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The Stormlands
Storm's End
When the old maester trembled as he reported that House Tyrell of Highgarden had answered the Mad King's call and marched to support the Targaryens, Robert Baratheon went off like a powder keg.
"Those damned roses!" he roared, slamming his fist onto the heavy oak table so hard the wine cups jumped. "They dare side with that madman! Once I'm done with the traitors at Summerhall, I'm going to march straight to Highgarden and pull those thorny vines up by the roots and crush them!"
Just as Robert's rage threatened to blow the roof off the castle, a low chuckle came from Euron Greyjoy.
"Easy now, my Lord of Storms." Euron toyed with a dagger, his voice lazy but cutting through the tension. "That old woman, the 'Queen of Thorns' Olenna Redwyne, is as cunning as a viper hiding in a rosebush. She'd never push all her chips onto the table before she knows who's winning. Trust me, their march is just a show for the Mad King in King's Landing. They'll sit on the border and do nothing."
Euron stood up and walked over to the fuming Robert, speaking calmly. "Forget them. Let them play soldier in their own backyard. We have more pressing business right here." His tone sharpened, becoming practical. "Think about tomorrow. How do we deal with the three traitor houses gathering at Summerhall? That's the bone stuck in our throat right now."
Stannis Baratheon, who had been listening in silence, stepped forward. His face was grim, his voice stiff but to the point. "Brother, Lord Euron is right. The roses of Highgarden are far away, but the traitors at Summerhall are on our doorstep. They are the immediate threat."
Euron nodded in approval and cut in. "We have three objectives. First, we wipe out the royalists at Summerhall. Fast, brutal, and total. Not one left standing."
He raised a second finger, his gaze sweeping over every Stormlands captain in the room. "Second, this victory isn't just about killing enemies. It's a message. We need to terrify every fence-sitter in the Stormlands. Let them see clearly the price of defying House Baratheon—and the future that comes with loyalty."
"Finally," he clenched his fist, making a gathering motion. "Only by completely uniting the Stormlands and clearing out the rot from within can we march north without looking back. Then, we join Ned and Jon, and we take King's Landing."
Hearing this, Robert let out a booming, confident laugh. He clapped Euron on the shoulder and looked at his serious brother. "Don't worry, Euron! Stannis! I know those cowards and fools better than anyone!" He waved his fist as if the enemy were already crumbling before him. "They only respect fists and victory! I promise you, one battle—one good smash to break their bones—and they'll be crying and begging to pledge fealty again. After this, the Stormlands will be solid iron. No more trouble at home!"
His voice was full of undeniable dominance, as if victory were already in his hand.
---
The Summerhall Region
Three lords had firmly taken the side of the Iron Throne, openly rebelling against their liege lord, Robert Baratheon. Answering the call of the Hand of the King, Lord Owen Merryweather, they swore to crush the "traitors."
House Fell of Felwood. Their sigil was a silver crescent moon on a black field above a green spruce tree . Lord Silveraxe . Lord Gerard Fell was an old-school knight known for his stubborn loyalty. Though his hair and beard were grey, he still rode to war. He led his forces north from his ancestral stronghold, determined to use his sword to defend the royal legitimacy he served and crush Robert's "rebellion."
House Cafferen of Fawnton. Their sigil was two white fawns counter-salient on green. The army of House Cafferen marched from the southeast. Their soldiers were known for their ferocity, much like the battle-axes on their banners, joining the royalist camp with the intent to cleave through any obstacle.
House Grandison of Grandview. Their sigil was a sleeping black lion on a yellow field. Now, the black lion had awoken. Lord Grandison's troops approached from the southwest. Their arrival was quiet and efficient, like a lion baring its claws and fangs after waking—silent but filled with a threat that couldn't be ignored.
Three great armies converged from different directions toward a rendezvous point, intending to form an encirclement and snuff out the fire of the Stormlands' "rebellion" before it could spread.
But the coalition army of Robert Baratheon and Euron Greyjoy lay in wait like a dormant beast. They had arrived ahead of schedule, silently hiding in the rolling hills and dry, withered forests surrounding Summerhall, waiting for the prey to step into the trap.
Lord Gerard Fell's army was the first to arrive in the designated area. They marched along the broad Kingsroad, maintaining an ancient and strict formation, the blue banners with the grey castle snapping in the wind. Lord Fell rode a tall warhorse at the head of the column, his aged back straight as a rod, his armor polished to a cold gleam.
The old knight, known for his obstinate loyalty, was completely unaware of the destructive power lurking in the hills and woods ahead.
When the Fell column fully entered a wide valley surrounded on three sides by hills with little cover, the moment arrived.
Robert Baratheon didn't wait for Euron's signal to flank. The surge of battle lust and vengeful fury in his chest drove him forward. With a roar that shook the earth, he personally led the elite Stormlands cavalry in a thunderous charge down the front slope of the hill!
As Robert Baratheon tore through the Fell battle lines like a god of war, a silver figure spurred his horse forward, attempting to stop the unstoppable tide. It was Lord Gerard Fell's eldest son and heir, "Silveraxe" Edric Fell, named for the ornate heirloom battle-axe he wielded.
The young knight shouted his house words, swinging his glittering silver axe as he bravely charged straight at Robert. The horses crossed paths, and metal crashed against metal!
But courage could not bridge the gap of absolute power. "Silveraxe" Edric's refined technique was pale and weak before Robert's pure, berserk strength. One blow! Robert's terrifying warhammer, "Robert's Fury" (Note: Or simply "The Fury" depending on preference, but following text strictly), smashed down with crushing force. Edric's silver axe was knocked from his hand, spinning away into the air like a lost silver meteor.
The massive impact didn't just disarm him; it blasted Edric right out of his saddle, sending him crashing into the dirt. Before he could struggle up, Robert's soldiers swarmed him, swiftly binding him as a captive. The duel began and ended in a heartbeat.
Lord Gerard Fell watched his son get knocked from his horse and captured. A roar of despair and rage burst from his chest. The old lord forgot his age and tactics; only a father's primal instinct remained. He spurred his horse, raised his sword high, and charged desperately straight at the storm's center—Robert Baratheon.
It was a duel so short it was cruel—a clash between aging loyalty and prime fury. Robert didn't even move from his spot. He simply turned his horse to face the charging old knight. His massive hammer, "Robert's Fury," came down with a tear in the air and a force that could level walls, instantly smashing Lord Gerard's oak shield—painted with the grey stone castle—into splinters!
The massive impact didn't stop there. The hammer continued without pause, slamming heavily into the old lord's breastplate. The tempered steel groaned, visibly caving in, shattering the ribs and organs beneath. Lord Gerard Fell's body jerked violently in the saddle, then slid limply to the ground, dead on impact.
The sudden death of their commander was like ripping the spine out of the army. The Fell soldiers, who had been struggling to hold the line, saw this and their morale collapsed instantly. The army disintegrated, men scattering in flight or dropping their weapons to kneel and beg for mercy.
While Robert's cavalry crushed the main Fell line from the front, Euron's Ironborn had already moved like ghosts to complete their deployment. Like a cold, deadly iron ring, they silently encircled the perimeter of the battlefield.
When Lord Fell fell and his army broke, the survivors fled in panic into the surrounding hills and dead woods, only to find that there was no way out.
The Ironborn emerged from the shadows and the ravines, silent and efficient as seasoned hunters cornering panicked prey. Axes and curved blades swung without mercy, cutting down every soldier who tried to run. Screams rose and fell along the edges of the battlefield, desperate flights ending against cold steel. Euron's encirclement left no gaps, thoroughly extinguishing the last hope of survival for the army of House Fell.