Within a few short days, a vengeful host of nearly twenty thousand—composed mostly of noblemen's private armies driven by hatred—marched upon the Westerlands beneath the banners of the Golden Rose of Highgarden and the Crowned Stag.
Gendry rode a powerful warhorse, clad in heavy plate etched with the crowned stag. His great warhammer hung at his saddle. Barristan Selmy followed close behind, armored in white, his cloak billowing in the wind. Randyll Tarly commanded the host.
Once they crossed into the Westerlands, they avoided the fortified castles and strongholds, sweeping instead through the open plains and scattered villages. Everywhere they passed, thick smoke rolled skyward, blotting out the sun. In the fertile Crakehall Vale, golden wheat fields were set ablaze, devouring the ripe harvest and staining the sky a sickly orange-red.
Farmers screamed as they tried to put out the flames, only to be cut down mercilessly by cavalry from the Reach. Villages burned, thatched roofs crackling as beams collapsed and sparks scattered. The screams of women, the cries of children, and the laughter of soldiers mingled in a nightmare chorus. They stormed into every house, seizing all they could. What they could not take, they smashed or burned.
The Reach host swept through the undefended Westerlands like a flood, crushing scattered garrisons with ease. At last, the towering walls and bustling harbor of Lannisport appeared on the horizon. The richest city of the Westerlands now lay gripped by terror. Ships fled the harbor, sails rising hastily, while the city walls teemed with frightened faces.
A Lannister force of nearly ten thousand had hastily formed ranks on the open ground outside the port, desperate to halt the advance. At their head rode Ser Daven Lannister, Tywin's cousin.
He galloped before the lines, shouting to rally his men.
"For Casterly Rock! For the Lannisters! Hold them back!"
But his cries were drowned beneath the deafening horns of the Reach host's charge.
The soldiers of the Reach hurled themselves at the Lannister line. They needed no tactics—only release, only blood to quench their pain. Gendry led the charge! The massive warhammer in his hands seemed weightless. His strength burst forth, smashing through the Lannisters' shield wall. The hammer swung with a terrifying whistle, crashing down with unstoppable force. Gendry was like a living battering ram, tearing a bloody path through their ranks. Shields shattered, spears splintered, blood sprayed.
The Reach soldiers, driven mad by their king's fury, poured into the breach, clashing hand to hand with the Lannister troops. Daven Lannister saw the spearhead of the assault—the blood-slick hammer, the crowned stag gleaming on the young king's armor. Rage and honor ignited within him. He spurred his horse forward.
"For the Lannisters!"
He lowered his lance, eyes resolute beneath the golden lion helm. The two riders charged headlong toward each other. Gendry did not flinch. His gaze locked on that golden helm. With a roar like a beast, he swung the warhammer with both hands, meeting the thrusting lance head-on.
Clang—Crack! The steel lancehead bent, then snapped under the hammer's might. Without slowing, the blow crashed into Daven Lannister's golden helm.
A wet, crushing sound followed. The ornate lion helm, along with the head inside, crumpled inward. Blood sprayed, splattering across Gendry's face. Daven Lannister made no sound as his body toppled from the saddle like a sack of grain, hitting the muddy ground with a heavy thud.
"Ser Daven is dead!"
"Long live the King!"
"Slaughter them all!"
The soldiers of The Reach erupted in a deafening roar, their morale surging to its peak. The death of the Lannister army's commander proved the final straw that broke the camel's back. The already demoralized Westerlands soldiers collapsed instantly. They dropped their weapons, wailing as they turned and fled, surging toward the gates of Lannisport.
"The gates! Close the gates!"
Panicked screams echoed from the ramparts. But the tide of retreating soldiers was too swift; the gates were breached before they could be shut, crushed open by the flood of fleeing men.
"Charge!"
Randyll Tarly commanded coldly, "Plunder Lannisport! Burn it! Kill it! Steal it!"
The soldiers of The Reach roared as they trampled over the corpse of Ser Daven, surged past the scattering Westerlands remnants, and poured into the bustling city. Massacre spread through the streets. Warehouses piled high with goods in the harbor district were set ablaze, billowing smoke filling the air. The mansions of wealthy merchants were smashed open. Exquisite carpets were trampled by boots caked in mud and blood. Gold and silver vessels were seized in frenzied looting.
Narrow streets became slaughterhouses. Any Westerlands who dared resist or merely stood in the way—men, women, children—were cut down without mercy. Cries of terror echoed throughout the city. The soldiers of The Reach, eyes gleaming with madness and vengeful delight, poured out their pent-up suffering and hatred upon every Westerlands and their possessions they could lay eyes on.
Gendry rode his horse, following the surging tide into Lannisport, watching the bloody scene with a certain bewilderment. Randyll Tarly rode up beside him.
"Your Grace, leave the harbor and the wealthy districts to them. You must move to the high ground outside the city to command the mopping up of remaining resistance and watch for reinforcements."
Gendry nodded mechanically. With Barristan and a squad of elite guards, he turned his horse and rode toward a high hill outside the city that overlooked the harbor and part of the town. He needed air.
...
Yet, no sooner had they galloped out of the burning, looted outlying towns of the port district and onto the dirt road leading to the heights, when suddenly—
Woo—woo-woo-woo—!
A series of deep, drawn-out horn blasts rolled abruptly in from the northeast horizon. Immediately afterward, the earth began to tremble. It was the thunderous roar of countless hooves pounding the earth. Gendry, Barristan, Randyll Tarly, and all the guards instantly paled, whipping their heads around.
A towering wall of dust rose on the horizon. At its forefront, the black army bore banners embroidered with the howling direwolf! More chilling still, endless waves of Dothraki warhorses surged from both sides of the dust cloud. Bare-chested or clad in leather armor, they brandished Arakh, their blood-curdling war cries piercing the air.
"Stark?!"
"The North?!"
"Dothraki?!"
Shouts erupted around Gendry, filled with disbelieving horror.
High upon the ridge, Robb Stark rode his warhorse, Grey Wind crouched at his feet. His gaze swept past the burning Lannisport, fixed on the banners fluttering atop the high ground beyond the harbor. Golden roses clustered around a crowned stag.
Tyrell! Baratheon!
A torrent of rage instantly consumed Robb's reason. The image of his father's brutal death in King's Landing burned in his heart day and night. In his mind, Robert's foolish indulgence, Renly's lust for power, and the Tyrells' opportunism had all led his father into the Lannisters' clutches. Their hands were equally stained with his father's blood. Now they dared set foot in the Westerlands? Dare to plunder the fruits of his Stark vengeance?
Robb drew his sword from its sheath with a violent jerk, pointing it directly at the banner of the golden rose and crowned stag waving atop the hill.
"For the North! For Winterfell! For House Stark!"
"Slaughter them all!"
"Leave not a single one alive!"