“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.”
…
Lord Harte was seated beside Renfred, who in turn was directly beside Aelor, but the Dragon of Duskendale still had trouble hearing him when he spoke.
“Or to ignore us completely, and march to unify with Lord’s Stark and Arryn.”
Bywater, who in Aelor’s limited experience with him had struck the prince as eager but an incompetent tactician, spoke next.
“And the Tyrell’s?”
Aelor shook his head.
“Mace Tyrell has a lot of men, but he’s a fool.
A fool with forty thousand soldiers is less useful than a genius with fifty.”
“They have Randyll Tarly,” Rykker pointed out.
“True, and I can only hope Tyrell has given him full command, though I somehow doubt it.”
Lord Buckwell had always been down to business, and war hadn’t changed that.
“What is our next move, Your Grace?”
“Sieging Storm’s End is out of the question.
They’ll only have a skeleton force since Baratheon already marched to Summerhall, but even that would likely be enough to hold us for an extended period of time.
Summerhall was a pleasure castle, and it wasn’t very defensible even before it burned down.
Baratheon is not fortified, but he’s also not expecting me to head straight for him.”
“And we are?”
“No, we’re not.” Aelor stood amidst the confused ramblings of his advisors.
“The Evenstar doesn’t have near enough ships to sail his strength into Shipbreaker Bay—they can only ferry from the island of Tarth the short distance over the Straits of Tarth to Drakesgrave, where Lord Selwyn will probably rally his mainland vassals.
They’ll march on land from there to Summerhall.”
Rykker stood as well, knowing where this was headed.
“We can potentially catch them as they disembark.
Tarth has another three or four thousand men.”
Aelor nodded.
“The goal of our entire campaign was to scatter the Stormlord hosts before they can march.
Even if Baratheon is at Summerhall, I see no need to alter that course of action.
As long as the Tyrell’s and Dornish do as their ordered and keep him bottled up in his own lands, we can cut him apart piece by piece.”
Lord Buckwell gave a small grin beneath his massive mustache.
Aelor drained his flagon of ale before turning to leave.
“Damn right.
Prepare the men.
We force march tonight.”
…
Lord Selwyn Tarth the Evenstar was rumored to be highly competent, a good man who accomplished what was ordered of him quickly and efficiently.
That’s why it came as a disappointment to Aelor when he crested the ridge and saw galleys still disembarking men in the quartered yellow sun on red and white moon on blue of House Tarth.
He supposed he could understand, though; it should have only taken him half the time it had to march the relatively short distance from Bronzegate to Drakesgrave, but the storms that gave the Stormlands their name had begun a torrential downpour that hadn’t lightened until two days earlier.
Ten thousand men took a considerable amount of time to move in perfect circumstances, and with the storms turning the roads into mud his supply wagons kept getting caught in the slop, slowing his army’s movements to the point that Aelor Targaryen had been ready to rip his silver hair out by the roots.
The only plus was that it had slowed the army of Selwyn down as well.
The Straits of Tarth were shielded from the worst of storms by the mountains of the island of the same name, but only a fool would try to transport hundreds of armored men across the waters in one.
Selwyn Tarth was clearly no fool, judging by the defensive lines his landward vassals had set up to defend the disembarking troops, even though they surely had been praying they wouldn’t need them.
They had to know they were outnumbered by more than two to one, and the positioning of Drakesgrave gave them nowhere to flee to.
They had to be betting Aelor would march on the supposedly undefended Storm’s End, leaving them to slip around and merge at Summerhall.
Even so, Evenstar had been ready.
Before Aelor was a sea of banners bearing the crossed white quills on a brown field of house Penrose of the Parchments, the yellow haystack on an orange field of house Errol of Haystack Hall, and the quartered yellow pavilion on blue field and green laurel branches on white field of house Musgood of Drakesgrave, whose small castle and town stood a few hundred yards behind the Stormlander lines, nearly on the water of the Straits where Tarth men were rushing out of galleys.
Two half-dug trenches lined the field to their front, and the Stormlander’s were dashing to form a shieldwall behind them.
Aelor Targaryen whirled on his black stallion, the second of four destriers he kept in times of war.
The first had died outside Bronzegate, and Aelor knew there was a high likelihood that this one wouldn’t survive this battle.
It was an inevitable part of knighthood; horses died under you by the score.
You could only hope you didn’t soon follow them into death.
“Form a wedge,” he called, and voices and a warhorn carried the command down the entirety of his line.
It was the same formation he had used at Bronzegate.
I suppose I’m an unoriginal military mind, but things become the norm by working.
This isn’t a time to get too creative for my own good.
He had pulled nearly all of his cavalry, fifteen hundred knights, into his front lines, leaving two hundred as a reserve.
“Ren, take the left.
Strong shield.”
Renfred Rykker slammed a gauntleted fist into his breastplate.
“Stronger sword.” The big man closed his spiked visor before spurring his own stallion towards his awarded flank.
“Watch for arrows from the castle walls!” The Dragon Prince yelled after his closest friends.
“Lord’s Buckwell and Bywater, you have the infantry.
We’ll smash into them and you will fill the cracks in their lines.
File them all into the same hole if you have to; we take those galleys, understood?” Both men nodded and turned their horses.
“Lord Byrch, you have the reserve.
Whenever you see an opportunity, take it.
They have nowhere to go except those galleys and the castle, and I don’t want them to reach either.”
Lord Cleyton pulled the visor of his own helmet down.
“They won’t, Your Grace.” He spurred his mount away.
“Alaric, my helmet.” Aelor’s tall, lanky squire instantly handed the knight his white flame crested helm, and the Dragonlord pulled it over his silvery hair.
Alaric dutifully then handed him his shield and lance, before mounting his own gelding.
“Stay close to me, Alaric.
I’ll watch your back and you watch mine.
Are you with me?”
Alaric Langward pulled his own helm, a plain hunk of grey steel Aelor had gifted him before Bronzegate when the boy had made it clear he wouldn’t remain behind, over his head.
He’s a good lad; I’ll have to get him a better suit of armor.
“To the death, Your Grace.”
Aelor felt a sense of pride for the young man he barely knew.
“Let’s hope that’s not the case.” He turned to his men then, rows of steel and horseflesh waiting for his word and his word only.
As it turned out Aelor didn’t have many words; the idea seemed pretty obvious to him.
“I’m not good at pretty speeches, so I won’t give one.
Let’s just kill the bastards!” He thrust his lance into the air, and his knights did the same, roaring back at him, even the men who couldn’t hear him repeating the gesture.
“Targaryen!” “The Dragon of Duskendale!” “Prince Aelor!” All those filled his ears, as well as others of individual houses or the Iron Throne in general.
There wasn’t, unsurprisingly, any roars for King Aerys.
Aelor kicked his stallion into action and they were off, the thunder of hooves even louder than the thunder of the storms that had rocked the land mere days ago.
Aelor formed the point of the wedge, his black and white lance matching his night black armor with his warring white dragons etched into the breastplate, the white flames of his helmet shining in the sun.
He was sure it made a glorious sight.
It also makes me a target.
Making an impression certainly has it disadvantages.
Alaric rode to his right, a high place of honor for a squire, but he had remained alive and near Aelor at Bronzegate when many more experienced knights had died.
In Aelor’s mind, the squire had earned it.
Ser Balman Byrch in his resplendent green armor rode to his left, his battle axe wielding brother Morgan beside him.