall not be with my tail between my legs. No man shall say Stannis Baratheon fled from Randyll Tarly."
His gaze fell upon the scout. "Ser Richard Hope. You know the ground here. Find me a field where we may break them."
The knight's scarred face did not flinch. "A league south, Your Grace, lies a plain sloping from north to south. Strong ground for us. I will lead the vanguard to hold it."
"Go. Take five hundred riders. Scout them well."
When Hope galloped off, Stannis turned to Davos and Estermont. "I trust you both. Gather the remainder. March north and hold Highgarden. It is the crossroad of the Ocean Road and Rose Road. Any Lannister host seeking to flank us must pass there. Stop them."
Estermont bowed stiffly. "It shall be done."
Davos hesitated but knew further counsel was wasted. "I will see it done, Your Grace."
When they had gone, Stannis turned to Melisandre. "Lady, you remain with me."
She smiled faintly. "Always, Your Grace. Always."
---
Far to the south, Randyll Tarly rode at the head of his host. His knee ached, a bitter gift of damp dungeons in Twinsford, but he betrayed no weakness. A commander who showed pain invited doubt, and Randyll Tarly would show none.
Dust clouded the horizon. Scouts returned at speed.
"My lord, a great host lies ahead—near ten thousand. They hold the slope above the road, in ready array."
"Take me there," Tarly commanded.
Upon the rise, his glass showed him Stannis's army spread with ruthless order. Archers stood in double rank at the fore, their bowstrings taut. Behind them, a wall of spears bristled like a hedgehog's quills. Rows of armored footmen waited beyond, helms glinting, axes and short spears at the ready.
On either wing, three thousand mailed horse shifted in the sunlight, lances gleaming, their destriers armored and caparisoned with Stormlander sigils—turtle of Estermont, sun and moon of Tarth, horned owl of Mertyns.
At the rear, atop the highest slope, the crowned stag of Baratheon and the flaming heart of R'hllor streamed in the wind. Around them, two thousand in reserve guarded the king himself, clad in black steel.
It was a hard, unyielding sight. Once comrades under Renly's banner, now enemies.
A small party of horse broke from the host, bearing a banner of parley. Tarly held his ground.
The scarred knight rode forward and reined in sharply. "Lord Tarly, His Grace thanks you for receiving his messenger."
"Speak," Randyll said flatly.
"You will name him King."
"He is your king, not mine. Say what you came to say."
Ser Hope's hand twitched at his hilt, but he mastered himself. "His Grace bids you know he will wait upon that slope until sunset. If by then you have not given battle, he shall depart. You have ample hours to prepare."
Without another word, he wheeled and rode back.
Tarly's knights roared with outrage.
"Insufferable arrogance!"
"Let us charge now and cut them down!"
But Tarly's eyes narrowed. He was not swayed by bluster. "Send riders. Bypass their host. I would know what becomes of the rest of Stannis's army at Honeyholt."
The battle would come soon enough. But Randyll Tarly would not fight blind.
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