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Chapter 2 (Different Stannis)
🕑 Added 2025-06-04 20:02:48 +0000 UTCMC's pov
I sat mounted on my horse atop a mountain slope, my boots steady in the saddle's stirrups, the mountain wind sharp, clashing against my face. Cold wind stung my face, carrying the scent of rain and pine, while my horse snorted softly, its breath steaming in the morning chill.
Mountain's slope overlooked, the road crawled through Felwood Pass like a snake, squeezed between the dark wall of the Kingswood from the other side.
A 50-meter wooden bridge connects the road, separated by the River. The river poured from the mountains, rushing through rocky cracks with white foam before slowing in the forest's thick shade. Because of the dam, there was less water flowing in the river than usual. On the forest side, tall oaks and pines stood tight, their wet branches a dark curtain hiding anything inside, a perfect cover for my ambush.
From this high point, I could see the road, the bridge, and the river, the battlefield laid out like a map, and no one below could see me, my horse, or the forces I commanded.
"This ambush is going to work," I thought, my grip tightening on the reins.
At my side on the slope, one thousand of my two thousand cavalry waited, their horses still, breaths puffing in the cold air. My armor pressed heavily on my shoulders, but I sat firm in the saddle, eyes locked on the bridge below. Behind me, twenty catapults were positioned along the slope, their wooden frames creaking as my men adjusted the tension, the stones, each as large as a man, loaded and ready to fire. The catapult crews stood silent, awaiting my command, their faces grim under iron helms.
Across the road, hidden in the Kingswood forest, the other one thousand cavalry, five hundred archers, and five hundred infantry waited, covered by the trees. Every soldier knew their part. The archers held, bows ready, they knew order, fire only when they saw the catapults launch their stones, a signal to unleash their storm of arrows. The infantry gripped swords and axes, waiting for the moment to charge. I'd ordered absolute silence, ensuring we remained unseen until the time was right.
The sky glowed a dull grey, the sun barely risen, casting a faint, cold light over the pass. Rain fell softly, tapping my helmet and streaking down my horse's flank. I squinted down the road, my heart steady but quick, the pulse of battle stirring in my chest.
The Tyrell army marched into view. Thirty thousand men, a long line of green and gold banners stretching down the narrow road like a green serpent. Horses clopped on the wet stones, their hooves kicking up small splashes of mud. Armor clinked rhythmically, and men shouted orders, their voices carrying up the slope in sharp bursts. Their knights wore green cloaks, the fabric dark with rain, their spears glinting faintly in the dim light. At the front, a fat man in decorated armor led, his banner a gold rose on green, flapping heavily in the wind. Beside him rode a grim man, his face hard as stone, his posture rigid in the saddle. I knew him, Randyll Tarly, the man who beat my brother at Ashford. They headed for the bridge, blind to the trap I'd set, their formation loose and overconfident, their banners waving as if victory were already theirs.
"Hold," I said in a low voice to my captain, Rolland Storm, leading five hundred riders at my side. He nodded, his hand resting on his sword, his men ready, their horses pawing the ground impatiently.
About 15 thousand, half of their army, crossed to my side of the river, spreading along the narrow road below. The other twenty thousand waited on the far bank, their banners high, ready to cross, their ranks packed tightly, horses and men jostling for space.
"Now," I thought. I turned to a rider, a young man on a swift horse, his cloak soaked through.
"Go to the dam," I said, my voice sharp. "Order workers to break it."
He nodded, kicked his horse, and raced up the mountain, vanishing among the rocks, his hoofbeats swallowed by the wind. I watched the Tyrells, counting their men as they moved.
In about 5 minutes, A sharp crack echoed from upstream, the sound like a thunderclap. The dam broke. Water roared down the river, a massive wave charging through the pass, furious, carrying broken branches and rocks in its fury. It slammed into the bridge with a deafening crash, splintering wood, tearing beams apart.
The bridge collapsed, swallowed by the flood, taking hundreds of Tyrells with it. Knights sank, their heavy armor dragging them under, their shouts drowned in the water as the wind pulled them down. Horses screamed, their legs thrashing as they were swept away in the water, their riders clinging desperately before disappearing beneath the surface.
Green and gold banners vanished under the waves, trees floating like broken bones, spinning in the eddies. The Tyrells yelled in panic, their lines shattering as the riverbank turned to slippery mud. Men ran from the water's edge, slipping, dropping weapons, their shouts of alarm echoing through the pass. On the far bank, the other fifteen thousand shouted in confusion, trapped, unable to cross without the bridge, their banners swaying as men pushed forward, then back, uncertain.
"Catapults, fire!" I shouted from my horse, my voice slicing through the rain, my arm raised high. On the slope beside me, the twenty catapults launched their stones with a deep thunk, the massive rocks soaring through the air, casting shadows as they arced over the pass. The rocks crashed into the Tyrells on my side, the impact shaking the ground. One stone crushed a knight, flattening his armor into the mud with a sickening crunch, his horse bolting in terror. Another smashed into a group of spearmen, scattering bodies like leaves, their shields splintering under the weight.
Across the road, hidden in the Kingswood forest, my five hundred archers saw the catapults fire. They loosed their arrows in a deadly storm, the shafts hissing through the air like a swarm of wasps. Arrows pierced armor, stuck in shields, struck men in chests and legs, the fletching bright against the green cloaks. Soldiers fell, clutching wounds, their cries mixing with the sound of the river. Horses bolted, trampling their riders in the chaos, their hooves churning the mud. The Tyrells tried to regroup, their officers shouting, but the stones and arrows tore through them, sowing panic, their once orderly ranks dissolving into a mass of scrambling men.
I'd ordered the catapults to fire only twice on this side, to spark chaos. After two shots, they'd aim across the river. The archers were to shoot until the catapults' second shot, then stop, as the catapults took longer to reload than bows. I counted in my head.
"One," I thought, as the first stones landed, the ground trembling beneath my horse. The archers kept firing, their arrows a relentless rain, the hissing sound constant. The Tyrells screamed, some running toward the riverbank, others cowering behind shields that splintered under the barrage. The fat man's banner swayed, his knights rallying around him, their green cloaks flapping as they shouted orders. Tarly's voice cut through the din, his men raising spears to form a defensive line against the arrows, their shields locking together.
The catapults on the slope fired again, the second volley of stones crashing down with devastating force.
"Two," I thought. The second shot broke a line of knights, their horses rearing and fleeing, the riders thrown into the mud. The catapult crews turned their machines, aiming across the river, the wooden frames groaning as they adjusted. Stones flew over the water, smashing into the Tyrells on the far bank.
I gripped my sword, my hand steady, and yanked it from its sheath, the steel gleaming even in the dim light.
"Follow me!" I shouted, raising the blade high, my horse rearing slightly as I urged it forward. My one thousand cavalry roared, their voices wild, shaking the slope, the sound rolling down into the pass like thunder. I told them to yell during the charge, to scare the Tyrells, to break their spirits.
My horse surged forward, hooves pounding the steep as I rode down toward the road. My men followed, shouting like a storm, their armor clinking, black and yellow banners waving in the rain. Rolland Storm, his five hundred riders yelling, their lances lowered. The other five hundred, led by a young Bryce Caron. Captain, charged with us, their shouts filling the pass, a wave of sound and steel.
From my horse, I saw the battlefield in sharp detail, the road now a quagmire of mud and blood, the Tyrells' green cloaks scattered like fallen leaves. The river churned violently, its banks overflowing, littered with broken timbers and bodies, the water stained red. The Tyrells saw us descending, their faces pale with terror. Some dropped spears, others lifted shields and spears, trying to form a line, but it was too late.
We hit them like a wave, my sword swinging as I rode. I slashed a knight's arm, blood spraying across my horse's flank, the man falling from his saddle. My steed charged forward, crushing a spearman who tried to raise his weapon, his body crumpling beneath the hooves. My men's shouts echoed, louder than the river, making the Tyrells tremble. A soldier thrust a spear at me, but I swung, snapping the shaft in two, then drove my sword into his chest.
Rolland's lance pierced a knight, toppling him into the mud. The young Bryce's men smashed through a spearman line, scattering them like chaff, their shields splintering under the impact. The Tyrells fought back, but they were wet, tired, and scared, their swords missed, their shields cracked, their movements lagging in the mud.
From the forest erupted my other one thousand cavalry charged from the trees, led by two captains, their lances lowered, shouting fiercely as they burst into the open. They hit the Tyrells' flank, horses trampling the muddy ground, spears piercing armor, the impact sending men sprawling. The five hundred infantry followed, running from the forest, their swords and axes flashing in the dim light. They struck the Tyrells' rear, cutting through men reeling from the cavalry charge. An infantryman's axe took a knight's leg, the man screaming as he fell; another's sword slashed a spearman's chest, blood soaking the green cloak. The Tyrells were trapped—the river behind them, my men surrounding them from all sides, the pass a killing ground.
Across the river, the Tyrells, unable to advance and harassed by my archers and catapults, start to withdraw.
I rode through the fight, my sword red with blood, my horse snorting as it charged. The Tyrells' lines crumbled, men dropping weapons, running toward the river only to find no escape.
Then I saw him, Randyll Tarly, his helmet gleaming, his Valyrian sword bloody. He rode, slashing one of my men, blood spraying as the soldier fell. His knights formed a tight line, shields up, holding ground amidst the chaos.
I urged my horse toward Tarly, my eyes locked on him. His knights fought hard, but my cavalry was stronger, their charge unstoppable. My horsemen broke their line. Tarly's horse snorted, rearing as he swung his sword, his face a mask of fury.
"He's mine," I thought, gripping my sword tighter. I kicked my horse, charging straight for him, the muddy ground splashing beneath me.
"Tarly!" I shouted.
He turned, his eyes fierce under helmet, and spurred his horse toward me, swinging his sword at my chest. I leaned right, his blade missing by inches, and swung mine at his side. It hit his armor, scraping metal, sparks flying in the rain. His horse turned, and he thrust at my shoulder, the blade whistling through the air. I blocked, our blades clanging, my arm jarring from the force. My horse circled, and I slashed at his arm, cutting through leather, blood seeping from the wound. He roared, swinging at my head with a heavy blow. I ducked, the blade whistling above me, and thrust at his side. My sword pierced his armor's seam, shallow but sharp, drawing a grunt of pain.
"You beat my brother," I growled, my heart pounding, rain streaking down my face. "But will lose to me."
I swung at his chest, hard and fast, the blade a blur. He parried, steel screaming, but his arm slowed, the wound taking its toll. I pressed forward, swinging left, then right, my blade striking his side, then his shoulder, drawing more blood. His horse stumbled, mud sucking at its hooves, throwing him off balance. He swung at my chest, his strike heavy and slow. I blocked, then thrust at his neck, my blade cutting deep through armor and flesh. Blood gushed, his eyes wide with shock. He slumped, sliding from his horse, hitting the mud with a dull thud. His helmet rolled away, blood pooling around it.
"Done," I thought, breathing hard.
My men cheered, their shouts rising above the rain, the sound swelling through the pass. Tarly's knights broke, some running, others kneeling in surrender.
My cavalry chased them, lances down, cutting down those who fled.
My riders surrounded Mace Tyrell, one grabbing his arm, pulling him from his horse with a yank. He fell, yelling, and my men tied his hands, dragging him through the mud.
"Got him," I thought, wiping rain and blood from my face.
The Tyrells on my side of the river surrendered, their banners trampled in the mud, green and gold soaked and torn. Hundreds knelt, hands tied, their heads bowed in defeat. My infantry took prisoners, dragging men from the fight, their swords still red. A young knight, perhaps a lord's son, was bound and pulled away, his fine armor scratched and muddy. Across the river, the Tyrells fully withdrew.
I stopped my horse and dismounted. Tarly's body lay in the dirt, his blood pooling, his Valyrian sword still in his hand.
" Great souvenir," I said, picking it up.
Rolland storm approached, leading a group of men dragging the fat man, Mace Tyrell. They pushed him to his knees before me, his golden armor muddy, his face red and angry, his pride shattered.
"Lord Tyrell," I said, my voice cold as the wind, looking down."You're my captive now."
Suddenly, my soldiers roared, their voices rising like a storm.
"Stormlord! Stormlord!" they chanted, swords raised, their black and yellow Baratheon banners waving in the rain. The sound echoed off the mountains, louder than the river, louder than the rain, a thunderous declaration of victory. They cheered for me, their leader, the man who broke the Tyrells.
I raised my sword as the chant grew louder, my heart steady with the weight of triumph.
"I've won," I thought.
"Take them to camp," I said to the soldiers, lowering my sword. He nodded, pulling Mace Tyrell up, leading him and the others away.
