Ser Quentyn Ball (107A.C. Eleventh Moon)
The Westerlands – Close to Lannisport
He rode beside Falco, his friend of ten years. The Red Bastard, as they called him, had once been his companion in the melee and his opponent on the joust field. Now he served as his second in command.
The wind carried the scent of salt from the Sunset Sea, mingling with the dust kicked up by marching men. Before them, the land sloped gently downward toward the plains outside Lannisport, where the army commanded by Lord Corbin Lefford waited.
Quentyn narrowed his eyes as he took in the sight. Lines of tents stretched across the field, and banners snapped in the wind. He saw the sigils of House Lydden, Crackhall, and Serrett, yet no Lannisters of the Rock, save for the sigil of a lesser Lannister branch, an altered lion with a blue field below and raindrops upon it.
"No lions of the Rock," Quentyn muttered.
Falco followed his gaze, his red hair stirring in the breeze beneath his helm. "Aye. Only the lesser pride."
Quentyn's lips curled slightly at that. Good, this was a force he could defeat. Still, the force matched his own, but if he struck at night, perhaps he could balance the odds. Then he could strike or ambush Lord Damon in turn.
He shifted in the saddle, studying the layout of the camp more closely. The Gold Road ran straight through the camp and into Lannisport. If they could attack the flanks with cavalry, he could send in his infantry down the center to block a retreat or counter any possible reinforcements coming from Lannisport.
Falco leaned closer in his saddle. "Like I had hoped, the Lannisters are still gathering at Casterly Rock."
"Indeed, a force we can destroy. Let us return to the men. We march at nightfall and crush them in the dark." He smirked, and Falco rode in beside him.
Nightfall
The moon was a thin sliver in the sky, half-hidden behind drifting clouds. Darkness cloaked the fields outside Lannisport, broken only by scattered torchlight from the Lefford camp.
Quentyn's host moved slowly. No horns sounded. No drums beat. Orders were passed before they marched, riders guiding men into position beneath the cover of night.
On the right, Falco led the cavalry, a wedge of mounted men poised to strike hard and fast. On the left, Quentyn gathered his own riders, heavier in number, ready to sweep through the weaker edge of the camp. In the center, Galwin Bracken held the infantry, shields tight and spears ready, waiting for the signal to advance and seal the trap.
Quentyn raised his hand and gave his horn blower a signal. The horn sounded across the plain. He heard the other echoing blow in return.
He heard the shouts, and the trampling as Falco's cavalry thundered into the right flank of the camp. Steel rang, horses screamed, and men died before they could even grasp what was happening.
At the same moment, Quentyn spurred forward. His riders surged with him, hooves pounding like thunder as they smashed into the left side of the encampment. Tents collapsed beneath the charge, ropes snapping and stakes tearing free as chaos spread like wildfire.
"Forward! For King Daemon!" Quentyn roared. He held his lance high and raised it to the night sky. He charged with his men, and the enemy scrambled to form a line, but they were ill-prepared.
He lost his lance on the first man in his way. A spearman tried to spear him and his horse, but Quentyn nudged his horse aside and drove his lance into the man's chest. The impact shattered his lance.
He then drew his sword and began to cut. His sword rose and fell, cutting down a man still struggling to pull on his helm. Another rushed him with a spear, only to be ridden down by another knight.
He heard the shouts of the advancing infantry of Ser Galwin Bracken, moving quickly and blocking the road toward Lannisport and the Gold Road. They cut down fleeing men. It was chaos, yet they were winning.
He then saw the banner of Lord Lefford, rallying men near the center of the left side of the camp, men forming up around their lord as best they could.
He had to act now, or they would have to hack through them.
"There!" he shouted, pointing with his blade. "With me!"
He drove his horse straight toward the Lefford banner. His riders followed, crashing into the forming line with brutal force.
Steel met steel.
A knight in gilded armor wearing the tabard of House Lydden charged at him, and Quentyn parried, turning the blow aside before cutting the man across the throat. Blood sprayed, dark in the night.
Then he saw him.
Lord Corbin Lefford, mounted, shouting commands, trying to steady his men.
Quentyn spurred toward him.
Lefford saw him coming and lowered his lance, charging to meet him.
They collided in a clash of steel and splintering wood. The war lance pierced his shield, and the shield kept the lance from piercing his plate, though it became stuck there. The impact almost threw him off his horse, but he did not fall. He cast aside the shield, fighting with only his sword.
Lefford came again, blade raised.
Quentyn met him head-on. Their swords rang together once, twice. Then Quentyn slipped inside his guard and drove his blade beneath Lefford's arm.
The lord gasped, eyes wide, as the steel punched through mail and flesh.
Quentyn wrenched the blade free, and Lefford fell from his saddle, crashing into the dirt.
For a heartbeat, the fighting seemed to pause around them.
Then the forming line broke.
Men threw down their arms or fled into the darkness, only to be cut down by Bracken's infantry or ridden down by Falco's cavalry. The camp became a slaughter.
"Yield and live!" voices shouted, though few listened.
By the time the moon rose higher, it was done.
Fires burned, and cries of the dying echoed across the shattered camp. Prisoners were gathered, bound and guarded. The dead lay thick upon the ground.
Quentyn reined in his horse, breathing hard, his blade dark with blood.
A horn sounded from the walls of Lannisport.
He looked up.
Torches flared along the battlements, and moments later, arrows began to fall, a ragged volley at first, then more organized as the defenders found their rhythm.
Bolts and stones followed, launched from the walls in desperate retaliation.
"Fall back!" Quentyn ordered.
There was no need to press closer to the city. The victory was already his.
His men began to withdraw in good order, dragging captives with them and gathering what spoils they could carry.
Falco rode up beside him, blood on his armor and a grin on his face. "A clean victory."
Quentyn glanced back at the burning camp, then toward the walls of Lannisport, where missiles still fell uselessly short.
"A costly lesson for them," he said.
Behind them, the field belonged to him.
Quentyn's Camp
The men were jubilant, their voices carrying across the camp as fires were lit and wine was passed from hand to hand. Laughter, shouting, and the clatter of spoils filled the night air.
Quentyn rode among them for a time, letting them see him, letting them feel the victory. Blood still stained his armor, and his cloak was torn, but he sat tall in the saddle. When enough had gathered, he raised a hand.
Slowly, the noise quieted.
"Today," he began, his voice carrying over the crowd, "we have won a great victory for King Daemon."
A roar answered him.
He let it swell before continuing. "Lord Lefford lies dead. His host is broken. The West trembles."
More cheers, louder now, fiercer.
Quentyn's gaze swept over them, hard and certain. "And on the morrow, we march. We meet Lord Damon, who gathers beneath Casterly Rock… and we crush him too."
The men erupted. "Fireball! King Daemon! Fireball! Fireball!" The chant rolled through the camp like thunder.
Quentyn allowed himself a grin at that, brief but sharp, before he turned his horse and rode back toward his command tent.
Inside, the noise of the camp dulled to a distant roar. Two squires hurried forward at once, hands already reaching for buckles and straps.
"My lord," one said, bowing his head.
Quentyn said nothing as they worked. His armor came off piece by piece, each plate heavier now with dried blood and dust. When at last the breastplate was lifted away, he let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders as if shedding the weight of the battle itself.
The tent flap opened, and both Galwin Bracken and Falco stepped inside.
"Well done, commander," Galwin said, inclining his head. "An excellent victory."
Falco gave a crooked smile. "You broke them before they even knew they were fighting."
Quentyn took a cloth from one of the squires and wiped his hands clean of blood. "I know," he said, though there was no arrogance in it, only certainty. "Yet the work is not done."
He looked between them.
"On the morrow, we do not linger. We march at once."
Galwin frowned slightly. "Toward Lannisport?"
"No," Quentyn said. "Toward Lord Damon's host."
Falco's asked. "With the whole host?"
Quentyn shook his head. "No. With only cavalry."
That drew a sharper reaction. Both men exchanged a glance. "Could we face the host with only the cavalry? If they are encamped at the Rock, especially after this night's attack."
"I suspect he will move toward Lannisport. Lord Damon will need to bring or, as well as his vassals in order." He noted.
"Yet how are we sure he would do so?" Flaco questioned.
Quentyn smiled, "Because that was what I would have done."
"As for the attack. We ride fast, so we catch up in the march, we ride out soon after first light." Quentyn continued, stepping toward the table where a rough map lay spread. He pointed toward the Rock.
He tapped the road with a finger. "We strike him while he is in motion; his forces will be spread thin along the march. When charged, his front line will thin, and if our charge keeps momentum, we break through his line. Riding straight through them, and then we charge them again, once more breaking through, and inflict as much damage as we can, then ride away. It will cause confusion, loss, and damage to their morale."
Falco's grin returned, slow and eager. "Another surprise attack."
Galwin crossed his arms. "And the infantry?"
"They will march, yet not with us," Quentyn replied. "You will lead them."
Galwin nodded once, understanding settling in.
Quentyn turned to Falco. "After the battle, you remain in the West. Five hundred men. Ride hard, strike where you can. Burn stores, harry roads, cut messengers."
Falco's eyes gleamed. "Make it the traitors' forces bleed."
"Exactly," Quentyn said. "You will prevent Damon from gathering strength again. Or from joining Daeron. Delay him, confuse him."
Then he looked back at Galwin. "While Falco and I ride toward Daemon, you will take the infantry, archers, south into the Reach. I will meet you after the battle. We either join King Daemon… or march to join Lord Unwin."
A brief silence followed as the weight of the plan settled over them.
Quentyn straightened. "Send orders through the camp. We move at first light."
"As commanded," Galwin said.
Falco gave a short nod. "I'll see it done."
They turned and left the tent, already calling for runners as they stepped out into the noise and firelight.
Quentyn remained where he was for a moment, listening as the sounds of command began to replace the sounds of celebration. Orders shouted. Horses are being readied. Men sobered as the next march loomed.
At last, he exhaled.
He sat down on the edge of his bedroll, the quiet of the tent closing in around him. For a moment, the image of the battlefield returned to him. The clash of steel. The look in Lefford's eyes.
Then even that faded.
He lay back, closing his eyes, already surrendering to sleep.
Tomorrow, there would be another battle.
Lord Damon Lannister, (107 A.C. Eleventh Moon)
Road to Lannisport
Damon looked toward the road ahead, remembering the view of Lannisport from the Rock. Seven leagues at most, yet not close enough for him to have been warned in time, nor to march swiftly enough to save Lefford.
The rider had arrived in the early hours of the day, half-dead from shock as he dismounted from his horse and near incoherent with fear. Disaster, that was the one word Damon could use. Lord Lefford's forces had been crushed by Ser Quentyn, called Fireball, his army shattered beneath the walls of Lannisport.
By the report, the battle had lasted less than an hour.
In that short span, seven thousand men had been broken. When the Lannisport militia and guards had finally loosed their arrows from the walls, it had already been done.
Of those seven thousand, only fifteen hundred remained. Men who had fled, or who had managed to form small pockets of resistance in the chaos of the night attack. Both flanks and the center had been struck at once. Fireball's army had fought in the dark, and while darkness carried its own risks, it had favored the attacker more than the defender.
Damon exhaled slowly through his nose.
He had ordered the march to Lannisport at once. There was no time to waste. He needed to restore order, gather what remained, and hold the West together before it slipped further from their grasp.
The death of Lord Lefford weighed heavily. The man had been one of the few seasoned veterans left from the Dornish Wars. A steady hand. A reliable sword.
Gone now.
Damon shook his head as he rode on, his cloak shifting with the movement of his horse. Beside him rode his second in command, Lord Deakon Plumm, a distant nephew to the king, young but sharp, and already proven with both lance and command.
"No reports from the baggage train, my lord," Plumm said.
"As expected," Damon replied. "Fireball will not strike again so soon. His men will be exhausted from the battle. Even a victory like that carries its cost."
He glanced toward the column behind them. "The rider spoke of losses. Not many, but enough. He will need time to gather himself."
Plumm nodded, though his expression remained tight.
Damon allowed himself a breath, though unease lingered beneath it.
Then a shout cut through the air. "Riders approaching!"
Damon's stomach turned to ice.
"Fuck me," Plumm muttered.
They both looked ahead. A line of horsemen crested the rise before them, dark shapes against the light. At their head, a banner snapped in the wind. A black dragon.
"Form lines now!" Damon roared. The column erupted into motion.
Men scrambled to position, officers shouting commands as the marching column was forced into some form of battle line. With his lines stretched so long, it would be a thin one, and against the cavalry on the horizon, that was dangerous.
"Cavalry to the flanks!" Plumm shouted. "Archers to the rear! Move!" The orders were passed down the line. Yet there was likely not enough time. With each movement they made, Fireball's cavalry came down upon them. They came on like a storm.
"Here they come!" someone cried.
The first charge hit like a hammer. Fireball's horsemen cut through the lines. Some of their horses fell to well-timed spears, but most of his men either buckled under the charge or fell. Their lances shattered on impact, men thrown from saddles as steel and horseflesh collided in a deafening crash.
Damon spurred forward with his own guard, meeting the charge head-on.
He leveled his lance toward a charging knight. The momentum drove the point through the man's breastplate, throwing him from his horse. As Damon drew his sword, it flashed in the dim light. He watched as the riders burst through the ranks and out the other side. Horses screamed, men shouted, and the neat lines he had tried to form dissolved into a grinding melee.
"They're reforming!" Plumm shouted.
Damon turned toward him and saw it. "Form up again! Face them the other way!" he roared. "They'll come again."
And they did.
A knight wearing the sigil of Tarbeck charged at him, and Damon felt a surge of rage. He cut the man down, his blade thrusting forward in a piercing strike through the man's eye. "Fuck that traitor," he cursed, spitting as the man fell into the mud.
To his left, Plumm crushed a man with his mace and moved to charge another lingering rider.
Damon looked about, trying to find a way to organize the chaos. He saw the second charge was less successful. Fewer men were cut down, and his soldiers had begun to form defensive squares where possible. Yet still, his column was a chaotic mess. His own knights held their ground, most still in their saddles, but large parts of his infantry and archers lay dead or dying in the mud.
He watched as Fireball's cavalry rode up the hill and reformed.
"Damn him," Plumm growled. "He's testing us."
"No," Damon said, watching the riders reform once more. "He's bled us. He did not want to engage in a true fight, otherwise we would have seen his infantry arrive already. With infantry, he would not have made it in time before we reached Lannisport."
He was proven right moments later, as Fireball's cavalry rode away.
He had not been defeated.
Yet the battle had been a costly one.
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