From the edge of the dense cedar forest, an endless host poured forth. At the very front flew the banner of House Fossoway of Cider Hall, marked with a bright green apple. Behind it followed the sigils of Red Lake, Old Oak, and many other houses of The Reach.
The soldiers spread like a tide. Spears rose like a forest, swords and shields formed a wall. In moments, they filled the western meadow of Ashford, cutting off Addam's retreat westward. At a glance, their numbers easily exceeded ten thousand.
Ser Jon Fossoway rode at the head of the host upon a proud bay warhorse. His green plate armor, trimmed with silver, gleamed faintly under the overcast sky. The green apple on his breastplate shone vividly in the gloom. Fatigue lingered on his face, but beneath it burned the fury born of repeated Lannister provocations. He fixed Addam with a cold, unblinking stare.
"Addam Marbrand," he shouted, "take your jackals and crawl back out of The Reach—or Ashford will be your grave!"
Addam's heart sank. Damn it—they'd caught up. And the enemy had them hopelessly outnumbered.
He forced himself to stay calm, scanning the opposing ranks. There were many banners, but the formation looked loose. The soldiers' armor varied in quality; many faces were pale and uneasy. Conscripts. Farmers, not fighters. That steadied him a little. If they weren't seasoned troops, his cavalry still had a chance.
Then a knight rode forth from The Reach lines, his cloak bearing the sigil of Red Lake. It was Rycherd Crane. He urged his horse forward and halted between the two armies. Following the customs of noble war, he raised his voice.
"Ser Addam Marbrand! By order of Lord Jon Fossoway—withdraw east from The Reach, pass around the Stormlands, and we will guarantee your safe departure. Refuse, and you will answer for it!"
Bypass the Stormlands? Addam sneered inwardly. He knew what the Stormlands were like now—Viserys was there with thirty thousand Dothraki, burning and plundering everything in sight. Riding into that would be suicide. And surrender? Utter nonsense.
"Safe departure?" His voice dripped with scorn.
"Spare me your Reachmen's false mercy. I'm crossing this bridge today—step aside, or let the sword speak!"
Tension crackled between the lines. Then—
Whoosh!
An arrow tore through the air with a sharp hiss, loosed suddenly from the flank of The Reach army. It wasn't aimed at Addam. It veered upward, then dropped weakly, landing in the grass just short of the Westerlands' front line.
The single arrow struck like a spark thrown into boiling oil.
"Kill them! Avenge our homes!"
"Lannister scum! They burned my house! They killed my son!"
"Charge! Slaughter these Westerlands wolves!"
The displaced farmers and bereaved survivors from places like Highgarden and the Meadhall—lands ravaged by Lannister forces—had been conscripted by Jon Fossoway. Their hearts were already overflowing with hatred.
Ser Jon had followed Ser Baelor's "expulsion strategy," avoiding direct battle with the Westerlands. But that restraint only allowed their suppressed fury to build until it finally exploded.
Hundreds, then thousands of enraged Reach soldiers ignored their officers' screams and commands, breaking formation. Wielding their spears and howling like beasts, they charged madly toward the Westerlands lines.
In their eyes, there were no formations or tactics—only a searing hatred for the Westerlands.
"Halt! Return! You bastards! That's insubordination!"
Jon Fossoway's face went deathly pale. He bellowed himself hoarse, trying to stop them. But once hatred's floodgates burst, how could mere men hold it back? The formation he had worked so carefully to maintain shattered instantly beneath the surge of madness.
Rycherd Crane stood stunned, his mind blank as chaos consumed the field.
In that brief moment of shock, a figure flashed past him like lightning.
It was Steffon Swyft.
The Westerlands knight, his eyes burning with hatred, gave Rycherd no chance to react. Using his horse's momentum, he drove his sword forward with all his strength, plunging it into Rycherd's neck from the side.
"Guh—"
Rycherd Crane managed only a short, strangled groan before warm blood erupted from his severed artery, spraying across his Red Lake surcoat and the grass below. His wide eyes still held shock as his body toppled from the saddle.
"The Reach scum! Kill them all!"
Seeing this, Addam Marbrand's last trace of hesitation vanished, replaced by a raging bloodlust. He knew the war was now inevitable.
When two foes meet on the battlefield, the brave prevail. And his cavalry was the pride of the Westerlands.
Raising his sword high, he roared to the heavens.
"Warriors of the Westerlands! For glory! For our fallen brothers! Charge! Tear them apart!"
"ROAR—!!!"
Seven thousand Westerlands cavalrymen, driven by fury, unleashed a deafening war cry. Heavy hooves thundered across the fertile grasslands of Ashford, the earth trembling under the weight of iron.
A torrent of steel gathered into a single, unstoppable wave, crashing headlong into the frenzied ranks of The Reach infantry.
The first line of Reach soldiers was flung aside, trampled beneath the charging warhorses. The lances of the Westerlands pierced through leather armor and flesh with ease, and each swing of a sword sent blood spraying into the air.
The Reach soldiers' momentum broke instantly. The front ranks slammed into the oncoming cavalry like men charging a city wall—and were crushed without mercy.
Jon Fossoway watched in horror as his army collapsed like meat cast into a grinder. His eyes bulged, his heart twisted in agony.
He shouted orders to the remnants of his New Barrel City guards still under command.
"Hold the line! Archers, fire! Cover the flanks! Ashford! Get your men on their flank, now!"
Lord Ashford saw the terrifying might of the Westerlands charge. He knew that once Jon's main host fell, he would be next.
Gritting his teeth, he ordered a detachment of bridge defenders to swing around the southern end of the stone bridge, attempting to strike the cavalry's flank.
But the hastily deployed infantry were no match for the charging horsemen. They were cut down mercilessly by the Westerlands' swift, coordinated squadrons.
The battlefield dissolved into chaos.
Armed with superior weapons, discipline, and sheer ferocity, the Westerlands cavalry tore repeatedly through the disorganized Reach infantry, unstoppable in their advance.
Though vast in number, The Reach soldiers lacked command, their armor poor and their training weak. Under the relentless assaults, their casualties mounted and morale collapsed before the naked eye.
One by one, soldiers broke and fled, exposing their backs to the pursuing cavalry—and dying even faster.
The grasslands of Ashford, once a sacred ground of knightly honor, were now soaked in blood and strewn with corpses.
Just as the Westerlands cavalry seemed poised to seize victory, and Addam prepared to shatter Jon's army completely...
"Woo—woo—woo—!"
A piercing, savage horn blast erupted from the southeast, cutting through the roar of battle. Its sound overpowered every clash of steel and scream of pain.
Addam, Jon, and every commander still in their senses turned toward the sound.
What they saw next would haunt them forever.
From the southeastern horizon, an endless brown tide surged forth as if from nowhere.
Tens of thousands of Dothraki riders.
They had no neat formations, no gleaming armor—only bare, tattooed torsos or crudely painted leather vests, and in their hands, curved arakhs glinting under the sun.
Riding small, swift, and agile horses, they screamed and whistled like wild beasts. Dust rose beneath their hooves, shrouding the sky.
And at the forefront of that roaring tide flew a single, striking banner—black cloth embroidered with a fierce, roaring three-headed red dragon.
...