“I lost no more than forty or fifty.
They broke before my goodfather even had a chance to move in with our full force.
I don’t know about your vanguard though, Your Grace.”
Aelor nodded grimly.
“Neither do I.”
…
Ralph Buckler had a deep voice, shockingly so for a man of shorter than average height and a slight build.
“I was only following my liege’s orders, my Prince.”
Aelor snorted.
“I’m apparently no longer your prince, Lord Buckler.
That honor seems to belong to Robert Baratheon, or perhaps Eddard Stark.
Tell me, have you worked that particular detail out among yourselves yet?”
Buckler’s face colored, though from the fear in his face he was quite aware of how short his life expectancy might have just become.
“Your father burned Lord Stark alive.”
Aelor nodded.
“Yes, he did.
I was there.
I’m not saying my father was correct in that action, but I find rebellion to be rather drastic, don’t you?”
Buckler nearly snarled, losing a touch of his fear in his anger.
“And burning a man while his son strangled himself trying to free him is not?”
Rykker barked from astride his stallion.
“Watch your tone.”
Aelor waved his friend off, setting his jaw and narrowing his gaze.
“Whatever your justification, you rose in rebellion to the Targaryen dynasty.
And now a Targaryen holds you prisoner.
I wonder, what am I to do with you?”
“As I said, I was—”
“Following your liege’s orders, yes.” Aelor grin was all charm, though his gaze was anything but.
“Why don’t you tell me all about them?”
…
The messenger wore a black and green surcoat with a white crescent moon on his right breast.
At least, that was supposed to be the color scheme.
Thanks to the roughly bandaged wound from an axe having come down on his right shoulder, digging deep and rendering that arm useless, everything just looked red.
Bronzegate had surrendered without incident.
After surrounding the large but plain castle with the great bronze gates that gave it its name, Aelor had displayed both Lord Buckler and the tall, portly Lord Bryce Rogers before the walls.
Lady Buckler just so happened to be Lord Rogers’ sister, and fear for her husband and brother as well as the ten thousand strong Targaryen loyalists surrounding her keep had made the plump woman, as plain as her castle, see sense.
The battle fought that morning just a mile north had been short and bloody, but also relatively insignificant.
Lord Buckler had had only two thousand men, a good number of them untrained levies.
Their lines had been broken by less than one thousand mounted knights, many of the inexperienced peasants throwing their spears down and fleeing before the wedge of lances, led at the point by a demon in black armor with white flames cresting his helm, had even barreled into them.
The rest had broken when Lord Rykker, having slipped by their right flank and gotten behind their lines by keeping to the hills, crashed into their rear—the loyalist infantry under Lords Buckwell and Bywater hadn’t even had time to arrive on the field.
Only the center, manned by Buckler’s retainers and the top knights sworn to him and his vassals, had put up much resistance.
That’s where Aelor had been.
Nearly two hundred knights, half of his vanguard, had died fighting alongside him—but they’d broken the Stormlander lines.
Lord Buckler’s hall was square and as plain as seemingly the rest of Bronzegate, but it housed well over one hundred, and it was there that Aelor and his advisers had taken their meal.
Lord Buckler, arm bandaged and face black and purple from bruising, had been confined a prisoner in his own chambers with his wife Alerie and their two small children, six year old Andrus and three year old Rohanne.
They were under guard in their own castle, a humiliating thing to be sure, but they were as comfortable as prisoners of war had any hope of being.
Lord Rogers, on the other hand, had viciously cursed Aelor after it had been found that the tall knight with the silver unicorn surcoat the Dragon Prince had slain had been his sixteen year old son and heir, and was now rotting in his goodbrother’s cells.
Lord Barristan Hasty of Hadlow Keep had been in command of Buckler’s center.
He, along with his brother and two cousins, had died there.
The messenger was nearly carried in, half dead already but set on delivering his news.
“Your Grace,” the man croaked, in his early twenties with a thrice broken nose but otherwise fair featured face.
Aelor was on his feet at once, the humble meal of venison and potatoes forgotten as he near sprinted towards the wounded knight in House Fell colors.
“Sit him down!” The dragonlord nearly roared, and a chair was quickly shoved behind the man’s knees, the two sentries supporting him seating him as gently as they could.
“I…I have news, my lord.” The knights brown eyes were racked in pain, but he pushed forward stubbornly before Aelor could answer.
“Lord Baratheon…is at Summerhall.
Defeated Lord Fell, Lord…Grandison and Lord Cafferen, one by one.
Two days ago.
Lord Fell is…dead.”
Aelor knelt beside the badly wounded man.
“Your name.”
“Ser…Roland Rawlins, Your Grace.” Ser Rawlins had to speak around his gasps for breath, eyelids drooping lower and lower.
“Lord Baratheon knows…knows you’re coming, my Prince.
Only has four thousand men with him….he’s going to rally the rest where…he is.”
Ser Rawlins fell into unconsciousness then, and Aelor stood to his full height.
“The maester, now!
Move!” His men rushed to obey, four of them picking Ser Roland up and nearly sprinting towards the maester’s chamber while others rushed to round the man himself, an old Northman named Harrion, from where he was tending the wounded from the battle that morning.
Aelor turned back towards the high table, where his advisors were all staring at him, half of them still half out of their seats from being startled when Ser Roland had burst in.
“Ser Barristan,” Aelor commanded, eyes focused.
“I want the best scouts we have to ride for Summerhall and find and track Baratheon’s army.
“At once Your Grace,” the Kingsguard knight replied, but Aelor wasn’t finished.
“Send a messenger both down the Boneway to treat with the Dornish and another towards the Reach.
The Tyrell’s will still be rallying, but he’s to gather the first sizeable force he can and order them to close down the Kingsroad south of King’s Landing.
We cannot allow Baratheon to unify with Lords Arryn or Stark.
We keep him in the Stormlands, and we finish him here.
The Dornish are to march with haste up the Boneway and close him off from Dorne.” Ser Barristan nodded and turned, striding out of the hall while already giving orders.
Lord Rykker was standing, the plate of cooling stag in front of him forgotten.
“It seems Lord Buckler was telling the truth about his wayward vassal.” The Fells were sworn to the Bucklers, along with the Rogers and Hastys, but Aelor had realized shortly after the battle that only the latter two had been present.
He now knew why.
Lord Buckwell grunted.
“He failed to mention Summerhall, however.”
“He was told to hold us here.
Baratheon probably knew it was an impossible task, and didn’t communicate further.”
Lord Dontos Bywater of the Kingswood, gaunt of face with copper hair he kept cut close, scrunched his face up in shock.
“He sacrificed his men?”
Aelor retook his seat, staring at his plate in thought.
“He had too.
I had ten thousand men descending on his head, and his bannermen had only just begun to rally.
He had to buy himself time, especially when Fell and his allies remained loyal to the crown.” Aelor looked up and waved his hand around the hall.
“It worked.
The longer I’m here the longer he has to amass troops.”
Lord Byrch raised an eyebrow.
“How did he get to Summerhall so quickly?”
“According to Rawlins he only has four thousand men.
That’s his retinue and whatever men he could raise on the fly.
He knew he had to put down the loyalists quicjly, and he did.”
Rykker furled his brow in confusion, though he too sat back down and resumed eating.
“So why is he suddenly intending to rally his forces at Summerhall, so close to the Tyrell’s?
Why not return to his seat of power?”
“Because if Ser Rawlins hadn’t told us of my ancestor’s ruin of a castle, where would we be going, Ren?”
Understanding spread across Lord Rykker’s face.
“Storm’s End.”
Aelor nodded.
“We attacked this force for the same reason he left it; I can’t have a substantial enemy presence to the rear.
Were we to converge on Storm’s End, laying siege to a castle that has been deemed impregnable, Baratheon would finish rallying his men, and then he’d be in perfect position to utterly fuck us.”
…