The destruction of House Frey was nothing but an appetizer. Robert Baratheon hungered for the main course—a hard, bloody battle against one of the Mad King's most loyal and dangerous commanders.
Robert needed to feel the weight of his warhammer tearing through the air, needed to hear the thunderous crack of shattering shields, needed to see the red lion of Lannister or the dragon banner of the royalists trampled into the dust with his own eyes.
"Double time! Move!" Robert's voice was like thunder. Messengers galloped back and forth, spreading the order through the marching column. He looked north, the fire of battle burning in his eyes, as if he could already smell the enticing scent of rust and smoke drifting from King's Landing.
Robert's burning gaze swept across the map and nailed itself to a spot upstream on the Green Fork—Ashford. Fate seemed to hear the war cry in his heart. An opponent worthy of his hammer stood squarely in his path.
It was Lord Randyll Tarly, the most feared commander under House Tyrell of Highgarden. His reputation preceded him. Rumor had it he was as solid as a mountain, wielding his ancestral Valyrian steel greatsword, "Heartsbane," and had never known defeat. Now, he led the elite main force of the Reach, holding the fords and high ground at Ashford like an iron gate.
Scouts reported that Tarly's camp was a fortress of discipline. Outriders swarmed the perimeter, and his army was at peak strength. The banner of the Huntsman on a green field—the sigil of House Tarly—flew steadily in the river wind, silently declaring to all challengers: Do not trifle with me!
This wasn't a nauseating rat like Frey. This was true, tempered steel. A thrill of excitement climbed up Robert's spine, and his lips curled into a rugged grin. Defeating such an enemy, crushing such a disciplined formation—only that could satisfy the pure hunger for glory and victory deep in his soul.
"Randyll Tarly..." Robert muttered the name, his knuckles rapping heavily on the location of Ashford. The fire in his eyes almost seemed to singe the map. "Good. Very good. I'll use you and your Reachmen to blood my banners!"
---
Inside the fortifications at Ashford, the commander of the Reach, Randyll Tarly, stood clad in dark armor like a mountain before his formation, watching the dust cloud raised by Robert's distant army.
Randyll's face was like iron, his brow furrowed deep. In those sharp eyes, accustomed to spotting the turning point of battles, a conflict no one else could see was raging.
Before setting out, the "Queen of Thorns," Lady Olenna Redwyne, had given him instructions wrapped in the scent of roses and sharp wit. Her words still echoed in his ears: "Lord Randyll, this march to Ashford is merely a play for the benefit of the Mad King in King's Landing. Set your formation, hold the ford, but remember—do not truly engage."
His knuckles turned white as he clenched his fists. As a knight who had built his name on iron blood and honor, his heart's true allegiance still lay with Aerys II Targaryen on the Iron Throne. That was the king he had sworn to serve, the ancient law that bound a knight's honor.
Even if the King was descending into madness, loyalty was a creed Randyll Tarly could not easily discard.
Yet, the will of House Tyrell, conveyed through Lady Olenna's undeniable tone, had to be obeyed. The grain, gold mines, and political chess game of Highgarden were far more complex than his personal honor and beliefs. Therefore, despite the burning desire in his chest to smash the rebels head-on, his army remained nailed to the mud of Ashford, unmoving.
He was like a war bear chained, only able to let out silent, low growls in the direction of the battlefield, letting his inner loyalty and the reality of his orders tear him apart on the silent riverbank.
But if... someone were to challenge him first...
Over Ashford, the clouds gathered.
The armies on both banks spread out like two iron tides building momentum, squeezing the green river flats into a narrow, suffocating battle line. The air was thick with the smell of mud, rust, and war.
Robert Baratheon sat on his horse at the front of his lines, his massive frame looking like the avatar of the Warrior himself. His warhammer, "Robert's Judgment," rested on his shoulder, sunlight dancing on its cold head. He looked over the Stormlands soldiers under his command, his voice rolling like thunder over the entire formation.
"Men! Do you see that wall of Reachmen ahead?" He pointed his arm straight at the Huntsman banner on the opposite bank. "Ashford must be taken! Only then will our western flank be safe from the Tyrell threat! Only then can we march north to smash the Iron Throne in King's Landing without looking back!"
His voice rose to a roar, his eyes wide with fury, his killing intent almost tangible. "Anyone who dares block our path—I don't care who he is, I don't care whose orders he follows—their fate will be the same as the Freys at the Twins! We will wipe them out completely! Crush them until they have nothing left! We will pave the road to victory with their bones!"
This proclamation, filled with destructive intent, ignited the bloodlust of the Stormlands soldiers like wildfire.
With a liege lord so brave and decisive, and enemy numbers roughly equal to their own, a glorious victory seemed within reach. Deafening cheers and the thunder of weapons banging on shields erupted instantly, the will to fight soaring to the clouds.
On the opposite bank, Randyll Tarly sat on his warhorse, watching it all expressionlessly. He could feel the crushing momentum from the other side and hear Robert's undisguised boasts. He gripped the hilt of "Heartsbane," his knuckles white from the pressure. Behind him, the Reach army was disciplined and orderly, but lacked the manic energy of the Stormlanders; instead, they held a heavy, passive grimness.
The two armies stood poised, swords drawn and bows bent.
The sound of the Green Fork seemed swallowed up. In the moment where the silence before battle and the roar of preparation twisted together eerily, only a single horn blast was needed to dye the river flats red.
Seeing that Robert Baratheon's battle lust was like a prairie fire that could not be contained, the last shred of hesitation in Randyll Tarly's heart was replaced by cold resolve. He took a deep breath, his gaze sweeping over the striding huntsman on his green banner. The words of his house echoed in his heart like a war drum—"First in Battle!"
This was not just his family's honor; it was the war cry to break the stalemate.
"House Tarly! With me—CHARGE!"
His voice boomed like a great bell. The massive Valyrian steel greatsword "Heartsbane" cleared its scabbard, drawing a lethal cold arc in the air. He spurred his horse hard, shooting out of the formation like an arrow from a bow.
The commander leading the charge injected his soul into the entire army. The Reach cavalry behind him, pent up and ready, launched like a bursting dam of steel. The sound of hooves instantly converged into a thunder that swallowed the sky.
Mid-charge, this flood of cavalry displayed astonishing discipline. At Randyll's pre-arranged signal, the massive formation split fluidly into three. They became a giant, sharp trident, stabbing straight at the Stormlands lines.
Randyll Tarly personally led the elite center, smashing straight toward Robert Baratheon's royal banner like the head of a warhammer, without any tricks. Meanwhile, the other two streams of iron cavalry struck out like viper tongues, peeling off to the flanks in deadly arcs, aiming to pierce deep into the relatively weaker sides of the Stormlands army.
In an instant, on the fields of Ashford, three columns of iron hooves shattered the earth, kicking up dust that blotted out the sun.