It is a day born of the lowest hells. The desert sands are a pitiless furnace, as if the land itself conspires to torment the Westerosi. And tormented they are, the army of near two thousand men, burnt by the sun, bloodied by the constant skirmishing, hollowed by thirst.
But still, salvation is at hand. Salt Shore is just a little distance away—and so, the army struggles up the steep rise of land with a holdfast at its top that looks out over the desert, guarding the approach. The Tyrell banner and those of the other lords and captains fly boldly. But there is an unease among the men, for none of the scouts they have sent out ahead to Salt Shore have returned.
And when they crest the rise, it becomes obvious why. Another Dornish army is before them, besieging Salt SHore, but now turned outwards, defensive works thrown up against the Reachlords. And behind them, the dust plume of the Dornish army that has pursued them all the way from Godsgrace is just a few minutes away. Caught between the hammer and the anvil. A vast groan of despair seems to rise from the entire host.
Riding in the main body near his kinsman, the Lord Protector of the Reach, Ser Almer Connington rises in his stirrups and shades icy grey eyes against the infernal glare. “Seems they’re ready for us, Ardon,” he tells Tyrell with his customary informality. “Do they think we’ll actually assault their position?”
Ser Endrick Hill squints in the sun, peering at the army assaulting Salt Shore, then over his shoulder at the second army behind them. The big, rawboned youth reaches for his warhammer. This will be no easy sanctuary for them. The heat, sun and thirst as taken its toll on the young man. His armor, pieced together from bits gathered on the field, rattles as he shifts position. “Do we push through? Try to break the siege?” He asks one of the hedge knights near him.
“That’s us fucked then,” remarks Bloody Pate his face soaked with sweat as he looks back and sees the plume of the approaching army.
Luthor glances back as well, cooking even in the light armor he wears today. It appears Pate, for once, might be right. The rest of his men, the last twelve men of a host that numbered near to sixty men at the start of the campaign, groan and grumble as well. Some few musing it would have been better to have gone with Waxley or even the Stormbreaker. Luthor pays them no mind. “We’re here now, best get ready,” he says sternly.
Ser Quentyn, his second, asks. “Which way do we face?” he asks. Luthor glances at the other knight and then towards the Tyrell banner. “I’ll go find out,” he says, then with a look back to his men. “Just keep Pate from wetting himself,” he adds with a smile.
Luthor kicks his horse forward and seeks out Dagur. Finding the Iron Serpent near his good-brother’s standard he glances skyward. “Nice day,” he remarks then looks back to Dagur. “Where do you want us?”“
“Do we have a choice, coz?”
The Lord-Protector of High Garden is as exhausted as any of his men, and his face is tight at what he sees awaiting them at Salt Shore: “Lord Blackmont will catch up in a few minutes and he has the greater strength. Stay here and face them, and that army down there will likely take us in the rear. Or charge the siege lines and pray to the Gods we can break through swiftly.”
The Iron Serpent, riding on his good-brother’s other side, glances aside at Luthor’s arrival. “We choose and we choose now,” he says laconically to everyone there, lean and wolfish, all the spare flesh pared from the hard bones of his face by the desert sun. “Or the choice will be made for us.
The Dornish camp is relatively silent as the Westerosi crown the hill; each man waits with spears sharpened and prayers prayed, ready to face the fate of the day. Their formations appear effective if somewhat sloppy, and they do not appear over-worried at a sally from the besieged, though there is a token force left watching the garrison.
A short ways away from the rank and file rabble a crag-faced Dornishmen—one of their captains by his badge—sits on a stool, idly sharpening a dagger and eyeing the northerners with a bemused air about him. “Reachlords—I fucking hate Reachlords,” spits Lharys Sand.
Considering the barbed Dornish line for a long moment, Almer turns back to Ardon and Dagur. “Well. If we are to do this, than let us not do it piecemeal. We must find the weak point, and go in with everything at once.” He shifts in the saddle, sighing. “Maybe by some miracle we can break through.”
Almer eyes Dagur for a moment, then the Lord-Protector, with a wry half-smile on his lips. “If the Seven are merciful, that is. Orders?”
Luthor looks out across the burning desert to the men waiting for them before Salt Shore and then back towards the plume behind them. “To Salt Shore, as ser Almer advises,” Luthor concurs offering his advice unbidden.
And then the choice is indeed made for the Westerosi—but not by the Dornish.
The famed Twins of the Crossing have fought well on this long campaign. But now, Walder Frey, near addled by the sun and rage at seeing their prize so near but still unobtainable, loses his senses altogether. He draws his sword, then throws his shield aside. In his other hand, he takes the longaxe strapped to his saddle. And with a wild roar, he spurs his horse down the slope and at the siege lines, riding at them alone, steel in each hand!
But he is not alone for long. His brother cries after him, then throws his horse into a gallop, hoping to catch up. And like pebbles starting an avalanche, first a few dozen, then scores, then hundreds of Rivermen throw themselves after the Twins in a mad charge!
Luthor’s attention is drawn from the council to the charging Rivermen. Spying the banners that lead the charge he remarks darkly. “Fucking Freys,” and turns to Ardon and Dagur for the word to join the attack.
Endrick stands in his stirrups when the Freys charge, followed by the rest of the Riverlords. The youth’s jaw drops. “What the fuck…?” He looks over his shoulder at the approaching Dornish army, hurridly, but he refrains from following the Rivermen to the city.
The Lord-Protector tries to regain control, but it is too late. The Riverlords have he bit in their teeth. “Fucking hells,” he spits uncharacteristically, then settles his shield and draws his own blade. “Time to throw the dice, sers! Coz, Dagur…”
“I stay,” the Iron Serpent says with a savage smile. “I can buy you a little time before Lord Blackmont breaks through and takes you in the arse. Use it well.”
He wheels his horse away: “And try to remember to hold the gates for us if you do break through.” He raises his voice: “Luthor, Dalton, Balian, Daryl, Endrick…with me!”
The men he has named ride out to join him in that mad scramble, and others as well. The Reachlords are hastily split up—300 foot and 200 horse to hold the line with the Iron Serpent while the others join that suicidal charge.
A wry smile plays dangerously at Lharys’ lips at the sight of the charging Freys and their bannermen. Sheathing his dagger, he tosses the whetstone aside carelessly and lays a hand on his flail. “Keep your wits about you men—we’re about to be attacked,” he sings out as he hurries up towards the line. A few spears are already lowering horizontal to meet the charge, yet not all. There are murmurs of surprise, and even suspicion at the frontal assault traveling throughout the ranks.
Lowering his steel visor with a snap, Almer draws his blade as his squire raises the red and white griffin banner. “See you on the other side,” he tells his erstwhile rival, the Iron Serpent. Then Connington puts golden spurs to his horse, and the handful of Stormlords who ride with the Reach thunder into the maelstrom of dust with a shout. “Death or glory!”
Luthor knows well just what’s being asked but doesn’t hesitate, he wheels his horse and shouting in his commander’s voice to his men. Then pelts after Ser Dagur, the rest of his men forming up behind him. Even Watty, his healer and servant is armed and riding with him, knowing full well there is no safe place for any man on this field, let alone a Dornish turncloak.
Endrick puts his spurs to his horse and follows Dagur. “Deep Den!” He roars, in a deep voice. His chestunt squeals at the spurs in his side and races after the Iron Serpent’s banner.
Howling like a madman, an inarticulate scream of rage, Walder Frey crashes into that ready line of Dornish spears, his sworn men now around him. Thick-necked and broad, his horse’s screams joining his own as a spear rakes across its chest, he scythes wildly with longaxe and sword. It is madness. But the sheer impossibility of that charge and the fury with which he wields his weapons lets him plunge through the first line of spears.
And then, the full charge hits the Dornish line.
“Try not to die, we’ll have need of you later!” Luthor calls to his healer and carries forward eyes fixed intently on the growing line of horse and men that is the Blackmont host.
“GET YOUR SEVEN-DAMNED SPEARS DOWN!” Lharys roars at the slower men. “Fight, you bastards! Keep them in place!”
Turning, Lharys sprints back about twenty yards behind the lines to where a riderless sandsteed loiters in front of a troop of horsemen. The bastard captain leaps onto the beast’s back and digs his heels into the flank, causing the animal to rear slightly. “We flank them!” he shouts, turning to the left side of the lines. “Five casks of ale to any man who brings me the Iron Serpent’s head on the end of his polearm!”
The Westerosi charge slams pell-mell into the front of the Dornish line, but the southrons fight hard to carry out their orders as Lharys speeds out to put his counter-attack into action.
A few heartbeats after the reckless Freys, Almer Connington and his companion-knights thunder into a perceived gap. Vaulting his horse over pits and abaits, Almer reaches down to slash aside a pair of Dornish spearman; one goes down with a twisted knee, and the other reels, his face split open. The Griffin Knight turns his steed, spying a Dornishman with a flail who seems to possess some degree of authority. He spurs toward Lharys, sword whistling down in a glittering arc…
Almer attacks Lharys with his sword…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!
His counter-attack is disrupted before it can even begin—the ordered ranks and earthworks quickly degenerating into a morass of Dornish and Westerosi fighting tooth and nail for every inch of ground. In the end, it is Lharys’ mount that saves him, as the horse instinctively evades Ser Almer’s onrush. So focused on rallying his men was he that Lharys takes a grazing blow before he even knew one was incoming. It does hurt however, and he curses as he wheels to face his foe. A feral roar erupts from his throat as he whips the ends of flail in the air and brings it down towards Connington’s head, singing through the air.
The Iron Serpent’s banner is planted at the top of that rise, the infantry drawn up with the crumbled holdfast at their backs. They have the advantage of position, for they command the narrow slope up which Lord Blackmont’s men must charge. But there are still only 300 of them, and over two thousand Dornishmen.
As for the 200 cavalry, Dagur holds them ready off to one side of the spear line, ready to hit the Dornish in the flanks as they crest the rise. Shield on arm, bared sword in hand, he wheels his horse, looking out over the men riding with him. “We hold!” he roars. “We hold if all the demons of the seven hells come at us! For our kin, for our king whom they betrayed!”
“The Young Dragon!”
The men roar back, equal parts determination and grim resignation. And then, sun glittering on spearpoints and copper mail, the Dornish have reached the foot of the slope and begin to charge up it, infantry in front, cavalry flanking them.
The sledgehammer of the Westerosi charge coalesces into individual combats, and Almer faces off with the Dornish flailman. Lharys’ counterattack slams hard into the Stormlord’s upraised shield, driving it into the side of his helm; momentarily driven back, Almer grunts in pain and spins his horse away. The power of the strike stuns him for a moment, but fortunately does not break through his armor. He recovers, turns back, and takes a measured slash at the Dornishman with his blade.
Almer attacks Lharys with his sword…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!
Luthor’s sword flares brightly in the merciless Dornish sun as it’s raised high in response to Dagur’s words. “The Young Dragon!” he roars above the rest. It’s all that he can do not to charge the Dornish advance right now, plan be damned, but he holds, and waits for the Dornish to engage the foot.
With their wild war cries, Lord Blackmont’s army throws itself up at the slope at the thin Westerosi line! But the climb robs them of momentum, and the Westerosi hold at that first shivering impact. But then, a new threat presents itself. Wings of Dornish cavalry attempt the climb as well, hoping to hit the spear-line in the flanks.
At a command from the Iron Serpent, the Westerosi cavalry throws itself into a gallop, the charge downhill giving them an advantage. Singling out one of the Dornish captains, Dagur rides straight for him, his sword scything out at his helm.
Dagur drops Gascon.
Dagur attacks Gascon with his sword…
...and has his blow intercepted by Gascon’s shield.
“Daeron and Westeros!” Endrick answers, raising his warhammer. His mount dances eagerly underneath him until Dagur gives the signal, then the rawboned youth from Deep Den charges to engage the enemy.
Lharys laughs as his strike hits home on Ser Almer’s shield and quickly wheels his courser to charge at the Connington knight once more. The second engagement does not go as well for him, however, as he takes a blow on his shield; it rattles him, but finds little purchase.
Quickly, Lharys rounds the courser yet again to charge at Ser Almer, whipping his flail swiftly in an arc aimed at the other’s helm.
Lharys attacks Almer with his flail…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Ser Henrik of Blackmont sits on his mount looking rather smug. He has all reasons to be proud-his company the Valiant Reavers is certainly one of the best in the Dornish army. Henrik himself is impressive-a mountain of a man with incredible whiskers constantly smiling red lips and blank gaze of a murderer. His plate armor is polished to gleam and covered by various engravings, a cloak of red silk embroidered with gold covers his head and a great helm resembling a small tower on his head. Actually he looks more like a Lord than like the robber and ruthless adventurer he is “Soon we will get this filth out of Dorne” Henrik says lazily.“They will think twice about returning” He scratches the horse ‘s sides with his spurs making it gallop faster and in a moment his group crashes into Westerosi lines. Henrik himself leads the attack and choosing an opponent, a knight sporting Acorns on his shield, and attacks him roaring “Prince and Country! “
Henrik attacks Luthor with his sword…
...and merely strikes a glancing blow!
“Fire and Blood!” is the cry that rips from Luthor’s throat. His horse thunders down the hill, he raises, his sword and suddenly he’s amoung the Dornish cavalry, and cutting a bloody swath towards one of their captains. Then with another shout of “Fire and Blood!” he swings a blow aimed for the head of the Dornish horseman as he rides towards him as well.
Luthor attacks Henrik with his sword…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!
The Dornishman’s sword screeches off of his armor as the two pass each other like knights in the joust. Luthor hacks down one of the men following the red-and-gold cloaked knight and then wheels to make another pass.
Endrick charges, his chestnut bringing him alongside Ser Luthor. Also seeking to bring down one of the field commanders, he swings his hammer at the mountainous Dornishman’s head with an inarticulate cry of rage.
Endrick attacks Henrik with his mass weapon…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Seeing his blow make noise but little else, Almer reels as Lharys lands a hammerblow on his winged helm. The resounding crack makes Connington slump in the saddle, and he is nearly unhorsed; the rim of the helmet drives into the skin above his left eyebrow, gouging a deep cut. He tries to break free, seeing his foe has the advantage, and aims a desperate slash at Lharys in the hopes of, at the least, connecting in some meaningful way.
Almer attacks Lharys with his sword…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!
Gascon the Grey is as good as his byname—he is a wraith in grey armor on a grey sandsteed. He is also grimly focused, his eyes hard and cruel behind his ghostly helm. He bears down on the Iron Serpent without a word and swings his sword with a nasty overhand arc.
Gascon attacks Dagur with his sword…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!
Lharys barely has time to see the results of his handy work before the wild slash from Ser Almer finds purchase. He committed himself with his last blow, and though he landed a strong blow, he left a gap in his defenses which Connington found, whether it be skill or the hand of Providence. The blade sneaks just beneath Lharys’ upraised shield and bites into his torso, though his shirt of mail takes the brunt of it. It’s enough to draw blood, but it serves mainly to enrage the Dornishman.
As Lharys wheels the courser to charge once more, whatever he meant to say comes out as an inarticulate roar, and he spurs onwards, his flail singing through the air as he attacks.
Lharys attacks Almer with his flail…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Almer is rocked back in the saddle by Lharys’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!
The Iron Serpent leans aside in his saddle, and the blow skitters off the pauldron on his right shoulder, hard enough to jolt him. But he sends his horse dancing sideways to barge into Gascon’s, then, rising in his stirrups to cut across his chest at the same time.
Around them, the Westerosi line wavers, but holds. The spearmen have been forced to give ground at the top of the rise, but the cavalry charge has lessened the pressure on them, and there they hold.
Dagur attacks Gascon with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Now assailed by two adversaries, Henrik turns his gaze from one enemy to another. The strike of Endrick found its mark and left a long scratch on the metal of the tower helm but Henrick is still mounted ,and the contemptuous smile doesn’t leave his lips “You wouldn’t handle me face-to-face, huh boy?” And as if taking no notice of Endrick,the knight swings his sword, trying to slit Ser Luthors throat.
Henrick attacks Luthor with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!
It is a silent battle amidst the hue and cry, two men set on simply surviving. Gascon the Grey wheels his mount, his only reaction to the blow from Dagur a loud grunt of pain. He simply adjusts his grip on his sword and charges anew, aiming for the other man’s neck.
Gascon attacks Dagur with his sword…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!
Almer weathers another fearsome blow as the battle swirls around him and Lharys. By dint of horsemanship, or luck, Connington retains his seat but the strike draws blood again; indeed, the silver of his armor is bloody and dinted, and his griffin surcoat hangs in tatters. He shouts in pain and anger, then spurs hard to drive a swift thrust at Lharys…
Almer attacks Lharys with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!
Luthor reels from the sword blow even though his shield steers it away from his throat. He rides apart from the knight to get some space and give Hendrik a chance to attack, and as he does a look of recognition is visible through his half-helm. He chuckles and surges in, raising his shield, to hide his sword’s movements as he calls out. “I remember you, the Bandit of Blackmont, who styles himself a lord.” He lowers his shield and thrusts out quickly trying to return the favor of slitting the man’s throat.
Lharys twists, and narrowly avoids being skewered. Rather Connington’s blade slides into his left flank, eliciting a grunt of pain as the the Dornish captain’s courser wheels away and turns for another pass. Lharys is sweating and breathing hard already from his exertions. He spits, a mist of red as spittle mixes with ichor, and he charges Ser Almer yet again. He aims another blow at the Westerosi knight’s head.
Lharys attacks Almer with his flail…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!
Almer is driven from the saddle!
Slamming Gascon’s sword aside with his shield, Dagur cuts hard at the exposed shoulder-joint. At the same time, he roars above the hellish din of battle: “Dalton! Another charge!” The message is picked up, men screaming it in the hope that the Florent heir will hear.
Dagur attacks Gascon with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!
Gascon is driven from the saddle!
At the siege lines, all is madness. Walder Frey’s suicidal charge has broken through the front line of the Dornish defences, and now he lies dead, hacked to pieces, his twin brother defending his body. The Riverlords and Reachlords have poured through the breach, but now their charge has foundered on the second line of defences. The Lord-Protector can seen in the van, fighting ferociously, splattered with blood, but he makes little headway.
With the Connington knight’s fall, the charge falters even more. One of the Westerosi captains is down, and the men around him begin to lose heart, hemmed in from all sides. The Reachlords’ flank is left exposed for Lharys’ cavalry to shred.
The last blow from Lharys’ flail sends Almer’s winged helm spinning from his head, and the knight from his saddle. His blade windmills away as well, and he disappears in a cloud of dust and a mass of battling men and lathered horseflesh. Chaos takes him.
“With a strike like this I did Ser Jothor Crakehall and left his son with only one eye” Henrick of Blackmont answers and blocks with his oaken shield. Then he looks at Luthor with a grin “I am indeed a lord -a lord of taverns and battlefields-and you are a fucking bastard!” and suddenly turning to Endrick brings his blade down in a sweeping cut against him.
Henrik attacks Endrick with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!
Gascon the Grey goes down hard, and leaves a gap that lets the unflappable Dread Daven Wyl into the fray against the Iron Serpent. He chortles with glee that is at once half-mad and half-battle lust, swinging his sword over his head. “Another chance at your Rose!” he howls, swinging at Dagur wildly.
Daven attacks Dagur with his sword…
...and sees his blow go astray!
The Blackmont’s sword strikes Endrick in the shoulder, finding flesh beneath the plates of his mismatched armor. Still, the youth keeps his seat. “Eat this, lord of the tavernwhores!” He swings his hammer, aiming for Henrik’s jaw.
Endrick attacks Henrik with his mass weapon…
...and sees his blow go wild!
Luthor tenses to recieve the sword strike, but when it falls on Endrik instead he brings his mount forward to rush into the gap. Driving both horse and blade into his opponent in a crushing collision. “Then I bring you Ser Burton’s love!” he shouts.
Luthor attacks Henrik with his sword…
...and sees his blow go wild!
Lharys laughs, the joy of battle well upon him as the Connington knight flies from his mount, and he spurs away to wheel about again. A pair of men at arms and Dornishmen come between he and his prey momentarily, and he picks his way through them towards where Ser Almer fell. “Break their backs, men! No Westerosi knight leaves the Sands of Dorne alive!”
Gascon the Grey falls, his cavalry’s charge losing momentum. At the same time, Dalton Florent hits them anew with 50 men, pushing them even further down the slope. But even so, the Westerosi infantry line at the top of the rise has given way again; the sheer weight of Dornish numbers is too much for them.
For the moment, their commander has his own problems. The Iron Serpent is fortunate, Dread Daven’s blow going astray in the press even before he is aware of this new attacker. But then he brings his horse around, and a low snarl sounds from his helm when he sees the Wyl knight’s sigil. Without a word said, he cuts at the Donishman viciously, forsaking finesse for raw power.
Dagur attacks Daven with his sword…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!
The teeming hordes pass by, and Almer’s grey charger wanders aimlessly amongst the wreck, riderless and adrift. Its master, struggling to one knee and pawing the blood from his eye, gropes for his sword and tries to keep the world from spinning after the flail-blow to his head. Almer spits blood, then stands unsteadily; in a moment he sees his horse nearby. A Dornish spearman is already reaching for the bridle. Snatching up his blade, Almer staggers toward the steed, and when the Dornishman turns, he drives him to his knees with a heavy slash. Almer painfully drags himself back into the saddle, a sheen of dust puffing from him as he spurs back into a canter.
Daven takes the Serpent’s sword blow on the back of his shoulder, grunting but with his fervor undampened. “Ah, the pricking of the thorns will only be sweeter for your tenderizing!” he calls to Dagur, swinging his sword to return blow for blow.
Daven attacks Dagur with his sword…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!
By the time Lharys catches sight of Ser Almer again in the chaos, he is already remounting. In an attack of chivalry his men—in their cups—would swear is a rarity for him, Lharys Sand elects to wait for Almer to remount his horse before breaking into a canter towards him.
Steel rings against steel as Dagur parries Dread Daven’s blow. He spurs his horse closer, grappling chest-to-chest with the other man. “You have a foul tongue, whoreson,” he snarls. “I think I’ll have it today.”
And he slams his mailed fist, sword-hilt clenched in it, at the grill of Daven’s visor where his mouth should be.
Dagur attacks Daven with his sword…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!
Bareheaded now, Almer Connington sees his foe’s approach. The griffin, known for his own dedication to the knightly code, smiles defiantly through the muck of sand and blood, and raises his blade to Lharys in salute. The sword comes down then, and he too spurs into a canter… he aims the point directly at Lharys’ torso, his steed picking up the pace, perhaps to spear the man in the onslaught…
Almer attacks Lharys with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Lharys is rocked back in the saddle by Almer’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!
Ser Henrik dodges Endrick’s blow and parries Ser Luthor’s. He smirks and makes an obscene gesture at them. “I have a pet crow back at home “-the Bandit of Blackmont informs Luthor , twirling his massive blade in his palm and lunging at Luthor “I will bring it your heart. It would have liked your brain or your private private parts best-but they are probably too small” When the two knights are about to collide,Henrik suddenly starts moving in completely another direction and once again thrusts at Endrick.
Henrik attacks Endrick with his sword…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!
As ever, Daven and Dagur do not fight very productively. Dagur’s sword glances across his pauldron, making him cluck his tongue. “Now now, ser, don’t scuff me up! A man has to look his best when he claims his new toy.” And he swings again.
Daven attacks Dagur with his sword…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!
Endrick takes another shot from Henrick, rocking in his saddle. “Fucking whoreson! Others take you!” He roars, striking out with his hammer, trying to fell the beast.
Endrick attacks Henrik with his mass weapon…
...and misses by a narrow margin!
Even as Lharys’ flail sings once more towards his opponent, Ser Almer’s thrust snakes in over the top of his shield and pierces his left shoulder, knocking his balance off kilter. It is all that he can do to keep to the saddle as the courser charges on a few paces before wheeling. The Dornish captain sputters and coughs a spray of read, wincing in pain.
Lharys attacks Almer with his flail…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!
Luthor laughs at the absurdity of the situation, bandying words with the man who took Burton’s eye in the midst of this desperate holding action. But then this march has been full of absurdities. With a quick glance to see how his men fare against the ones that Ser Hendrik leads. Luthor comes back in aiming a quick thrust at Henrik’s eye. “Come take it then!” he offers the Dornishman hoping to win Endrick some space as he dances his horse just out of the bandit knight’s reach again.
Luthor attacks Henrik with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Henrik is rocked back in the saddle by Luthor’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!
The Iron Serpent’s anger has made him reckless; he is too slow to counter Daven’s blow, and it knocks him sideways in his saddle. Grunting under the impact, he drags himself straight, his horse stepping sideways to buy him space. And then, he returns to the attack—but the blow seems to have knocked some sense into him, for when he feints, then cuts backhanded at the Wyl knight’s helm now, it is with his usual cold calculation rather than wild fury.
Dagur attacks Daven with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Lharys attacks Almer with his flail…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!
“Blind as well as stupid? My my…”-and once again the Bandit of Blackmont, just by pulling his stirrups a little bit dodges the slash Endrick aims at him. Suddenly Luthor gets him and his smile disappears as his shield breaks into a thousand splinters .He scowls-but once again swings his sword at Endrick, shouting ” I will take this blind cur out first-and then deal with you,my sweet little Rivers!”
Henrik attacks Endrick with his sword…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!
As steel parts steel, skin and muscle, Almer recovers from his strike and feels the sting of Lharys’ flail once more. But so swift is the famed young Stormlord’s passage that the bulk of the strike’s energy is dissipated by his armor, and his absence. Almer canters by Lharys, saws on the reins, and turns again to pound forward. He sees his bloody foe reeling, and presses home a whirling, overhanded strike aimed at the joint between shoulder and collarbone…
Almer attacks Lharys with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Lharys is driven from the saddle!
Myles has reconnected.
Luthor bring his horse back in close with Henrik again. “My sweet little Rivers? Do you want to fuck me or fight me?” he calls out incredulously as he swings his sword to strike the Bandit of Blackmont from his saddle.
Luthor attacks Henrik with his sword…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!
Henrik’s sword again strikes the big youth, causing Endrick to grunt in pain. The Dornishman’s sword comes away bloody this time, but he keeps his seat. “Not if this cur takes you first!” He shouts, once again sending his hammer singing at Henrik.
Endrick attacks Henrik with his mass weapon…
...and merely strikes a glancing blow!
Daven rides past Dagur in a daze, his head ringing with the blow to his helm. But he seems all the more determined to make this the last time he fights Dagur Saltcliffe, and he is even less inclined to couch his words in pretty phrasing. “Bloody whoreson,” he slurs. “I’ll fuck her like a whore for that, out in the damn streets.” He brings his sword down overhand.
Daven attacks Dagur with his sword…
...and misses by a narrow margin!
The charge has inched closer to Salt Shore’s walls. But not even the Gods can save the Westerosi now. The ring of steel has closed almost fully around them; only a narrow gap remains where Almer Connington has bested the Dornish captain, his men holding Lharys’ cavalry at bay.
And in the distance, the battle on the hill is reaching its tipping point as well. The Westerosi fight like men possessed, but they are 500 against five times that number, superior position or no. The infantry line has begun to shred, and the cavalry is almost cut off completely from it. They will not be able to hold Lord Blackmont much longer.
Then—trumpets sound from Salt Shore. The gates are thrown open. And with a great cry—“The Young Dragon!”—Westerosi soldiers pour out, taking the Dornish siege force, turned around to fight Lord Ardon’s men, in the rear.
Five hundred, a thousand, they keep coming. Ser Aloran Celtigar’s banner flies in the van. Oakenfist’s ships have come!
“Both of those variants would be fine!”-Henrik is once again as calm as he was a few minutes before. As Endricks sword ruins one of engravings that decorate his armor,the Captain of the Valiant Rivers raises his eyebrows in mock astonishment .“What? Are you still here kid?”-with those words he charges at Endrick his sword glittering in his hand and cuts ferociously at his sword arm.
Henrik attacks Endrick with his sword…
...and merely strikes a glancing blow!
“You will never fuck anyone again.”
And blocking Daven’s blow with his shield, the Iron Serpent waits until precisely the last moment, then scythes his sword in a vicious arc across the Dornisman’s crotch, as if to shear through saddle and mail and geld him.
Dagur attacks Daven with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Daven is driven from the saddle!
Lharys canters towards Ser Almer, but it is a quick, damaging blow that finds purchase that catches him hard. He slumps and falls to the side, tumbling from the saddle and to the dust with a clatter. Coughing red, he manages a glance around, his eyes transfixed on the Connington knight, who is still ahorse.
Lharys, seeing his disadvantage, clambers to his feet, and searches for his weapon and his horse. Buying time, he reasserts his congenital lack of chivalry, and taking a spearman by the scruff of the neck he shoves him in Almer’s direction with an unintelligible command to fight. The Dornish captain climbs slowly, wearily back into the saddle.
Tearing past the falling Lharys, Almer lifts his blazing grey eyes at the eruption of cheers from his comrades. “Oakenfist!” goes the cry, and all the Stormknights take it up. With new vigor, they lay about with blades and axes, cutting toward the Tyrell banner like harvesters in the rye. Almer rallies his men and the bloody wedge of their passage takes them ever closer to a reunion with the Westerosi main body.
“Should have figured, that’s the Dornish reply,” Luthor retorts to Henrik’s words. Then rising in his stirrups brings down a powerful blow aimed to take the Bandit’s knight’s head off.
Luthor attacks Henrik with his sword…
...and strikes him with a swift blow!
Henrik is rocked back in the saddle by Luthor’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!
Endrick brings up his shield and takes a strike from Henrik that does little more than rattle his armor. He hears the rally cry from behind him and roars in response, swinging his hammer to follow up after Luthor’s blow.
Endrick attacks Henrik with his mass weapon…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!
Henrik is driven from the saddle!
Shear through saddle and mail indeed. Blood spurts from Daven’s thighs as the Iron Serpent’s blade cuts deep. Dagur’s momentum carries Daven clean off his horse and if he is a man yet, it will be a miracle. His scream of pain is a terrible thing to hear, and he hits the ground with a thud. Only the prompt attention of his kinsmen get him off the battlefield and away with his life.
Reaching out as the Bandit Knight falls, Luthor is tears the man’s cloak from his shoulders. Luthor flashes a quick smile to Endrick as he stuffs the red and gold under his saddle. “Well done,” he calls out, then wheels his mount about to survey the carnage around him. For the first time he sees the Westerosi down below. He smiles. “Look!” he calls to Endrik gesturing with his sword. Then eager to bring his men free of the desperate fight around him charges back into the Dornish cavalry with the shout of “The Young Dragon!” and “Fire and Blood!” looking to help cut his men free.Even slumped in the saddle,
Lharys is still able to bark commands. “Form up, you bastards!” he roars, apparently electing not to chase Almer and all his men through the battle.
“Counter-attack! No quarter!”
And with his men Lharys plunges back into the thick of things.
Endrick raises his hammer in salute to Luthor, then wheels his horse to follow him into the charge. “Westeros! Westeros and Daeron!”
Ardon Tyrell’s banner is mired in blood and steel. The sally from Salt SHore is doing great damage to the Dornishmen, but Aloran Celtigar is still some distance away. And led by Gawaye the Golden, the Dornishmen throw themselves at the Lord-Protector with desperate ferocity, trying to bring him down and take the heart out of the Reachlords.
Moving at a brisk clip and trailing broken foes, Almer Connington and his handful of knights break through the press just as the Dornish sortie reaches the outskirts of Ardon’s company. Almer, seeing a knight that looks to be a captain, spurs his tired charger and shouts: “Take them! Beyond that line lies home!” He thrusts at Gawayne as he passes by.
Almer attacks Gawayne with his sword…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!
“On, you curs! Fight them as though they wanted to eat your grain and fuck your women!”
This is the exhortation given to his men by Ser Gawayne, leading the counter-attack against the Connington’s cutting-out maneuvers. The battle has already stained his silken cloak red and his face is spattered with flecks of blood. His sword likewise is sprayed with ichor. He picks out the Lord Protector for himself and charges, swinging his own sword even as does Ser Almer. The reachlord’s blade pierces his leg, eliciting a howl of anguish and fury as he wheels away without looking to see the result of his attempt.
Ser Lharys Sand, a man claiming to be the bastard son of some Dornish lord, makes up for his dubious veracity with the skill with which he whirls about a triple-headed flail.
Gawayne attacks Almer with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Deep in the fighting on the ridge, Luthor works himself into a frenzy as he hacks and slashes away at anything in Dornish colours trying to hold back the Dornishmen for just a while longer. He parries a spear with his shield and knocks the wood and iron into the man and off his horse, then swinging the shield around, blocks another blow then replies with a sword thrust that sends that man away screaming. Then suddenly he sees a man with the flames of Uller on his shield. He grins, spurs his mount, and charges winning through a space in the enemy lines and striking hard and fast with his blade before the knight can be ready for him.
Luthor attacks Kay with his sword…
...and merely strikes a glancing blow!
Interposing himself between Ardon and the golden Dornishman, Almer takes the heavy weight of his enemy’s blow; it is a telling strike, cutting through plate and mail to dig a deep gash along the Stormlord’s upper body. He snarls in pain and anger, teetering in the saddle. But the hesitation is momentary, for the Dornish spearhead is now flowing all around him. Almer lashes back with his blood-smeared sword, seeking a gap Gawayne’s extended guard.
Almer attacks Gawayne with his sword…
...and strikes him with a hard blow!
Endrick pushes foward with Luthor, working in tandem with the Smallwood bastard. He uses his hammer with efficiency, crushing spearmen along the way. Seeing Luthor engage the Uller knight, Endrick puts his spurs to his mount and follows up the attack.
Endrick attacks Kay with his mass weapon…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!
The blade of Ser Luthor cuts through the silk surcoat of the time ,only slightly damaging the armor-but Endrick manages to wound the knight, red blood now covering his silvered chaimail. Ser Kay Uller turns his sparkling black eye to Luthor,and prepares to attack. His yellow-and-red cloak flutters in the wind, as he swings his sword. “Sers!”-he shouts angrily,as he swings “Is it normal in Westeros-a pair of knights attacking one? We are knights of the Seven,not brigands!”
Kay attacks Luthor with his sword…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!
Almer’s blow finds a gap, and Ser Gawayne howls. His tunic is already red, but the color that spreads on it now is of a darker hue. He wheels and charges at Ser Almer yet again, aiming a vigorous slash at Connington’s shield-shoulder.
Gawayne attacks Almer with his sword…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!
Luthor brings his horse around in a tight circle evading the blows of the men-at-arms around him as he prepares for another strike. “Sorry, this is war not a tourney,” is Luthor’s reply as he tries to bring his sword down on the Uller knight’s sword arm.
Luthor attacks Kay with his sword…
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Kay is driven from the saddle!
Slamming aside Gawayne the Golden’s counterblow with his shield, Almer casts baleful eyes at the crab banner of Celtigar. Another shout from the Westerosi knights goes up as the battle teeters in the balance, but Connington ignores it; instead, he swings his blade around in a backhanded slash for his Dornish enemy’s upper body.
Almer attacks Gawayne with his sword…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!
Ser Gawayne places his shield between Almer’s blow and his person, and it finds no purchase as it clangs off it. He thrusts his blade toward’s Connington, looking for a gap above his shield and his shoulder yet again.
Gawayne attacks Almer with his sword…
...with no result as the two warriors battle!
Manfryd the Merciful’s banner can be seen fluttering in the siege lines as he tries to rally his army; Princess Malora’s paramour is a bold figure in his copper mail, trying to split his forces, turning half to meet Aloran Celtigar’s sally. But it weakens the ring of steel around the Reachlords, and the Westerosi begin to push back hard now. Ardon Tyrell uses the breathing space his cousin has won for him to regroup his men and launch a fresh assault.
But if they do not win soon, they will lose all 500 men left on the hill. For more Dornish have pushed up now—trying desperately to break the stubborn resistance so they can flood down to Manfryd’s assisstance—and the spear line has been whittled down. Backs to the ruined holdfast, they make their last stand. Dismounting, the Iron Serpent takes his place in the centre of the line. The cavalry, left under Dalton Florent’s command, has pulled back as well, now only making short, sharp rushes to take the pressure off the footmen instead of engaging fully..
Even as his own strike is deflected from Gawayne’s shield, Almer recovers and parries; the Dornishman’s attack goes skittering along the notched edge of his sword, harmless. Almer taps his horse’s flanks, pressing his foe and subtly shepherding him away from the Westerosi main body. He rises in the stirrups, putting a degree of strength behind a heavy slash at Gawayne’s extended shoulder, seeking purchase in the defenses.
Almer attacks Gawayne with his sword…
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!
Gawayne is driven from the saddle!
The back and forth between Ser Gawayne and Ser Almer ends abruptly with a downward blow that bites deep into Gawayne’s shoulder. Its very momentum carries him out of the saddle and he clatters to the ground; his mount cantering on a few paces and his blade cartwheeling into the dust. He rolls a few feet before coming to a rest, groaning and bleeding even as his men come to drag him away.
With Gawayne the Golden’s fall, the last captain pressing the attack on the Reachlords is gone. The Dornishmen falter—and as it always happens in battle, everything changes in a moment. The Reachlords push harder, Aloran Celtigar, called Crackclaw, leads his men forward in a rush, and cries of alarm go up from the Dornish.
And they break. Hit hard from front and rear, now outnumbered, they back away—those who can—ignoring their commanders. A retreat turns into a rout and they begin to run, throwing down spears and shields. Manfryd the Merciful can be seen still trying to rally them, until he gives it up as a lost cause, mounts, and throws himself into a mad gallop with a handful of men before the steel jaws of the trap can close about him.
Thundering past Gawayne the Golden’s crumpled form, Almer reins up in the center of the Reachlord company, near the banners. His close-cropped hair is matted with sweat and blood, and his resplendent armor and heraldry are filthy with gore. But he is grinning madly. “Never thought I’d be so glad to see a crab, eh, coz?” he calls to Ardon, chest heaving, and points to Celtigar’s flag with his stained sword.
On the hilltop, even as the Dornishmen close in to finish off the Iron Serpent’s rearguard, cries of consternation go up. They have seen Manfryd the Merciful’s army rout, and suddenly they are no longer one part of a trap to crush a smaller Westerosi army, but a lone host outnumbered by the combined Westerosi forces.
Near the walls, Ardon Tyrell and Aloran Celtigar meet in the midst of the carnage. “I could promise him my daughter right now,” the Lord-Protector calls back to his cousin indistinctly, his jaw bruised and swollen, before cantering forward to exchange words with Crackclaw. It is quickly done; then he turns around and rides back to Almer: “Time to go save my good-brother.” And the exhausted Westerosi infantry turns right about to march back to the hill, the combined cavalry thundering before them.
Lord Blackmont makes his decision swiftly at seeing that force approaching under its bloody banners. He throws his men one last time at the rearguard—and then begins to pull them back off the hill, choosing discretion over valour.
Battle rages, but Ethos Mertyns? Why, Ethos is sitting with a frown on his face in a farmhouse. Outside people fight, but this knight sits on his rear without armor or sword, a prisoner of the Dornish. He addresses his squire, the boy that shares the small prison with him. “Do you think we’re winning, lad?” There’s a smirk to his lips at the question, some inner humor striking his fancy.
Young Halyn Grimm, Ethos’s squire, has fared less well in these circumstances. Twelve is very young for such an ordeal and he eyes his knight with a bit of wariness. “I hope so, Ser.” He says carefully, trying to get as close to a window as his chains will allow. Even standing on tiptoe, the boy cannot see.
Luthor is amidst Ser Dalton’s cavalry preparing for another charge when he sees below the ridge the Dornishmen are fleeing and the Westerosi, are now marching to their aid. The other knights in Ser Dalton’s company see it, and a cheer rises from their throats as they charge back down into the Dornish ranks meeting Blackmont’s final press blade to blade in aide of Ser Dagur’s besieged spearmen.
“Just a while longer men!” he shouts back as his men collide with the lines and more blood and violence follow as they fight desperately to push back the Dornishmen one last time.
Nodding curtly to Ardon, Ser Almer sponges the blood from his brow with a tattered sleeve. Almer He nods also to Celtigar, an old acquaintance from tourney days, and falls in with the footmen bound for the rendezvous with the Iron Serpent. The survivors among his companions spread out to ward the flanks against any Dornish skirmishers who would draw too close.
Endrick rides alongside Luthor once more, taking the charge to support the Westerosi footmen. Seeing the tide of the battle turn to their favor, he wears a fierce grin.
“If the Westeros are winning, and you see any of our folk through that window.. hollar for help. If the Dornish are winning, just don’t say anything.” Ethos responds, shifting to sit more comfortably.
“Hey! Help! Help us here!” Halyn’s high pitched, boyish voice doesn’t carry far, covered by the din of the battle. He hops up and down, trying to peer out the window, but the chains keep him from getting very far.
Somehow, against all odds, the rearguard survives that last assault. The line of spearmen bends but but it does not break; the cavalry throws itself recklessly into the fray, plunging like a dagger into the Dornish flank even as it is surrounded.
And then, Ardon Tyrell and Crackclaw have begun to climb the other side of the hill and the Dornishmen are falling back, leaving that bloodied, battered knot of men like the tide receding from a rock.
Helmless, painted in Dornish blood from head to foot, battle fever burning bright in his eyes, the Iron Serpent watches that retreat, leaning on his sword, shield hacked to pieces. Then, he turns to look at the Westerosi forces coming to their aid, and the high walls of Salt Shore behind them.
“We are going home, lads,” he calls, voice hoarse with thirst and exhaustion. And around him, disbelieving voices echo back until the reality of their survival begins to sink in.
“Or just yell without seeing. That works too.” Ethos murmurs, sighing.
Luthor can hardly believe his eyes as he surveys the field and sees naught but the Dornishmen retreating. He reigns in his horse and a broad smile crosses his gore splattered face. He looks around again his eyes gleaming with battle fever and now, joy. He raises his blood stained sword high in the air and shouts hoarsely. “The Young Dragon!” it’s picked up by his men, along with the others around him shouting out the names of their homes, or house words. As the cheers continue Luthor kicks his horse
The big knight pulls off his helm, revealing a suprisingly youthful face. “Ser Endrick Hill.” He grins. “My thanks to you as well.” He looks around him at the dead and dying, the city and keep of Salt Shore and the sea beyond. “We’re going home.”
Rending and slaying as they make the bloody ascent, the tattered knights accompanying the Reachlander infantry ride down the breaking Dornishmen headed down the hill. Almer Connington sends an archer tumbling aside, leaving him to his comrades to spare or kill as they desire. He trots his exhausted charger across the burning sands, putting away his notched blade and peering at the Iron Serpent and his men. “Hellish day’s work, eh?” Almer comments, begrudging admiration in his voice. It is clear that the rearguard has paid a heavy price.
“Home,” Luthor chuckles drunkenly as though he’s speaking of some legendary place he didn’t think existed until now. “The Gods are good,” he says with an incredulous shake of his head.
As Luthor shakes his head he does notice the bloody cost that the rearguard paid. His own men, lay crumpled about him save for five. He nods to them before he turns back to Endrick. “Bloody price,” he remarks. “I suppose we should gather up our men, report to the others,” he says where the Tyrell banners fly by the old Holdfast.
“I saw the Stranger today,” is the Iron Serpent’s cryptic reply; he smiles a hard, bloody smile with it. Then, he shakes his head as if to clear it before looking Almer over. “You’re a pretty sight. Did you stop to let every Dornishman take a swing at you?” he gibes—but today, it is without any sting. Around him, men who can barely stand, grin to see the famous rivalry.
Around them, the withdrawal to Salt Shore has begun. Words spreads around the army; Crackclaw has brought enough ships from Oakenfist’s fleet to take every last man off these cursed shores. Men stumble down towards the gates, common men-at-arms supporting noble knights too wounded to walk alone, wounded men carried or held atop horses.
The Westerosi army flows by the farmhouse near the siege lines on its way into the city. Then, two men-at-arms break away and trudge towards it, perhaps in the hope of finding loot. The doors are thrown open—and then stop in consternation at seeing the Westerosi cained inside.
At the exclamation of surprise, the Iron Serpent, riding past, breaks away as well, nudging his stolen sandsteed into a trot. Swinging down near the farmhouse, he pushes past the two men: “What is it?”
Ethos is still sitting. What else is there to do? At the sound of men approaching he lets his pale blue eyes move to the door, waiting and watching. When he recognizes that voice, however? “Oh, bloody hells.” The knight mutters, a scowl twisting on his face and he pushes himself to his feet, chains rattling.
“Ser! Here! We’re in here!” Halyn’s youthful voice cracks, but it’s an accent that is very much of the Reach. The boy continues to call out until their prison doors are opened. The boy looks a bit worse for wear: sunburned and dirty, but he’s been given enough gruel and water to survive.
The Iron Serpent stares at Ethos for a long moment; then, he shakes his head in disbelief: “Mertyns. Ethos Mertyns. You have the Stranger’s own luck.” He glances at the squire, then at the chains binding the two of them. “So tell me…” he says almost pleasantly, then.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Cut and bruised but tireless, Almer Connington is everywhere, it seems; he and a bevy of knights and mounted soldiers turn to round up stragglers, urging them toward the gates with iron discipline. He halts his exhausted charger atop a knoll, and when he sees a youthful pikeman in Tyrell livery stumble, Almer trots over to the boy. “Come, get up. This day isn’t done yet.” The lad takes heart; though Almer’s words and manner are stern, he seems to take reassurance in the young commander’s confidence. Soon enough, the infantry and baggage are moving again.
“I came to meet the family, of course.” Ethos responds casually, a smirk touching his face again. He too, looks worse for wear, face peeling from bad sunburns, beard shading his lips and jaw, clothing wrinkled and dirty. “Only got tangled up in these chains here.” He holds up his arms. “You’ll do me a favor, won’t you Saltcliffe? Sounds like quite the victory out there. I was cheering for you… quietly, of course.”
Halyn grins, teeth looking very white against his dirty and sunburned face. “Thank you, Ser!” He bows. “Thank you!”
“To meet the family. Of course.”
The Iron Serpent continues to stare at Ethos and Halyn; he is a vision from the hells, covered in blood, a forbidding gleam in his dark eyes. Then, without looking away, he says to the two men-at-arms who are standing by: “Go find someone to strike these chains off and get these two to the ships.” He pauses; then, he meets the Mertyns’ smirk with a dangerous smile of his own: “Tell him to get the lad’s chains off but leave Ser Ethos’ on.”
“Ha! That’s funny, Dagur.” Ethos responds, snorting. “Seriously, now. I have business in the city before we get to the boats. I suspect I won’t have much time. We can play these games later, alright?” The Stormlander asks, his face a mix of frustration, forced laughter, and incredulation. “That’s my keep.. just over that wall.”
“Your keep?”
The Iron Serpent laughs: “You don’t even have a pisspot to call your own in this land, ser. But if you want to stay here and press your claim, you are welcome to it. You can hold Salt Shore alone against its folk.”
He begins to move away from the door, sending the two men-at-arms to find someone for the chains with a gesture.
“Ser Ethos,” Halyn says softly, as Dagur moves to depart. “Do you mean to stay here?” He fervently hopes this isn’t the case, but Ethos has been more and more erratic since his head injury.
“Joleta is -my- wife, Dagur. What’s going on out there, then? Dornish didn’t tell me a damned thing here…” Ethos responds first, then frowns deeply as Dagur turns to walk away. “Wai-.. You’re going to get the fucking chains off, right?! Saltcliffe!” The knight looks down at the boy, snapping sharply, “Quiet! No, I’m not staying here. I need to see the keep!”
“I wish you joy of her,” the Iron Serpent’s reply drifts back lazily. “I am sure she will be glad to hear of your concern for her people.” And with that, he is gone, mounting and cantering away to see to the enemy’s withdrawal within the walls and to the docks.
Ethos glares at Dagur’s back, his temper rising. “Don’t fuck around, Dagur! Dagur!!” He calls after the knight. “Damnit!!” And the Stormlander is -not- in a very good mood later when the smith finally does show up.