The morning sun slants across the marshes that spread to the south, making them seem even more unlovely. The heat is cruel already, promising a pitiless day; it makes the sickly, green-tinged water seem almost to bubble, releasing a fetid smell. The croaking of frogs and the calls of strange birds are the only sounds to emerge from the depths of the marsh.
The cavalry company—a strong one, a thousand strong—that rides east along the ribbon of land between the marsh and the hills looming to the north keeps its distance from the former. But it still seems vulnerable at the moment, hemmed in as it is without much room for manouevering.
Perhaps that is why it is broken into wings, so that no attack can trap it all at once. Limp banners are occasionally lifted by the sluggish breeze, identifying various captains to those who can recognise the devices; the Stormbreaker, the Iron Serpent and others besides.
The Baratheon Stag’s head belches forth its thunderbolts upon the Stormbreaker’s banner. All the Stormlands cavalry ride beneath it, all the chivalry that answered Daeron’s call those many sevendays ago.
The massive beast that bears the Stormbreaker himself is that selfsame beast that Lord Westerling bestowed as a gift at his wedding. The charger’s gilded barding reflects the sun proudly, dazzling the eyes of those who look straight at it. The knight walks forward of his banner, holding hammer and shield, waiting for the enemy to show itself.
Tancred looks onto the battle from his own mount. Not the best looking piece of war horse, but the animal has served Tancred well throughout the campaign. The heir to Storm’s End looks…changed. About a two weeks of growth of hair is on his face, and the dark circles around his eyes seem to be a permanent feature. His armor is also no longer tournament ground polished. He looks like many a knights here, a warrior who has been campaigning hard for months. For now he looks over to his uncle, then over to the rest of their forces and waits.
Silver upon black, the ironborn knight’s serpent device flies above a far more mixed company; outriders mingling with more than a few Reachknights and a scattering of Riverknights as well. As for the Iron Serpent himself, he rides in the van; a menacing figure as always in full harness, shield on arm, helmed head turned towards the marsh.
He holds his men back from the Stormbreaker’s wing and the Westermen, leaving a carefully maintained distance between them.
There’s a choked cry. A young knight, in the midst of lowering his visor at the warnings, slides from his saddle—the visor will not close, for an arrow found his eye. And then, here and there amidst the wing of the cavalry closest to the marsh, there are more cries, and suddenly shouts, curses. Arrows are flying, a small black cloud, dropping in among men and horses from a grove of withered trees and brown hedges at the marsh’s edge. They whistle past, narrowly missing a man, pinging off armor, squishing into soft flesh of horse or man-at-arms.
Then, shouts, wild battle cries, and suddenly two, three hundred Dornish cavalry break from behind the shelter of the trees, charging at the nearest troop! Some still have their bows out, and send arrows ahead of them, trying to sow chaos before the crash!” to Caitrin.
At the fore mounted on his grey charger and sweltering despite being dressed lightly in chain mail, a half-helm and his sandsilk cloak, Luthor rides beside the Iron Serpent, though his attention is not on the great knight himself but the grim land that surrounds them looking for signs of danger.
A rider in Caron livery takes an arrow in the eye before he can close his visor. With a choked scream he collapses back on the saddle, causing his horse to rear. The riders around him yank their reins to avoid the animal, even as they are surprised upon the right by the Dornish assault.
The Stormbreaker raises his warhammer high and points right, bellowing, “WHEEL RIGHT! ENVELOP!” The command flags are raised overhead and pointed towards the attack.
At the head of the Dornish, men in half helms and the curious armored fashion of their lands ride at the head of wedges of riders. One bears a curiously long spear, his bearded, handsome face split in a wide grin. His round shield bears the baby-stealing vulture of Blackmont. The one beside him wears the livery of House Wyl and their heel biting adder. The handsome knight declares, “The Stormbreaker! He’s for me! The rest of you, kill who you may!”
And the trap is sprung. Cries rise from the Westerosi column that is struck first; then, the alarm runs like wildfire from one wing to another. But here are there, shouted commands can be heard; the northmen have a battle plan, it seems, and they mean to stick to it.
Or some of them do, at least. The Iron Serpent’s sword is in his hand now, he curbs his horse hard, bringing it around even as he calls: “Hold!” The cry is taken up and relayed along his wing; it is largely unnecessary, his men showing no signs of charging.
“Keep them in battle order,” he says to Luthor, his gaze switching all the while between the marsh as if looking for something there and the Stormbreaker’s wing ahead and to his right that has been the first one to be attacked. “Too soon,” he adds dispassionately as the men riding ahead of Sarmion turn and ride back to his aid; he begins to lead his men back and around to come up on the Dornishmen’s flank without quite joining the battle yet.
And the trap is sprung. Cries rise from the Westerosi column that is struck first; then, the alarm runs like wildfire from one wing to another. But here are there, shouted commands can be heard; the northmen have a battle plan, it seems, and they mean to stick to it.
The Iron Serpent’s sword is in his hand now, he curbs his horse hard, bringing it around even as he calls: “Hold!” The cry is taken up and relayed along his wing; it is largely unnecessary, his men showing no signs of charging.
Slow progress is accompanied by the low soft whistle of Ser Symeon Westerlingthe visor on his helmet canted back over his forehead. Looking as haggard as the next man, he is doing his best to stay alert, his champagne colored warhorse protesting frequently at the ill treatment the Sourwater provides. He rides not far from the banner of the Stormbreaker, his own seeming far less daunting in a field of lions, deer shooting lightning out of their faces and snakes, a crashing wave over a field of shells.
“Your complaining won’t change the fact that we’re here,” he reminds his horse, putting spurs to flanks occasionally to keep the slow moving horse from growing mired in the deep watery grave in which they gingerly tread. At the sudden cries in the distance, he reaches up a hand to snap down his visor.
Raising up his shield arm, he draws his only clean item—a neatly and recently oiled bastard sword and counter-charges. Following instructions to the letter, wheeling right hard and pressing hard at the flanks. Kicking up great sprays of tepid disease filled water with every movement of his charger’s hooves, pressing hard for the distant enemy.
At the side of the man with the Blackmont shield is indeed a Wyl, Dread Daven by name. He holds bare steel, cruel sun gleaming off its deadly length as he charges. His bearded face is split by his howling mouth
At the side of the man with the Blackmont shield is indeed a Wyl, Dread Daven by name. He holds bare steel, cruel sun gleaming off its deadly length as he charges. His bearded face is split by his howling mouth, all the Dornishmen’s shrill cries strange and wild. He parts from Dalt then and half the Dornish band peels off with him to charge toward the Iron Serpent’s orderly column.
“Hahah!” the handsome spearman declares, riding his horse in a straight charge towards the lightning spewing stagshead. His sandstead dances around the heavier warhorses of the knights between him and the Stormbreaker. He seems to do acrobatics in the saddle as he dodges this way and that to avoid the errant stroke of the foes he passes.
“Your reign of terror ends today, Baratheon!” the Speardancer declares. He holds up his spear, swinging it around his head as his mount approaches his giant foe.
Crafted of rainwood oak, the Stormbreaker’s shield easily takes the blow from Blackmont’s spear. Sarmion answers, “Save poetry for women, you fucking shit-eater!”
The heavy black mount bounds forward at an angle intercepting the sandstead. The Stormbreaker brings his hammer down upon the Speardancer’s exposed back.
...and strikes him with a swift blow!
And from southwest and southeast, two more groups of Dornishmen charge out of the marshes, larger than the first in size, totalling what might well be two thousand cavalry!
...and has his blow intercepted by Elmer’s shield.
...and merely strikes a glancing blow!
Then he calmly draws free his longsword and waits for either the order to carry forward or to turn and charge the Dornish division that’s set out after them.
A scream of outrage answers the Stormbreaker’s heavy hammer strike. The Speardancer wheels his sandstead and swings his spear once more, looking for a quick riposte upon his slower, heavier foe.
“You’ll never leave here alive, babykiller!”
And now, the trap is fully sprung. The outermost of the two new Dornish groups curves in, seeking to block off the strip of land behind the northerners, hemming them in. They shoot arrows as they ride and throw javelins, a barbed hail of steel. And flying above them are the banners of two men well-known to the Westerosi and cursed by all of them—Laurent Dalt, the Sand Dog, and Edric Manwoody, Blackcrown.
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!
And then they, too, crash together in force. One big knight—the Manwoody sigil on his shield, his visage bearded and grim beneath the triple-spiked helm on his head, and a flanged mace in the grip of a big fist—rides with a silent snarl on his lips. One man falls, the flange breaking through a helm, stabbing into a face beneath, and then he’s on Ser Dagur!
...and merely strikes a glancing blow!
Penetrating the Stormbreaker’s defenses with his swift horsework and deft spear, the blow strikes off the Baratheon’s gorget. In answer, the Stormbreaker spurs forward, crashing into the smaller horse.
Up the great hammer is lifted, it’s beaked edges glint with deadly sunlight. Down the hammer falls, the Speardancer’s words, unanswered by his massive foe.
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
“What is this treachery!?” Ser Symeon cries out as he catches sight of the pincer sort of formation that is about to descend upon the other column of cavalry. Drawing hard at his reins, he brings his horse around and taking a good head of men with him, moves to intercept.
“Ho there, you dogs!” he cries out as he comes in hard towards Dread Daven, his shield up before him, and his sword high over his shoulder, prepared to strike a deadly blow.
“Death is your only reward in my lands! We will not suffer you to live, murderer!”
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
“There.”
And now, finally, the Iron Serpent has what he was waiting for. His sword flashes as he raises it—and then it sweeps down and he throws his heavy war-horse into a gallop, his men a solid wedge of steel and horse-flesh behind him. Straight for Dalt and Manwoody they ride, as if they mean to punch a hole through the Dornishmen and clear the path again.
Then, the two groups are upon each other in a maelstorm of screaming men and horses. At the forefront, Dagur bulls past a pair of riders, only to find himself confronted by an aurochs of a man. His shield rises just in time to deflect most of the blow’s force; then, he scythes his word under it at Edric’s knee where the armour is weaker.
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Triston is driven from the saddle!
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
With Symeon before him, Daven Wyl grins a dreadful grin. Guiding his sandsteed more with knees than reins, he raises his sword and brings it down at the Westerling as the two horses pass one another.
...and sees her blow go astray!
...and misses by a narrow margin!
A spear thrust is hard to defend, especially from one made by a master with the weapon. The Stormbreaker’s parry is in effectual as the weapon finds it’s mark glancing off the Baratheon’s great helm.
Again, the massive destrier jumps forth and again the hammer is raised to strike down upon the Dornishman.
...and strikes him with a swift blow!
...and sees his blow go wild!
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!
Longaxe in hand, the Sand Dog cuts a bloody path through the press; a northerner pulls aside rather than face the blood-splattered madman howling like a rabid hound. It is a howl that is cut off abruptly as the two men in front of Laurent are suddenly cut down—and he finds himself with no time left to ward off Luthor’s flashing blade.
Mail links burst at his shoulder and blood wells through; his shield arm drops as he reels in his saddle. But unbalanced as he is, he manages to hew backhanded at Luthor’s sword-arm.
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Whipping out his blade sideways as they ride sideways past each other, Ser Symeon retracts his arm at the last moment and turns the end of the blade upwards, intending to catch the other knight under the chin of Daven Wyl. “Look your enemy in the eyes!” he chastises, spurring a few times to wheel the horse around for the second pass, preparing to feint and counter, his sword weaving a pattern infront of him. All around him, the rest of the cavalry that had broken off with him are engaging with Wyl’s men.
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!
By then, Ser Edric’s ready once more, and with a swooping swing his flanged mace whistles at the Ironborn knight.
...and sees his blow go wild!
Another heavy blow lands true and the Speardancer reels in the saddle, “No! I will not fall! Not to you!”
The Blackmont wheels his mount away from the heavier destrier and makes a backhanded swipe with his spear upon the Stormbreaker’s flank.
...and misses by a narrow margin!
Symeon doesn’t quite get Daven under the chin, but near enough. A line of crimson opens on the man’s cheek as he rides by, splitting his ear and rocking him in the saddle. “Whoreson,” he curses, wheeling the sandsteed so hard the horse screams as it complies. He comes at Symeon again, from behind now, his blade extended as if he hopes to slice the other man in half.
...with no result as the two warriors battle!
Tancred moves into the fray when the rest of the Stormlanders, serving as a shadow for his Uncle to keep him from being flanked. Tancred managed to intercept one daring, or mayhap desperate, Dornish men and send him away finding an easier mark. Seeing now that his uncle is being hard pressed, Tancred heels his horse and comes at Ser Michael’s unprotected flank, the battle cry of Baratheon from his lips as he swings his sword.
...with no result as the two warriors battle!
The Iron Serpent has his balance now; in the brief space he wins, he parries a spear-thrust from a Dornishman hard, binding him long enough for one of is companions to skewer him through the neck. Another, he slams away with his shield, letting the whirling battle part them.
And then Edric is there again; the ironman saws on his reins, almost making his horse rear; it saves him as the hammer whistles harmlessly past. And as he plunges to the side, he strikes again, cutting at the Manwoody knight’s shoulder.
...and strikes him with a hard blow!
A frustrated scream tells the Stormbreaker where his foe has retreated to. The antlered helm turns to find him even as the barding bearing beast dancing in a wheel.
The hammer comes up even as the Heir of Storm’s End attacks, trapping the Blackmont knight in a Baratheon vice!
...with no result as the two warriors battle!
...and sees his blow go astray!
Deflecting the second and third attempts, Ser Symeon Westerling wheels his horse constantly, his blade dancing in his hand, beating at the tip of the other man’s sword, driving at him again and again. “I see that I have marked you for your cowardice, may that serve to remind you,” he tells the other man with fire in his eyes as he parries again and then ripostes suddenly. His blade moving quickly and deceptively.
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
In blue and white a knight sees the Blackmont pressed hard. Ser Cleon Fowler charges ahead, avoiding at all costs the deadly Stormbreaker.
The smaller Baratheon is his target. He swings for Ser Tancred, looking to take him by surprise, “Fowler!”
Steeling himself for a painful exchange Luthor wheels his horse around and comes in for another strike, his sword arm numb and throbbing as he raises it to strike again aiming high for Dalt’s helmed head.
...with no result as the two warriors battle!
...and sees his blow go wild!
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Josua is driven from the saddle!
Despite the other man’s taunting, Daven Wyl is no coward. He wheels again to parry the attacks, their horses dancing back and forth and squealing with the treatment. Then Symeon’s sword hits hard across Daven’s chest and for a moment, the sandsteed has his way, carrying Wyl past the scrabble for a moment as he tries to catch his breath. Finally, he returns, screaming defiance and cutting hard with his sword.
...and misses by a narrow margin!
...and misses by a narrow margin!
This time, the Sand Dog is prepared; he smashes Luthor’s sword away with his shield, his eyes burning wild behind his helm’s grill: “Bend over and spread your arse, little man. This will only hurt for a moment!”
And with that, he suddenly spurs his horse, sending it leaping forward to Luthor’s sounded side, unleashing a blow at his helm as he does so.
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Luthor is driven from the saddle!
Again, he swings his spear hard, looking to deliver the killing blow, “You will pay for what you did here, villain!”
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!
Sarmion is rocked back in the saddle by Michael’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!
...and strikes him with a hard blow!
...and sees his blow go astray!
Tancred swears as his sword doesn’t strike a decent blow. His sees his uncle pressed back in the saddle from the Dornish knight’s latest spear thrust. Redoubling his efforts he again strikes, and strikes, and strikes!!
No defense is set before the Speardancer’s attack. Instead, the Stormbreaker charges himself, delivering his blow even as the spear rocks him back in the saddle.
The hammer swings for Blackmont’s chest.
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Michael is driven from the saddle!
Holding back his sword for a moment as the other man’s back is exposed, Ser Symeon waits for the return attack and then once again parries and returns the attack, sweeping for an exposed joint lower in the armor this time. “Prepare yourself, ser,” he advises dangerously.
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!
Daven is rocked back in the saddle by Symeon’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!
“Some fight in you, Baratheon?” the Fowler knight declares after he intercepts Tancred’s blow.
His sandsteed dancing around the Baratheon’s destrier, he swings his sword across his body seeking to land a blow upon the other’s unprotected back.
...and sees his blow go wild!
Pressing his horse up to Daven’s, Ser Symeon wheels around with his horse, drawing it around so that for a moment he rides beside the other man and comes across himself with another blow, intending to achieve some sort of success through the unexpected angle and timing of the attack. “You should have withdrawn, ser,” he tells the other man.
...with no result as the two warriors battle!
It is noon (about 11 am) of the 12th day in the 5th month. The season is Summer, in the 161st year since Aegon’s Landing.
Tancred sees his sowrd deflected by the shield, and does his best to recover, twisting in the saddle to avoid the counter strike. With a snarl on his now bearded face, Tancred pulls back his sword to thrust hard and up into a vulnerable spot of his opponent’s armor.
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
...and sees his blow go astray!
...with no result as the two warriors battle!
“Kill me in Dorne, will you? Not fucking likely!” the Stormbreaker yells in triumph as he chases the fallen Blackmont from the field.
Then, seemingly bored with running down the Speardancer turns his mount back towards the banners. Raising up his hammer, he shouts, “Stormlands! To me!” Those knights unengaged with foes of their own gather around their commander beneath the Stormbreaker’s banner.
Intercepting with his shield, Cleon narrowly avoids death. Tancred’s blow sends large splinters, shivering from the round edges of its blue and white surface.
“I will send you to the Seven Hells, you Baratheon pissant!” Ser Cleon dances his sandsteed to the left then jumps it forward, thrusting his sword at Tancred as he does so.
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
His shield angled just so, the ironman deflects Edric’s blow—and under cover of that moment, he risks a swift look around. Whatever he sees makes him curse and press forward; there seems to be added venom in the blow he unleashes, sword rising and falling upon the Manwoody knight’s helm as if he means to cleave it and the head within in half.
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Edric is rocked back in the saddle by Dagur’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!
Perhaps he should have spent less time trying to warn Dread Daven, and more time trying to stab him.
...and sees his blow go wild!
Tancred feels the blow strike him like a hammer fist, make his jaw slam shut and blood from biting his cheek and tongue. He does his best to recover, knowing if he doesn’t he is dead. Again his sword raises and strikes.
...and merely strikes a glancing blow!
...and strikes him with a hard blow!
Blackcrown’s helm breaks, some flaw in it making it split half open at his skull. It’s the grace of the gods that the Iron Serpent’s terrible blow did not find its way to his skull—and indeed, as Edric flinches back, the blade’s for a moment stuck! It’s almost wrenched from Ser Dagur’s grip before it’s pulled out—and Ser Edric proves no coward. Helm dangerously weakened though it may be, a few wild whisps of hair curling up through the split, he charges once more, howling for blood. The mace is swung with abandon, all his might behind it.
...and has his blow intercepted by Dagur’s shield.
Throwing his shield in front of Tancred’s sword it bounces off the hooded hawk. Still the weight of rider and horseflesh are enough to force it back into the Fowler’s body.
A victorious laugh answers it, however, as Cleon shouts, “You are weak! I’ve known maids who’ve struggled more than you! I think I will bring you into my bed and make a man out of you!”
Laughing, he raises his sword and dances his sandsteed forward, aiming for the Baratheon’s helm.
...and strikes him with a swift blow!
A miss! Another miss! Daven seems to have his breath back enough to dodge another hard blow, and it makes him laugh madly as he turns his horse to face Symeon. “Go to your Gods,” is all he says.
...with no result as the two warriors battle!
Apparently the warning was not enough, nor the warning blow, Ser Symeon continues to ride past the other man and fully wheels about for a full charge. Lowering his sword slowly to draw attention and then raising at the last moment as he comes in, again, in one of those rapid exchanges. “I am through warning you, ser,” he points out, and comes in hard again and again, attempting to hammer his sword through the other man’s helmet with the edge of the blade.
Perhaps he should have spent less time trying to warn Dread Daven, and more time trying to stab him.
...with no result as the two warriors battle!
Tancred snarls, taking another blow. His still on his saddle and he whirls his horse about, sword swinging, hopefully using the momentum to his advantage.
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Cleon is driven from the saddle!
The Iron Serpent clearly has the upper hand now, and he does not mean to let that change. This time, he slams his shield into the heavy mace, his full weight behind it—and continues onward and up, rising in his stirrups, raising his sword overhead before crashing another blow down at Edric’s split helm.
A sizable force has gathered around the Stormbreaker. Raising his hammer high in the hot air, he orders, “CHARGE!”
The wedge of horse and riders are aimed squarely at the Dornish banners. Who soon whither and disperse under the attack of heavy cavalry.
Soon, the Martell and Blackmont banners cannot be seen upon the battlefield. They are captured.
...and merely strikes a glancing blow!
Perhaps the warriors have been hit too many times on the head. More blows miss and Daven is all but slavering. “Why won’t you die, you stubborn globule of camel spit!” And he swings again.
...and strikes him with a hard blow!
Pulling his horse around, Ser Symeon’s momentum seems to have tapered off, and yet he continues to attack. Shutting up for the first time in the battle, his sword whipping in, deflecting, parrying and riposting with speed and strength, concentrating on the battle, and less on giving the other man his due chance to withdraw. Then the other man insults him to his face, and he is about to reply when he is caught soundly. Gritting his teeth, he parries a second attack and comes in again.
...with no result as the two warriors battle!
Thrown from the sandsteed, Cleon Fowler rolls on the ground, gaining his feet quickly.
He steadies himself, looking for the Baratheon who unhorsed him and cries, “Not so fast! Your ass is mine, northman!” He sprints quickly in his lighter armor for Tancred’s saddle.
Getting a grip on the Heir of Storm’s End, he seeks to pull him to the ground!
...with no result as the two warriors battle!
It is not going well for the Dornish now. With the Stormbreaker pressing hard in front and the Iron Serpent holding fast at the rear, the pincer is beginning to disintegrate. But there is still fight left in the Sand Dog. Foe vanquished, he rises in the stirrups to survey the battlefield.
Then, he shouts a volley of commands, sending part of his force to bolster their comrades against the Baratheon. At the same time, he himself spurs forward, breaking through the flank of the battle at the rear to where another brawl takes place not far awar. And coming up behind Symeon, he hammers at the man’s back, utterly pragmatic and without a trace of chivalry.
...with no result as the two warriors battle!
Tancred twists in the saddle, bring his boot crashing down on Cleon’s nose to try to dislodge him. He also turns about, spying where he might be needed. Seeing Elmer hard pressed, Tancred heels his horse in that direction, once again raising his voice in battle shout.
...and strikes him with a powerful blow!
Gavyn is driven from the saddle!
...and has his blow intercepted by Elmer’s shield.
The ironman and his foe are too close now for full-blooded swings; his shield against Edric’s, Dagur puts his shoulder to it, trying to push the other knight from the saddle. The mace swings harmlessly over his shoulder; then, giving up, he suddenly hammers with his shield and pulls back at the same time, trying to clear space to swing his sword. And swing he does, again at the Manwoody knight’s gorget.
...and has his blow intercepted by Edric’s shield.
Edric is driven from the saddle!
With one blow landed and now Laurent to distract Symeon, Daven grins a horrible, bloody grin. But he says nothing, only roars and swings again.
...and strikes him with a swift blow!
The young knight, Ser Symeon continues to press the attack against Dread Daven, his sword play taking on exotic and unusual angles as he attempts to overcome the other man’s mounting defense. Momentum indeed. Just when things are looking their worst, he feels a blow to the back of his armor and somehow manages to twist with it, letting it slide off easily. “Treachery at every turn you dogs!” he bellows and now squares himself to face both Laurent and Dread Daven, his sword wheeling around while his shield works to keep them both at bay. A game of counters, largely, now.
A game which suffers from a hard blow to his shield shoulder, though he does his best to steady himself.
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Daven is driven from the saddle!
Tancred grins fiercely. “Come on then, lets catch my Uncle before he has all of the fun and glory!” With that Tancred heels his steed and moves swiftly to catch up with the Stormlander host.
“Oh, running away?” the Fowler knight shouts after Tancred, “Looking to be buggered by that giant bastard of yours?!”
He bangs his sword against his shield and shouts, “Let me break you in for him, coward!”
As the Dornishmen are unhorsed, those who can stagger, stumble or run toward the marshes. The raucous calling of crows sounds now and then when the clamor of battle finds a lull, for where there is battle, there is feasting. And into the marsh where the crows call the injured Dornish fade.
In the midst of it, Edric Blackcrown fights like a man possessed. He manages to glance this way and that while pressing Ser Dagur, and he sees what’s happening. He roars, “Sound the withdrawal! Men of Kingsgrave, to me! Cover the retreat!” His voice carries—the crack in his helm lets his voice escape a little louder—and then after warding off a blow with his scarred shield, he presses at Ser Dagur.
At the lead of one of the columns is the banner of House Reyne of Castamere, Ser Alek in the lead of his kinsmen. There are a fair few other houses, also contributing their aid to the re-inforcements. Alek draws his sword, pointing towards the main battle, ordering a Charge.
Cursing fluently and vilely as Daven falls, the Sand Dog half-raises his longaxe as if to attack Symeon again—and then, twists away instead. A cunning attack from a northman’s blind side sends him tumbling from his saddle and Laurent jabs it with his longaxe, sending it bolting towards the dismounted Wyl knight.
“Ride!” he roars.
...and strikes him with a swift blow!
Seeing the call for retreat from his own lines, Ser Cleon Fowler shouts, “Bugger this for a lark!”
He begins running towards the marshes, he grabs his sandsteed and leaps into the saddle. Giving one more glance to the battlefield, he points his sword at Tancred.
“I’ll have your ass yet, Baratheon! Hah!” he shouts then sets his spurs to his mount’s flanks and gallops from the field.
The Iron Serpent, on the other hand, seems to fight with cold, clear viciousness. And clearly he does not mean to let the Dornishmen have space to form again, for he can be heard calling to his lieutenants as well. In response, his men seem to draw tighter, pushing hard to cut across the Dornish company’s right flank.
The distraction nearly costs him as that mace comes whistling towards him again. But he blocks it just in time, taking part of the blow upon his shield arm with a grunt; then, he slants a cut at Edric’s shoulder, the sword angled to bite deep between his collarbone and neck.
Wheeling his mount around, Ser Symeon lets his horse have a few kicks at Dread Daven if he closes in even as he circles around to press the attack on Laurent, riding up to bring around a backhand at the other man with the tip of his blade. Spinning his blade expertly, not about to let this treachery go unanswered, “Ride yourself into a pit, coward!”
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Edric is driven from the saddle!
...and strikes him with a shattering blow!
Laurent is rocked back in the saddle by Symeon’s blow, but manages to keep his seat!
As Daven tries to get away, his injuries tell and he falters. But before he can go down to a knee, another Dornishman has him by the arm and helps him up onto his horse. They ride into the marshes with the other fleeing Dornishmen and do not look back.
The Stormbreaker’s cavalry has carved a great notch in the Dornish pincer and captured the banners the Dornish brought with them. The Dornish morale breaks even as the King’s reinforcements enter the field.
Raising his hammer, he declares, “Storm’s End! King Daeron! And Victory!”
Pointing his hammer at the retreating Dornish, Sarmion commands, “Rout them, boys!”
One of the Dornish rear wing’s captains falls, and his banner with him—and the last section of the attacking force that was holding its ground begins to falter too. The Iron Serpent cuts forward into its heart, his men spreading out around him—and then, reinforcements arrive from the other flank and panic spreads through the Dornishmen.
But is not quite a rout—not yet. For there is one Dornish captain left mounted, his banner still flying. That almost changes when Symeon’s blow slams into the Sand Dog from the side and behind, knocking him forward over his horse’s neck, coughing in pain. But he manages to stay in the saddle somehow, and he is close enough to the flank of the rear battle now that some of his fellows can peel away, surrounding him in a defensive wall.
Long moments pass before he can regain his senses enough to look around. Then, he grabs a lieutenant’s shoulder, shouting urgently above the battle’s clamour. Soon, the flag for retreat is raised. The order seems to forestall what could have been a rout; foot by bloody foot, the Dornishmen start to pull back.
CPU usage exceeded.
There is a rise in the marsh, a sort of large hillock that is a prominent landmark for locals—whomever it is that would live around a nasty marsh. Now a figure appears there, mounted on a restive sandsteed. She stands out among the dark trees and darker water, for she is clad in copper-gilt leaf mail and a flowing robe of bright gold silk.
Those who know will see that it is Caitrin Blackmont, and she holds a slender sword in her hand, a waterdancer’s plundered blade. “To me!” she calls out, and surprisingly, they come. The straggling, retreating Dornishmen begin to gather around the bright gold figure on top of the hillock, and the retreat slows.
“Let’s regroup,” the Stormbreaker says finally. He turns his mount away from the remaining Dornish, its mouth dripping froth from the exertions of bearing, armored rider and barding in this heat.
Turning to his bannermen, he says, “Signal the regroup.” He stands his mount at a spot of high ground and dismounts, to look across what’s left of the battlefield to wear the Sand Dog stands.
Looking at Tancred, the giant Baratheon states, “Declare victory, cousin.”
Then the horn sounds from Ser Dagur’s position and Luthor glances back. “Or we’ll return to the Iron Serpent,” he revises his orders and quickly getting his men in order leads the way back to Ser Dagur.
The cries of wounded men drift up over the ribbon of land—the dirt churned now into bloody mud. Dead bodies sway gently in the water at the marsh’s edge, both Dornish and Westerosi. A horse kicks wildly there, half-submerged eyes rolling; by degrees, the mud sucks him under until suddenly his frantic whinnying is cut off.
And across the stretch of marsh between them, the two bloodied sides watch each other. The Dornish, twice the number of the northerners to begin with, have been terribly mauled; the Westerosi have losses as well, but not as heavy.
Finally, the Sand Dog, a small figure atop that hillock, can be seen to turn and say something to the gleaming woman beside him. Then, he turns his horse and rides down and out of sight, into the marsh. And around him, the remnants of the Dornish host follow, straggling away into that secret place.
Tancred looks over to his Uncle and nods. “Aye, M’Lord.” He then nods the the banner man and carries out his Uncle’s wishes. Once that is done, and Tancred’s own men seen to, the heir to Storm’s End tries to find a nice /dry/ place to rest his weary body, and sleep for two weeks!
At the sound of the horn, Ser Symeon turns his mount around and wheels back in the direction of the main. His men covering the withdrawal, largely undiminished by the battle, only a handful of deep wounds among them. His horse skipping over bodies and stepping on no few Dornish, not out of some malignant intent, but as due to the course he takes across the field.
Riding among the others, he lets out a yell and goes to see his armor repaired, his entire left side going numb from the repeated blows to his shield shoulder. “Ser,” he says to several knight as he trots past, headed to a quiet spot in the rear to take off his armor and hammer out a quick fix.
Sighing then and wrenching his weapon free of the other soldier, Tomas turns to Alek and nods some. “It would seem you are right, ser. We have missed all the fun…”