The great command tent of the Stormlands host stood beneath snapping banners, the crowned stag of Baratheon and the golden dragon of Aegon the Second flying side by side. Canvas strained against its ropes as the evening wind came off the road, heavy with the smell of rain and smoke.
Within, the mood was bright with confidence. From the highest lord to the lowest camp follower, optimism ruled, sharp enough to edge into contempt for the foe. Lord Borros Baratheon's certainty had poured downward like strong wine, warming every heart it touched.
Across the camp, the air was thick with the scent of meat, mostly roasted flesh. Tonight it was wild ox, turning and crackling over open fires. Grease hissed as it struck the coals. Wine flowed without count, poured into cups of horn and tin alike, and the warm smell of fresh bread drifted between the tents, mingling with smoke and sweat.
The Greens were not short of coin. Before marching from King's Landing, the royal treasury had been emptied to the last clink of silver. A harbor city like that, so long as one was ruthless enough, could always be made to bleed gold. Soldiers eat well when kings fear hunger more than hatred.
"On the eve of battle, you eat well and drink deep," Lord Borros boomed, his black beard slick with grease. He tore at a slab of meat with his hands, laughing as he spoke. "The Riverlands host will have baggage trains aplenty. Smash House Tully's army, and I give you leave to plunder."
War's costs were not his concern. His duty was to win. Around him stood the lords of the Stormlands, mailed and confident, nodding eagerly as they drank.
"Drink," someone shouted. "To the rightful king, Aegon the Second. To Lord Borros, whose victory is assured."
Cheers erupted through the tent. Men grow rich on windfalls, and nothing fetched a higher price than a dead lord's armor, his warhorse, and his steel. Coin taken from the fallen never lost its value.
"My lord."
A scout strode forward, mud spattered to the knees, and bowed deeply.
Borros wiped his hands on a cloth. "Just as I said, eh? The Riverlands host is nothing but women and children."
"Yes, my lord. We are very close now. At our present pace, the two hosts will meet by tomorrow afternoon."
The scout captain wore a helm crested with antlers, though less grand than his lord's. He chose his words with care. "The Tully forces are led by the Kermit brothers. House Blackwood is commanded by a boy of thirteen, Ben Blackwood. Besides them, there are women aiding the host. A Frey widow, and Ben's aunt, Alys Rivers."
"Excellent." Borros tore another strip of meat free and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing savagely. "Children and women lead the Riverlands. Victory is ours."
"There is one strange matter," the scout added, hesitation creeping into his voice. "Two days past, something like a tremendous roar was heard from the Riverlanders' central camp. It was no horse. Lord Kermit claims a true dragon will fight for them. I fear that a dragon may have visited their army."
"Dragon?"
A ripple of unease passed through the Stormlords. They had waited until the Dragonpit lay in ruins, until the great beasts of old were slaughtered in riot and war, before daring to march north.
"The Dragonpit is destroyed," one lord scoffed. "The Blacks lost their dragons to battle and rebellion alike. How could there still be one?"
"The sound was real, my lord. They say its roar could shake walls and send warhorses bolting in terror. It was no hatchling. If the tales are true, it must have been an ancient beast."
Borros frowned. "Impossible. There are only three old dragons left, Silverwing, Sheepstealer, and the Cannibal. None of them are easily tamed. Silverwing is said to be in the Reach. The Cannibal obeys no one. And House Targaryen has what, five or six souls left worth counting. Half of them sit in King's Landing."
He paused, eyes narrowing. "Unless that bastard girl, Nettles, flew in from the Vale and chose to aid the Blacks. Even that seems unlikely. Princess Rhaenyra nearly had her killed."
"Time is short," Borros went on. "We cannot verify such rumors. Send ravens to the Reach and to Dragonstone."
The news had shaken him more than he wished to show. In war, truth was often buried beneath fear and confusion.
"Did you see it yourself," Borros demanded. "Or did you merely hear it?"
"I did not see it. I captured a Frey stablehand by the river. He told me."
"And he saw it?"
"No, my lord. He heard it. His terror was genuine. I would stake my life on his honesty."
"Where is this stablehand now?"
"Dead of his wounds." The scout spread his hands helplessly and produced a blood stained Frey sigil. "We have only his word."
"So," a Stormlord laughed harshly, "we tremble at the dying fantasies of a stable boy. Dragons, there are no dragonriders left in this age."
"My lord," another said carefully, "field battles are easy. Sieges are not. With such uncertainty, perhaps we should fall back to King's Landing and hold the city. If the rumor proves true."
"You speak defeat," another cut in sharply. "Shall the proud knights of the Stormlands flee at the whisper of an unseen monster? The Crownlands levies we dragged along would break and run at once. Once morale is gone, it never returns."
He raised a finger. "We hold three advantages. Our men are seasoned warriors. Theirs are led by children and women. We outnumber them. And we are rested, while the Riverlands have bled through battle after battle."
"And yet," another lord muttered, "you've listed nothing but dangers. The Tullys and Blackwoods are no fools, and their soldiers are hardened by war."
"Enough."
Lord Borros rose to his full height, his voice crashing through the tent. "An army is an arrow. Once loosed, it does not return. From the moment I marched out of King's Landing, retreat ceased to exist. I will meet the Riverlords in open battle and claim my victory. I will not delay our advance over a dying stablehand's dream. Perhaps it is trickery by women and children. And even if a dragon exists, what then. One dragon can be slain."
His army was hard to rein in, especially the ragged levies, fence sitters and former Black supporters pressed into service. They were poorly armed and barely disciplined. Let the Seven decide the outcome. He had burned his bridges with the Blacks and could only fight on. Dragons had been killed before.
Two days' march from King's Landing, the Stormlands host met the Riverlords.
There the kingsroad ran between dense woodland to the left and a low hill to the right. Days of rain had soaked the ground. The earth was soft, muddy, and treacherous beneath boot and hoof.
At dusk, Borros beheld the enemy. Ranks upon ranks of soldiers stood before him, banners gleaming across the hills as the light failed.
Foremost flew the quartered banner of Queen Rhaenyra. Black with the red dragon of House Targaryen, blue and white with the moon and falcon of House Arryn, and sea green bearing the silver seahorse of House Velaryon. Beside them rippled the silver trout of House Tully on red and blue.
The Riverlords had formed a solid shield wall along the road. On the hillside to the right, archers waited, bows angled downward, silent as gravestones.
"Fearless knights of the Stormlands, with me," Borros roared.
His stag antlered helm gleamed in the dying light. His golden cloak streamed behind him like a living banner. He looked a god of antlers and wrath astride his warhorse.
"See the banners of House Tully and the pretender queen. Break them, and victory is ours."
Six hundred Stormlands knights surged forward in a wedge, an iron fist driving down the kingsroad. Hooves churned mud. Lances dipped as one.
Behind them came the infantry, shouting, shields raised, the black banner of Aegon the Second's golden dragon snapping above their heads.
Black and green. Fish and stag.
They met upon the kingsroad.
This was the last battle.
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