That night, moonlight spilled across the volcanic sands of the beach. Loras Tyrell—the "Knight of Flowers"—stood atop a wooden platform in the center of the camp. His silhouette was sharp and regal against the dark sky.
He cleared his throat, his voice carrying with a resonant authority as he addressed the massed knights and officers. He formally took command, but the reaction was initially one of confusion. Reach lords whispered among themselves, wondering why a Kingsguard had been sent to replace a seasoned admiral.
However, when Loras spoke of the Shield Islands and the Ironborn longships in the Mander, the whispers died. A heavy, somber cloud settled over the camp. To take Dragonstone and then race home to save their wives and daughters meant the coming days would be a massacre. But honor was a star hung high in the heavens; it required life as its fuel.
At dawn, Ser Loras rode to the gates of Dragonstone on a tall white stallion. His armor had been polished until it shimmered like liquid silver in the morning mist, a vision of mythological glory before the grim, black stone of the fortress.
"I am Ser Loras Tyrell of the Kingsguard!" he shouted to the ramparts. "Bring out your commander!"
After a moment, a man with a face pitted and scarred by Greyscale crawled onto the battlements. He squinted down at the young knight. "I didn't expect to see you here, Ser Loras."
"I regret it as well, Ser Rolland Storm! We should be fighting under the same banner, yet here we stand!"
"Why?" Rolland asked bluntly. "Because you chose to follow the Gilded Lion?"
Loras's jaw tightened. "Stannis Baratheon is no true king! He is a man of ash who abandoned the gods and murdered King Renly—our true leader! How can you offer fealty to a fratricide?"
"Is that so?" Rolland countered. "I heard Renly was slain by the Maid of Tarth and Catelyn Stark."
"I have questioned Brienne myself," Loras said, his voice dropping. "She saw a shadow. A thing of darkness with the face of Stannis. I believe her. I have seen what your 'Red Woman' does. She burns lords on the shore for refusing her foreign god. Have you turned your back on the Seven as well, Rolland?"
"I keep the faith of my fathers," Rolland said calmly. "But I have seen Stannis draw a sword of living fire. It makes the Seven seem... quiet, by comparison."
"The High Septon has summoned rainbow light in the Great Sept!" Loras roared. "The gods are real! Surrender, Rolland, while mercy is still an option!"
"Surrender?" Rolland laughed, a jagged, harsh sound. "If I yield, do I get Nightsong? I am the last of the Caron blood, even if I am a bastard."
Loras frowned. "Nightsong has been granted to Ser Philip Foote by King Tommen's decree. You have no claim."
"Philip Foote is a sellsword who won a duel," Rolland spat. "If a duel decides a Lordship, let him meet me. Otherwise, why should I yield to a boy in a white cloak?"
Loras tried a different tack, his voice turning urgent. "The Ironborn are sacking the Shields, Rolland. Surrender Dragonstone, and you can sail with the Redwyne fleet. You can win your glory and a new keep by saving the Reach from the krakens!"
"The Ironborn are in the Reach?" Rolland's eyes widened, then a slow, cruel smirk spread across his face. "So that's why you're in such a hurry. You aren't here for the King; you're here to save the Tyrell nests. Go home, Loras! Take your knights and run! If you stay here, the krakens will have your sisters as salt-wives and your lands as loot. I can smell your fear from here."
A roar of fury erupted from the Reach lords behind Loras.
"You dog-blooded bastard!"
"I'll shove my blade down your throat, Rolland!"
Loras felt his pulse hammering in his ears. He had inadvertently shown his hand, and he knew it. By revealing the threat to the Reach, he had given Rolland Storm every reason to hold out. As long as the castle stood, the Redwyne fleet was trapped.
"Ser Rolland!" Loras shouted over the din. "The Mother is merciful. To save these men, let us settle this by combat! If I win, the castle is mine and you walk free. If you win, we lift the siege!"
Rolland waved him off with a sneer. "I am many things, Loras, but I am not a fool. Why should I trade my black walls for a patch of dirt? If you want this rock, come and take it."
Loras Tyrell returned to his lines, his face flushed with shame. He raised his sword, the "Rose" blade catching the sun. "Soldiers! We take this castle today, or we die on these stones! We take it, and we go home!"
"HOME!" the men roared back.
The assault was a nightmare. Lord Paxter's archers loosed volleys to pin the defenders, but the moment the Reach infantry hit the walls with their ladders, the garrison emerged from behind the dragon-headed gargoyles. They poured boiling oil and vats of heated night-soil down the stones.
Screams filled the air as men were cooked in their own mail. The first wave broke, then the second.
"Loras, we've lost six hundred men!" Paxter Redwyne shouted, grabbing his nephew's arm. "The lords are wounded. We must rest!"
"No!" Loras hissed, his eyes wild. "They are fewer than we are. Every minute we stop is a minute they find their breath. We attack again. I will lead them myself!"
"Loras, I cannot allow it!" Paxter cried.
"I am the commander! I am a White Sword!" Loras pulled away. "Execute my orders, Uncle!"
Loras stood at the front of the fifth wave, his shield strapped tight. Beside him stood his personal guard—disgraced knights and second sons who had nowhere else to go.
And among them stood Ser Kaden Storm.
"Kaden," Loras rasped through his visor. "Are you ready to risk it all for a Captaincy?"
"A Captaincy is the least of what I want today," Kaden said, offering a grim, confident smile.
The horn sounded. They charged.
Kaden was a veteran of a dozen meat-grinder battles. As they reached the base of the wall, he feigned a stumble, letting two men pass him. He let them be the shields. As he began to climb, a vat of oil was tipped directly above him.
The man above Kaden shrieked as the liquid fire hit him, falling past Kaden into the mud. Kaden pressed himself against the rungs, shrinking his body.
In the shadows of his cloak, he whispered a word. He focused the golden pulse of Solar Grace just an inch from his skin, creating a shimmering, invisible barrier of heat. The oil splashed against the aura, sliding away without searing his flesh.
Kaden vaulted over the crenellations, his sword flashing. The defenders stared in shock; no man should have survived that climb. Kaden held the breach like a god of war, cutting down the first three men who reached him.
Seeing their champion on the wall, the Reach soldiers found a second wind. They surged up the ladders, turning the tide of the battle in a bloody, frantic hour.
Dragonstone fell. The black fortress was taken at a cost of nearly a thousand dead and wounded.
And among them, the proud Ser Loras Tyrell lay broken on the stones—the one thousand and first victim of his own desperate glory.
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