The humanoid shadow shot across the ground like lightning, racing toward the center of the battlefield—toward Khal Jago, who was cutting men down from horseback, oblivious to the death speeding his way.
"A demon... this is the work of a demon..."
Davos murmured, dazed, his whole body cold as ice. Around him, the soldiers were struck dumb with terror.
Stannis watched the shadow—an extension of his own life and strength—dart away into the distance. Then he raised his head sharply, the dark blue in his eyes consumed by fire.
"Warriors of the Stormlands!"
His voice sliced through the turmoil like a drawn sword. "The Lord of Light's miracle is upon us! The head of the demon shall fall! Take up your weapons! Grip your spears! Follow me—follow the Burning Stag! Forward! Crush them! Victory belongs to Baratheon! To the Stormlands!"
"For King Stannis!"
"For House Baratheon!"
"Kill—!"
Though the dread of that terrible sorcery still clung to them, the king's thunderous call shattered their fear and reignited the fury and hunger for victory burning in every Stormlands heart.
Their roar rose like a volcano bursting. Fifteen thousand Stormlands soldiers, rested and ready, advanced in lockstep beneath the banner of the Burning Stag. With the force of a tidal wave, they charged toward the chaos and blood ahead.
...
At the heart of the battlefield, Khal Jago was in his element.
He had just cleaved a Dornishman—and the spear he thrust toward Jago's horse—clean in half, blood splashing hot across his face. He ran his tongue over the blood at his lips and let out a roar of savage delight.
His Bloodriders, wild as starving wolves, tore into every foe within reach.
"Ha! Ha! Ha!"
Khal Jago lifted his blood-drenched arakh high, laughing in triumph to his riders. To him, the men of the Reach, the armored knights of the Westerlands, even these snake-like Dornishmen with their poisoned spears—all were lambs awaiting slaughter. His khalasar was invincible.
But before his laughter faded, a freezing chill gripped him to the core. The grin froze on his face. A jolt of dread struck him—an instinctive terror, as if a predator's eyes had fixed on him.
He tried to turn—
Too late.
From the shadow beneath his horse's belly, a mass of darkness rose soundlessly, coalescing into a humanoid shape. The shadow was without substance. It ignored Khal Jago's powerful flesh and passed cleanly through his chest.
"Ugh..."
Khal Jago's face went rigid. His massive frame shuddered. The blood-soaked arakh slipped from his hand with a clang. He reached for the reins, but his fingers no longer obeyed.
A heartbeat later, under the horrified stares of his Bloodriders, Khal Jago toppled from his saddle and crashed into the blood-soaked mud.
His eyes were still wide open, a flicker of disbelief lingering in them, but the light had already gone out.
Silence.
From Khal Jago's corpse, an eerie stillness spread outward. The nearest Bloodriders were the first to react. They stared at their fallen Khal—at those lifeless eyes—and their faces froze in pure shock and unspeakable fear.
"Kha... Khal?"
A Bloodrider's voice trembled as he called out tentatively.
No response.
"Khal is dead!!!"
Another Bloodrider's heart-wrenching scream tore through the battlefield, instantly shattering the morale of every Dothraki warrior.
The khalasar collapsed in an instant.
"Khal is dead! Run!"
"Devils! Devils killed Khal!"
"Save yourselves! Leave this cursed place!"
Desperate cries rippled through the Dothraki ranks. They no longer cared about the enemies before them, no longer about plunder or bloodlust. Survival instinct took over as they threw down their scimitars, turned their horses, and fled madly in all directions without purpose or order.
The brown tide that had ruled the battlefield just moments ago crumbled in the blink of an eye.
The sudden, drastic shift left every army still fighting on the field completely stunned.
Quentyn, surrounded by Dothraki and on the brink of despair, stared in disbelief at the riders scattering before him.
Addam, blood-soaked and battered as he struggled to break through the encirclement in the southeast, felt the crushing pressure lift. His heart surged with wild relief.
Jon Fossoway, gathering what remained of his men at the edge of the Ashford Forest, was nearly moved to tears.
Yet their joy and reprieve lasted only a heartbeat.
For a far more terrifying storm of destruction had already arrived.
"For His Grace Stannis! For the Stormlands! Kill—!!"
A tidal wave of battle cries rolled in from the southeast, accompanied by thunderous hoofbeats and the pounding of boots that shook the earth.
Bathed in the blood-red glow of sunset, King Stannis Baratheon led fifteen thousand fresh, battle-ready soldiers of the Stormlands, their morale blazing, crashing into the four exhausted, decimated armies.
The first to meet the onslaught were the Dothraki cavalry, who had just lost their leader and were scattering in chaos. They faced the iron tide of the Stormlands with their backs turned, utterly unprepared.
"CRASH!"
The Stormlands cavalry lances tore through thin leather vests with ease, while heavy hooves crushed fallen riders into pulp. The infantry phalanx followed close behind, spears thrusting and axes swinging, mercilessly cutting down the disheartened Dothraki.
The beasts that had once ravaged the battlefield were now slaughtered like prey.
Without pause, the Stormlands charge swept onward, crashing into the shattered remnants of the Westerlands, the routed men of the Reach, and the Dornish desperately trying to regroup and find Viserys.
"Hold! Hold them back!"
Addam Marbrand saw the Burning Stag banner bearing down on him, his soul nearly leaving his body.
All thought of honor and dignity vanished as he shouted hoarsely to Steffon Swyft beside him, "Quick! Strip off your armor and swim across the river! Now!"
Addam fumbled desperately at the heavy buckles of his breastplate while Steffon and the other surviving knights tore frantically at their own armor.
The icy Cockleswent was their only escape.
Addam barely had time to shed his chainmail. Covered in blood and mud, he stumbled to the riverbank and plunged headfirst into the frigid, rushing water.
Steffon and dozens of other knights from the Westerlands followed, swimming with every ounce of strength toward the far bank.
The freezing water drained their warmth in an instant. Behind them echoed the screams of those struck by arrows or dragged under by the current.
Quentyn too saw the Burning Stag banner sweeping closer—and beneath it, the cold eyes of Stannis. A chill shot up his spine.
The elite force of over ten thousand he had led was already more than half gone after the brutal fight against the Dothraki. Their ranks were scattered, their men spent. How could they possibly resist this fresh, wolf-like army?
"Retreat! Full retreat! Back to Dorne! Now!"
Quentyn made his decision in an instant.
Viserys? The mission? None of it mattered compared to survival.
The surviving Dornish clung to this last hope like drowning men. Under the desperate cover of Daemon Sand, Obara Sand, and others, they fled south toward The Prince's Pass, throwing away armor and weapons in their frantic retreat.
Jon Fossoway, long since unwilling to fight, seized the chaos as the Dothraki broke and the Stormlands army focused elsewhere. With the few hundred men still loyal to him, he slipped into the dense Ashford Forest to the west and vanished into the dusk.
The iron tide of the Stormlands swept across the entire Ashford grassland like a storm unleashed. They were rested, their morale soaring, their armor gleaming.
Their enemies, drained of will and strength, could offer no resistance.
The battle had become a one-sided slaughter and relentless pursuit.
Stannis sat astride his warhorse, watching the battlefield with cold detachment.
The fading sunlight gilded his hair and reflected off the icy, weary fire in his eyes.
He felt the drain of his strength more clearly than ever, yet his grip on the sword hilt had never been steadier.
"Your Grace, we've found them!"
Davos Seaworth's voice rang out, charged with excitement.
Several Stormlands soldiers approached, dragging forward two disheveled figures—Viserys and Tyrion.
Viserys was soaked through, covered in mud, his once-fine silk garments torn and filthy, with a dark stain marking the shame of his fear. His face was as pale as paper, his eyes vacant, his whole body trembling like a leaf in the wind—clearly terrified beyond reason.
Tyrion, though just as caked in blood and grime, appeared far more composed. The mismatched eyes on his dirty face still held their familiar glint of sharpness and defiance.
He looked up at the man astride the horse—the man whose gaze was colder than steel—and felt a chill settle deep in his chest.
Stannis Baratheon.
He was here too.
Davos himself hauled the limp, mud-soaked Viserys before Stannis's horse.
From his high seat, Stannis looked down, his icy gaze cutting through Viserys's face, reading the fear and cowardice etched there before turning to Tyrion. His lips tightened, curving slightly downward in open disdain.
By then, the Stormlands army had finished sweeping the battlefield clean of resistance. The field was theirs.
Still, amid the chaos, many Dothraki had managed to flee. The soldiers who remained were blood-drenched and bone-tired, yet their faces burned with triumph.
They looked up at their king—unyielding atop his warhorse—the man who had led them to victory. They saw the captured "True Dragon" and the "Imp," and their pent-up emotions erupted in thunderous cries.
"Long live His Grace Stannis!"
"For Baratheon!"
"Long live! Long live! Long live—!!!"
The deafening roar shook the blood-soaked fields of Ashford.
The setting sun, red as spilled blood, washed over the cheering soldiers, the cold corpses, the burning stag banners, and Stannis's unyielding face—casting all in a somber, ruthless golden light.