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"Charge!"
The moment the gates flew open, the loyalist army surged out and slammed straight into the Stormlanders with pure fury.
Lord Fell's eyes blazed. He met the first attacker head-on and swung his morningstar in a vicious arc, caving the man's skull like an overripe melon.
"You wanted to storm the castle? Come on then—keep storming!"
"Charge!!"
The sight of the dragon had already broken the Stormlands rebels. Now they were nothing but terrified men in full panic.
"Young Silver-Axe" Fell was even crueler than his father. Any rebel too slow to run had his head split open by that wicked battle-axe.
Crunch. Brains exploded everywhere.
His Gem-enhanced Vitality made his strength terrifying.
The three loyalist houses fought like lions and quickly drove the rebels back hundreds of yards.
"My lord, sound the retreat!" Lord Ralph Buckler shouted, voice cracking with fear. He wanted to pull back and regroup.
He had barely glimpsed the red dragon before the entire ram team turned into screaming torches. The sheer terror of the unknown made him want to run.
Skreeeee!
Daeron wheeled Caraxes in low passes, clearing the gates first, then drove straight into the thickest knots of rebels, carving corridors of death with roaring flame.
On the battlefield, human lives were cheaper than parchment.
He kept the dragon breathing fire relentlessly, determined to end this fast.
"Dragon—!"
Robert stood frozen on the hill, eyes glassy, body locked in place.
He had seen dragons before—at Harrenhal, when Prince Daeron flew Caraxes every day and showed off all three.
Until today he had thought of them as nothing more than bigger, meaner beasts—dangerous, but not unbeatable.
Now he watched his proud Stormlands army burning and scattering before dragonfire with zero chance to fight back. A crushing wave of helplessness slammed into him, so heavy he could barely breathe.
"How… how is the gap this massive?"
The overwhelming pressure sparked something ugly in Robert's chest—pure, stubborn defiance.
"Lord Commander, we have to retreat now!" Ralph Buckler begged.
"If I run now, how the hell am I supposed to kill Rhaegar?!"
Robert's face flushed crimson. He spurred his giant elk forward, spinning his warhammer in a howling circle.
He was going to slay a dragon.
"He's lost his mind," Ralph muttered, stunned.
"DAERON TARGARYEN!!"
Robert's roar shook the sky. His eyes locked on the red dragon overhead as he spun his hammer into a deadly whirlwind.
"Hm?" Daeron heard his name.
He looked down and saw Robert bulling straight through the chaos toward the diving dragon.
A flicker of surprise crossed Daeron's face. He decided to honor the fool's courage.
"Dracarys, Caraxes!"
Caraxes's molten-gold eyes fixed on the tiny insect below. His massive red wings spread wide as he dove, jaws opening.
Skreeeee—!
The dragon's cry split the heavens. A roaring pillar of crimson flame followed.
The fire swept down like a divine blade, racing straight toward the charging Robert.
"Burning Fury!!"
Robert bellowed, eyes flashing red. Every ounce of his strength poured into his right arm as he hurled the warhammer upward with all his might.
He had absorbed special rubies through the Gem Sequence to amplify his power.
No one was supposed to be able to stop that hammer.
BOOM—
The moment it met dragonfire, the steel warhammer slowed dramatically, twisting and melting in mid-air until it was nothing but a blackened lump of slag.
Daeron's gaze turned ice-cold. He kept Caraxes diving, flame still pouring toward the stunned Robert.
"How…?"
Robert stood frozen, completely shattered.
The dragonfire was almost on him. There was nowhere to run.
"My lord!"
Ralph Buckler charged in on horseback and threw himself at Robert, knocking him clear of the elk.
WHOOSH—
The giant elk and horse screamed in agony as the flames consumed them, burning away hide and flesh in seconds.
"Saved by someone else?"
Daeron raised an eyebrow, thought for half a second, then turned Caraxes to burn another section of the rebel line.
That last hammer throw had actually given him a tiny flicker of danger. Robert had aimed at him, not the dragon.
He had been willing to let the man try—see whose weapon was stronger.
But Robert had badly misjudged his own strength.
The hammer was pathetic.
His famous strength was pathetic.
In front of a real dragon he couldn't even withstand the back-blast of the flames.
"This way, Caraxes!"
Daeron changed direction, sweeping fire across the Stormlanders and driving them toward the Blueburn River.
The Blueburn was a tributary of the Mander.
Deerfield sat right at its mouth.
As Caraxes continued burning everything in his path, the Stormlands army broke completely. Hundreds threw themselves into the river—only to drown or get trampled under panicked feet.
Thank the gods the river wasn't wide here. If it had been, half the army would have died just trying to cross.
"My lord, we have to go!"
Ralph Buckler was half-delirious, his back a raw mess of charred flesh.
Robert, shielded beneath him, had escaped the worst of it.
He scrambled up, saw loyalist troops closing in from every side, and didn't waste time mourning his dead elk. He grabbed the nearest horse, swung into the saddle, and fled.
"I'll pay your ransom, Lord Ralph!" he shouted over his shoulder.
One last glance at the unconscious Buckler, and Robert kicked the horse into a gallop without hesitation.
He had to survive. As long as he lived, captured lords could still be ransomed.
If he died, they were all finished.
"Run while you can," Daeron murmured, watching Robert's retreating back.
He deliberately let the man escape.
Enemies he had already defeated were no longer worth his full attention.
He gave Robert time to run until he was just a speck on the horizon.
Having a dragon really does let you do whatever you want.
The fighting lasted until evening.
Led by Daeron, the three loyalist houses chased the broken Stormlands army across the Blueburn River and another five miles beyond.
Only when both sides were completely exhausted did they finally stop.
Chasing a defeated enemy across a river and five more miles?
Normal armies marched twenty to thirty miles a day—and that was on good roads. Rivers and rough terrain slowed them dramatically.
Yet these exhausted defenders, fueled by the dragon's presence, had driven their enemies across a river and kept going.
It was a miracle.
"Prince, we've taken many prisoners," Lord Cafferen said. The man was covered head to toe in blood; you wouldn't even know he was alive if he didn't speak.
But his eyes were shining with triumph, teeth flashing white through the gore.
Daeron understood the importance of morale. He raised his voice and declared, "Lock them all up. Tonight we hold a victory feast—every soldier gets meat and wine!"
"Long live the Prince!!"
The men's eyes lit up with pure adoration.
Daeron raised his fist. "Long live the soldiers!"
"Long live the Young Dragon!!"
Even the lords—Lord Cafferen and the others—were swept up in the moment and shouted the nickname they usually only dared whisper behind his back.
Daeron smiled, fist still raised.
"Young Dragon! Young Dragon!"
Caraxes landed on the battlements, stretched his serpentine neck, and let out a powerful roar that shook the walls, honoring his rider.
Even as evening fell and the sunset faded…
The Young Dragon and the Red Dragon.
Their stunning reversal at the Battle of Deerfield would be burned into every witness's memory forever.
Greenvale
Tywin stood alone outside the walls as the cold night wind cut straight through his fancy armor.
His horse lay on the ground nearby, foaming at the mouth, legs twitching uselessly.
No one would believe that Tywin Lannister had somehow cut his way through the chaos, crossed the Blueburn River alone, and ended up behind the lines at Greenvale by pure accident.
The worst part? Lord Meadows of Greenvale refused to open the gates.
Tywin sat on the cold ground beside a small campfire, chewing dry rations with pure hatred in his eyes.
"Robert Baratheon," he whispered, "this is war to the knife between us."
---
The Battle of Tumblestone hadn't just cost him his crimson cloak and his beard.
It had cost him his dignity and the honor of House Lannister.
This was a blood debt.
"A Lannister always pays his debts."
Tywin forced the rage down before it drove him mad.
---
Time passed.
After Daeron finished hunting down the scattered rebels around Deerfield, he had the captured noble lords brought forward.
Robert's charisma was no joke—there were quite a few highborn prisoners.
Notable names included the Errols of Haystack Hall, the Tarths of Evenfall Hall, the Swanns of Stonehelm, and other Stormlands lords.
The first man dragged forward was Robert's loyal bannerman, Lord Harlro Buckler.
He had been treated by the maester. Special crops had prevented infection, and he could speak and move again.
Lord Cafferen shoved him to his knees.
Buckler hit the ground hard.
Cafferen showed zero sympathy. If Deerfield had fallen, his own fate would have been far worse.
Daeron stepped forward and studied the man.
"Robert's cause is finished. Kneel and swear fealty. Help us reclaim the Stormlands and I will pardon your crimes."
"Pah!"
Lord Buckler spat on the ground.
Daeron's brow furrowed slightly. "You saved Robert's life. He left you behind."
"My lord hasn't lost yet. The war isn't over."
Even wounded, Buckler's voice burned with defiance. "When my lord wins his next victory, he will ransom me back and restore my honor."
Daeron actually paused. This was the first time he'd met someone with a spine this hard.
Shing!
Dark Sister flashed from its sheath, spraying a thin line of blood.
Lord Buckler's furious expression never changed as his head rolled across the stones. The headless body collapsed with a wet thud.
Daeron flicked the blood from his blade and said calmly, "You don't have to wait anymore."
"Prince…?" Lord Cafferen took a nervous step back, not wanting blood on his clothes.
Daeron sheathed the sword. "My lord, war is not a game. Those willing to bend the knee will be spared. Those who remain loyal to treason will die."
Translation:
I wasn't planning to keep that many extra nobles anyway. Why are you pretending to be some noble martyr?
Off with your head.