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Game of Thrones: Azeroth? This Is Westeros!
Game of Thrones: Starborn Conqueror
Game of Thrones: My Pets Evolve Into Dragons
Game of Thrones: Joffrey the Ruthless Emperor
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The Stormlands rainy season meant endless gray drizzle.
Right before Daeron mounted up to fly out, an urgent raven arrived: Randyll Tarly had already engaged Robert's rebel army.
"Randyll… just how good are you, really?"
Daeron stared into the distance while Caraxes lay coiled beside him.
To Daeron, war boiled down to two words before the fighting started—calculate—figuring out exactly what the enemy would do so you could move first.
Once the swords came out, it simplified to one word: trick.
Deceive the enemy about your movements. Hide your real strength. Set traps they never see coming. That was the art of war.
Before the Battle of Deerfield, no one in the Seven Kingdoms had known his full power.
He, on the other hand, had known every move the rebels would make.
That was the "trick."
The Battle of Summerhall would be the turning point.
Robert had already changed his original route and was trying a new strategy. Daeron had set the perfect trap and simply waited for him to walk into it.
The original plan had been for the full Reach host and Daeron to strike together.
Now Randyll had jumped the gun and opened the fight alone.
This would be the test of exactly what kind of general Randyll Tarly truly was.
He had better not be like Tywin—great at bullying minor lords, useless the moment he faced a real opponent.
Summerhall
In the pouring rain, two armies had already crashed together in a muddy slaughter.
"Don't kill me! Please!"
A young knight collapsed in the mud, staring up in terror, begging for his life.
Robert's face was a mask of rage. He swung his brand-new warhammer and crushed the knight's skull like a ripe melon. The hammer kept going, flattening the man's breastplate and sending a "Bowman Hunter" Tarly sigil pin flying into the muck.
"Damn you, Randyll Tarly! I'll kill you myself!"
Robert's eyes were bloodshot. He stormed across the battlefield hunting for the enemy commander.
Down in the low ground the rain had turned the slope into a slick quagmire. Soldiers grappled and rolled in the sludge, fighting to the death.
But anyone watching from higher ground could see the truth at once.
Tens of thousands of Stormlands rebels were trapped in the mud. Every time a group tried to charge uphill, cavalry bearing the Tarly banners appeared and cut them down.
Most of the rebels couldn't even fight properly; they slipped, fell, and became easy targets for the mounted lancers.
"RANDYLL! COME OUT AND FACE ME!"
Robert led a band of his best men and broke through the encirclement, charging straight toward the rear where Randyll was directing the battle.
Randyll stayed ice-calm. He split his cavalry into two wings and slammed them into Robert's small elite force from both sides—textbook generalship.
"DIE!!"
Robert's muscles bulged like a rutting stag. He was unstoppable in the chaos.
"Barbarian," Randyll muttered coldly.
But he didn't hesitate. He drew his ancestral Valyrian steel sword, Heartsbane, kicked his armored warhorse forward, and charged.
The rain hammered down under a leaden sky.
Robert wore full plate beneath a yellow tabard embroidered with a roaring stag and a flamboyant antlered helm. He ran half-sideways, spinning that massive warhammer.
Randyll's armor was plain and practical. He rode a barded destrier, Heartsbane gleaming coldly as he brought it down in a vicious overhead cut.
CLANG!
The sound of Valyrian steel meeting the warhammer rang out like a church bell and carried five miles across the battlefield.
---
Next day
The rain had eased to a misty drizzle. The ground steamed with fog, and the air reeked of blood and wet earth.
Daeron arrived on Caraxes and looked down at a scene straight out of hell—a muddy meat grinder littered with corpses as far as the eye could see.
Death and blood were the only music playing at Summerhall today.
Caraxes landed heavily, spraying red mud across his crimson wing membranes.
Daeron slid from the saddle and quickly found Randyll directing the cleanup.
The lord had stripped off his upper armor. Fresh bandages wrapped his bleeding right arm; the left was already bound. His face showed no pain whatsoever.
Daeron scanned the field and noticed something striking: the vast majority of the dead were Stormlands infantry. The loyalist casualties were almost all cavalry—and remarkably light.
"Prince. You're here," Randyll said, rising calmly.
Daeron didn't waste time on pleasantries. "Where's Robert?"
"Running."
Randyll pointed toward Ashford. "I took eight thousand cavalry against thirty-five thousand rebels. The rainy season gave us perfect muddy ground. We waited like spiders in a web, struck from above, and killed twelve thousand. Captured another three hundred plus."
"Robert fled with the remnants toward Ashford."
"Eight thousand against thirty-five thousand… and you killed twelve thousand?" Daeron stared at the man with new respect.
This guy really is a war god.
Never mind that eight thousand were cavalry—Robert had plenty of horsemen too.
Randyll had won a crushing victory despite being outnumbered nearly five-to-one, using terrain and timing to perfection.
In all the military history of Westeros, few battles had been this one-sided.
And twelve thousand dead in a single engagement? Lords in Westeros almost never fought to that kind of slaughter.
Daeron took a slow breath. "Which way did Robert run?"
"Ashford!" Randyll answered curtly but precisely. "Lord Mace and the main Reach host are already there. Before I left I told them to split into two columns and block every road."
Daeron clapped him on the shoulder, turned, and vaulted back into the saddle.
Poor Robert.
The most reckless, hot-blooded warrior in the realm had run straight into the coldest, hardest general alive.
---
Deerfield camp
The Reach army had regrouped with the Deerfield garrison and set up a sprawling new camp.
Daeron landed Caraxes outside the command tent and strode inside.
"Prince! This victory means the rebellion will be over soon!" Davos greeted him, practically vibrating with excitement.
One battle at Summerhall: twelve thousand rebels dead or captured.
Second battle later that same day: another eight thousand gone.
Two crushing victories in a single day.
Daeron's mind stayed crystal clear. He never popped the champagne early.
Robert's army was now down to roughly ten thousand men.
Under Caraxes's relentless pursuit, the survivors had nowhere to hide. They either surrendered on the spot or fled into the Red Mountains.
Robert himself, with a tiny band of cavalry, had crossed the Blueburn River in desperation and was racing toward the Riverlands.
Why didn't he turn back into the Stormlands, toward his own lands?
Because Randyll Tarly was sitting at Summerhall, and Lord Cafferen's rapid march was already blocking the Kingsroad.
If Robert doubled back now, Daeron would simply achieve the legendary "three victories in one day."
Inside the command tent the victory feast was already underway.
Lord Mace Tyrell was waving a bottle of wine, regaling two of his vassals with loud stories about how brilliantly he had led the army and how masterful his battle plans had been.
Classic Lord Puff Fish.
Daeron's gaze swept the room.
Randyll sat quietly in a corner, nursing his wounded arm. He wasn't drinking. Instead he was carefully wiping Heartsbane with a lemon-and-salt cloth. No noble lords were crowding around to congratulate him. Given his usual stone-face, something had clearly happened.
"Prince! You're back!" Mace lit up and hurried over with a full cup. "Thanks to your timely arrival on dragonback, the Reach host under my command was able to crush Robert's rebels!"
He said it loud enough for every vassal in the tent to hear.
Daeron just smiled politely and let the man talk.
After all, the real story would spread on its own soon enough.
And the real story was this:
The most reckless warrior in Westeros had just met the hardest general in the realm.
And the result had been a bloodbath.