Chapter 59: Stonebridge
"You should've attacked by now." Rubbing the back of her neck, Nymeria Sand glared at a Reach knight who rolled her eyes at her comment, dismissive of her due to her sex. Fool, he likely would've fallen to her in any sort of spar.
Nymeria took some comfort that the man had soaked through his armor and undertunic, chafing underneath the early afternoon sun. She was used to the heat, even the humidity to an extent, while the Reachmen that made up the vast majority of the combined army facing Rhaena Targaryen wasn't. Underneath her more flowing clothes and lighter armor she and her men could sustain, which was why she was baffled that Lord Roxton hadn't ordered an attack at first light, when it was cooler.
Astride a magnificent steed and dressed in something so gaudy that it couldn't even be called tourney armor, Lord Roxton regarded her with… if not contempt then patronizing amusement. "Calm yourself, Lady Sand." She didn't know if he directed his condescension at her for being a woman or Dornish. "We have the numbers. Best wait to form up before we use them."
"She's right, my Lord." Nymeria was surprised that Joffrey Doggett - the new Grand Captain of the Warrior's Sons since Damon Morrigen's death - would side with her. She wouldn't reject it though. "Even if you break through, it'll be nightfall soon and they can retire in good order."
A scoff, this from Lord Manfred Hightower, Queen Ceryse's father - with him was his son Martyn. "Lest we break them before. Lord Roxton says we outnumber them and our cavalry is stronger."
Nymeria shared a glance with Doggett, both of them contemptuous of Manfred's overconfidence. At least Roxton, while cocky and decadent, was a consummate warrior. "I don't think they can break through so quickly."
A snort came from their representative to the Starry Sept, a man even hated by Roxton and the other nobles. "A Dornish half-breed dares question the warrior spirit of those following the banner of the Seven who are One?" Septon Moon, a bear of a man with the spirit of a thousand men according to the soldiers. He could speak for hours, moreso than even Archsepton Boniface - and fuck for hours, Nymeria mused with disgust. How many camp followers did he impregnate on the march? A dozen? More?
She was disgusted, but the men loved him for his spirit. "You know nothing of fighting a war, Moon, so shut up." Doggett said that, a man with the rank who could.
"Then explain it to me," said Moon.
"Your men are tired," Nymeria insisted. "They've been standing under the sun for hours while everything is put into place."
"And yours aren't?" Wat Hewer, the commander of the Poor Fellows, towered over everyone. He seemed to hate Nymeria, but in fairness he hated everyone not the gods or the High Septon.
She wouldn't back down from Roxton, let alone him. A noble bastard outranked smallfolk. "We can handle worse heat, and our armor is lighter."
Roxton pointed ahead, smirking. "Good then. You can lead the initial attack while the others rest."
Two hours later, Nymeria mumbled curses as she drew her sword. "Forward march!"
The result of an entire morning wasted was… very impressive. Sixty thousand men gathered south of Tumbleton, enough to both extend across the entire width of Rhaena Targaryen's line while also enjoying a proper depth. Her own Dornish force, the collected strength of a dozen different houses, made up the far-left out of the army. The Stars and Swords were to their right, Reachmen on the right and right-center. Lord Roxton kept his own knights in reserve, alongside the elephants.
Spearmen in the van and swordsmen behind, Nymeria urged her horse in a slow trot, eyes peeled for the force opposing them. A mix of Stormlanders and Reachmen of House Meadows, Tarly, and Tyrell total, and in front of her directly… Tarly then. "Halt!" At her order, the Dornishmen followed. She didn't see a dragon. "Lord Santagar. All on you now."
Nodding, her trusted subordinate - Mylos Santagar - raised his visor and gestured to the mass of bowmen. Elite archers from the Stony Dornish houses. "Nock!" Two thousand nocked their arrows, drawing their bows back. "Loose!"
Like a wave it was repeated across the entire length of the line. Over eight thousand bows releasing on command, the sky darkened with a steel rain of arrows that arced inexorably towards the mass of the opposing army. Pinning them in place as the sounds of screaming men echoed across the fields.
Nymeria allowed her shield bearers to protect her from the returning salvos of the Targaryen archers, but these were mostly ineffectual. Weaker bows that the armor laughed off. As the archers released another volley, she heard her spearmen laugh and jeer. "Spindles! Spindles!"
A smirk crossed her face. "So these are the Tarly archers?"
"Mayhaps they are conserving their arms?" suggested Lord Mylos.
"Or Hightower is right. They will be easier to beat than I thought."
Nymeria would live to regret those words.
At the sound of trumpets from Roxton's position, Nymeria knew the order. "Forward! Attack!" Leveling spears and hefting shields, the Dornish line lurched forward into a slow run. Hurling themselves at the Tarly spearmen gathered in a shield wall of their own. Hanging back with the horsemen, Nymeria watched them crash against each other, locking together. The Dornish were not heavy infantry, but the spearmen were elite. Skill and weight of numbers succeeding in pushing back the Tarlys, already bloodied by the arrows.
"Send in the second line!" Barked Lord Santagar.
"Lead them in," ordered Nymeria, and he nodded his obedience. Lighter troops in the second line advanced to support their comrades just as the entire Army of the Faith now committed themselves under the mid-afternoon sun. Slowly but surely the Targaryens were pushed back.
"Knights, with me!" Robes over their armor, the thousand knights of a half-dozen houses looked like the light cavalry guarding the flanks. But charge they did at Nymeria's order, aiming for the gap between her force and the Hightowers. Stretched thin, the Tarly force here wasn't strong and she saw an advantage.
Eschewing the lance, Dornish horse fought with sword and mace. Nymeria was no weak woman nor pampered noble, fighting at the front with her namesake's sword. Slashing and hacking at her foe, blood gushed over her armor with each blow. Dozens falling before her. Perhaps they could break through…
Hornblows sounded, this time not from their lines but from beyond. Like a wave, hundreds of archers let loose a storm of arrows - the Tarlys had husbanded their ranged units, joined by crossbowmen using the slight hill that the Targaryen forces had been shoved back upon as high ground to fire their darts on the lighter Dornish infantry behind them. They went down like wheat to a scythe, staggering the line.
As if smelling blood in the water, a thunderous roar echoed as out of nowhere, two hundred or so heavy knights bearing Baratheon banners hurled themselves at her horsemen. Nymeria reacted quickly, countercharging and hacking at the line of lances coming for her. Swordplay agile and quick, she rapidly twirled the blade and slashed at where the armor plate was weakest. A knight fell with blood gushing over his chestplate from a wound in the neck. Two men close to her weren't so lucky.
The writing was on the wall. "Fall back! Fall back!" It was in order, but with the sun nearly meeting the western horizon it was folly to continue the fight. The Targaryen line had held in spite of the early success.
Lord Roxton had retired in disgust before Nymeria reached the command tent, while Hightower and Wat were nowhere to be found. Septon Moon lay berating the men for their shame, so Nymeria avoided him - Grand Captain Doggett was another story, dried blood covering his drooping mustache. None of it his. "What went wrong?"
"They kept their skirmishers in the back, as well as their horse. Waited till we were fully committed then released them." He shrugged. "We bloodied them, so they have few reserves I think."
Something came to Nymeria. "They have Dreamfyre. They didn't use her."
Doggett shrugged. "I think Roxton realizes that."
"I hope so, cause I doubt the other's do." Another nod, one that tasted like ash in Nymeria's mouth.
It felt like a slight on his honor, to march forward into battle on foot rather than with lance in hand, mounted upon his strongest stallion at the head of a gallant knightly charge. Well, the songs of his gallantry wouldn't include the broken bodies, parts of bodies, and ocean of blood spurting upon the trampled grass of the battlefield. Rogar wouldn't mind that part being excluded - the ladies didn't like anything too grotesque to get in the way of their cunt-wettening fantasies of strong warriors.
And yet here he was on foot. Still gallant and dashing as ever marching inexorably in the first line against the assembled army of the Faith - likely shitting their pants at the unexpected advance - but who was the young whelp of a Queen demanding he fight on foot?
"You're our best leader of men alongside Lord Tarly."
"Then let me lead the horse."
"They are too valuable, so I'm holding them in reserve. Too many losses yesterday."
"Roxton and Doggett and Hightower won't have the same reticence, and I can't guarantee an infantry line to hold back a heavy cavalry charge without more bloodshed than you wish."
"Do not worry about that."
His stormlanders, arrayed on the left-center between the Tarlys and Tyrells, had performed admirably in spite of the massive storm of enemy arrows. He was down to about six in seven combat effectives, the lines further thinned to compensate. "Halt! Form shields!" Swordsmen and melee fighters to a man, the Baratheon banners had to rely on pikemen from House Caron and Dondarrion to handle heavy horse - the Durrandon Storm Kings always preferring a preemptive offense using their own cavalry to attack an enemy's. With the ground shaking from a massive charge of the Reach knights before them, singing a paean to the Warrior as they advanced… Rogar cursed Rhaena even as he readied Stormbreaker to hack and crush plenty a horse coming at him.
Silvery armor glinting in the sun. Banners whipping in the wind. The inexorable tide of man and horse clad in metal was soon upon them. Until…
The loud screech seeming from nowhere unnerved even Rogar, being a cousin of the Targaryens. Let alone the knightly orders of the Reach whom never even saw a dragon in their lives. While it would be enough to break a man, the horses were dumb beasts programmed in their very spirit to fear predatory cries. The roar of Dreamfyre - seemingly from everywhere - spooked them, and what had been an orderly charge descended into panic. Horses galloping anywhere but forward, attempts to rein them in for naught.
Most of the knights didn't even try, their own nerves shot.
"I'll be damned," Rogar said to himself, knowing the cacophony meant only he could hear himself. "Rhaena was right after all." She had her mother's cunning about her, plus the warrior spirit of her grandfather. A good combination worthy of respect.
"Should we advance, brother?" asked Garon, wielding a claymore in hand and looking ready to hack something to death.
Rogar's military instincts kicked in. "Wait for the horses to clear the field." He did not want his men caught in a sort of stampede. While thousands of dead knights would be a boon, they would be too bloodied against the enemy infantry, currently being disorganized as the panicked horsemen tried to race through the gaps in their lines. One moment… one moment… one mome… "Now! Advance!"
The men, most experienced from years fighting Dornish raiders and now against the Faith, sought to redeem themselves for the disaster at Stonebridge. They rushed forward in a loping charge, yet still maintained the cohesive shield wall. Rogar couldn't see it, but knew the attack was being repeated all along the line. Tarlys, Tyrells, and the other main contingent of his Stormlanders. Outnumbered yet eager to savage their hated enemies.
Still disorganized from the flight of the cavalry, the Poor Fellows - quite unnaturally disciplined for being recruited amongst the sewer rats of Oldtown - didn't break but were shoved back precariously. One man ineffectually raised his spear only for Stormbreaker to cleave through his helm and crush his skull. Brains exploded all over the men next to him as Rogar led a break through the first line of the enemy, hacking and killing. Bellowing a mighty laugh as he did so.
Being the smiling warrior unnerved everyone he had fought before, and today wasn't an exception.
Drawing his dagger as his warhammer locked with a sword, Rogar jabbed it through the unprotected eye of a foe. He crumbled as the wound gushed blood, revealing a man even more massive than Rogar himself. Hulking with a giant claymore, ready to duel.
Rogar knew this man. "Wat!"
"Baratheon!" Wat the Hewer in the flesh. Charging, the two men clashed in a duel of steel. A hard fought clash, both men throwing punches and drawing cuts. Rogar in his side, Wat on his legs. What seemed like hours passed, men granting the combatants a wide berth as if a duel of ancient heroes… but it was highborn valor that beat zealot fanaticism. With a sharp left hook, Rogar staggered Wat long enough for Stormbreaker to swing around and cleave the man's head clean off.
By the hair he hoisted it in the air. "To victory!"
But it was not to be.
Horns blew, ones sounding the retreat. "No! Fight on, you cowards!" Rogar screamed, still holding the head aloft in his hands, but the hard fighting seemed to have its effect on the men. They pulled back in a trickle, followed by a flood. Good order but good order didn't mean a victory. Just the staving off of total defeat.
He was furious.
"Stick this on a pike for everyone to see!" he commanded a common soldier, tossing the severed head of Wat the Hewer at him. "Why did they order the retreat?!" he demanded of Orryn, his youngest brother.
"Brother, Roxton personally led a counterattack. The situation was untenable."
Rolling his eyes, seeing the battered remnants of the Tyrell and Meadows banners convinced Rogar that mayhaps the order had a point. "Where is Rhaena?" he asked Orryn, handing Stormbreaker to an attendant to clean off the blood and brain matter - best to erase the caked layer so as he could add another one the next day. "Again she didn't show herself." Dreamfyre could've turned the tide.
Orryn had stayed behind in the camp - protecting it and Tumbleton town with a small rearguard. "She's retired for the night."
His brow rose. "For the woman who fought proudly in the Vale and Red Mountains, I have a hard time believing she's a coward."
"Her sworn sword… Darke I think her name is, told me she's getting as much rest as she can. Tomorrow will be the decisive day according to her."
"Her words?" At Orryn's nod, he stroked his chin, having reached his tent. "Something she and I can agree on." That and getting some rest. "Did they get it?"
"Yes, brother."
He lifted the tent flap, not acknowledging the guards flanking either side. "Good." Pushing into his tent, waiting for him was exactly what he had told his servants to acquire for him in Tumbleton. "Your wine, mi'Lord."
Rogar raked his eyes up and down the pretty young thing, a wisp of a girl in a homespun dress and the sort of rough comliness that all the Smallfolk had. A milkmaid or floor sweeper… eh, he didn't care. She had tawny blonde hair, a decent pair of breasts, and… "You a maiden?"
She nodded. "Aye, mi'Lord."
"My men paid you?"
Hanging her head, she nodded again. "Mi'father." She didn't sob, which Rogar appreciated, but the girl was trembling. "He says I's all yers tonight. I… want it so bad frim' yer, mi'Lord."
Smiling, Rogar pointed to the bed, not bothering to know her name. "Disrobe and lay on the bed. Have some wine and relax, I'll be a moment." Sex was what a man needed, but a smart man could delay gratification if need be.
Sitting at his camp chair by the desk, Rogar pulled out the dispatches still guarded by a locked box and their seals. He trusted his brothers, one of whom was always guarding the camp - in reality his tent. Based on the seals, most of them were mundane. One from Storm's End, one from King's Landing… ah, one from Harrenhal. That was a prize.
Lord Rogar,
Maegor and Rhaenys crushed Red Harren. The siege has been lifted and the Queen Mother restored to freedom. Upon your victory, see that you be ordered to reinforce here.
All will be prepared for a proper reception.
Lord Lucas Harroway
"What's so nice, mi'Lord."
Blinking, Rogar looked over at his naked companion. The wine had loosened her up. "What?"
"Yer' smilin."
Suppose he was. "Just thinkin' of you." She was delicious. Young and a maiden, just how he liked it - Valyrian goddesses excepted of course. The perfect way to use up the blood he had heated while fighting during the day. Relax himself for the morrow's battle, knowing the Faith would try something big. Maidens made for the tightest cunts and nothing made him salivate more than popping a tight cunt.
Rising from his seat, he tossed the letter into the brazier. Watching it go up in flames with a puff of smoke from the corner of his eye as he went for his trousers.
It was a starry night. The moon shone brightly in the half circle rising in the sky, exemplifying the planets and stars that twinkled like hundreds of candles interspersed amongst the blackness. Tranquil and beautiful, if not for the stench of death that hung around the entire field at Tumbleton.
Jorelle had smelt it before and wasn't averse to it in theory - but to this extent… Jonquil had already vomited several times when it grew too putrid, and while Jorelle managed to fight down the bile she understood the sentiment. It was a close run thing.
"She hasn't been out of her tent since the morning," the Mormont heard her companion say, worry lines marring the beauty of her face.
Certainly she felt the same, not that she looked in a mirror or anything - likely Jorelle wouldn't want to see how bruised and filthy she was after two days of hard fighting without a bath. The local stream was behind the Faith lines to the south. "She hasn't yet committed herself or Dreamfyre. They haven't been needed."
"Dreamfyre could've won us both days."
"You don't know that… they could've had countermeasures in place." It would've been madness of the Faith not to. "It's a stalemate so far, but I agree. They have the numbers to grind us into the dust and reinforcements from Maegor aren't going to arrive anytime soon." There was still the undefeated Lannister host to worry about. Jorelle wished to know what Rhaena's plan was. Rogar, Samwell, and Lord Meadows all had their own ideas, disaster if the Queen didn't coordinate.
Jonquil shook her head, reaching the royal tent in which several stood guard outside. They were those clearly allowed entry. "I'm not leaving until we get an answer. Rhaena!" she barked, shoving through the tentflap. Jorelle spared a worried glance towards the sleeping Dreamfyre, but thankfully she was still deep in slumber, her purple wings folded in on themselves.
If she was asleep then Rhaena wasn't stirred to anger.
Aye, Rhaena wasn't angered, or asleep. She stood at the far side of the tent, hands splayed over a map table with her back hunched. A simple black dress and trousers was all she wore, making her look fierce even turned away. "You've come to call me a coward, haven't you?"
Her simple accusation took the wind out of Jonquil's sails. Jorelle saw her friend clam up, words dying on her tongue.
"It's not an unfair assumption." The Queen lifted the crown off her head and placed the circlet upon the table, pointing to the right. "Dark Sister is resting against a chest, not strapped to my waist as I fly or ride into harm's way as I did in the Vale."
Jorelle cleared her throat. "No one is accusing you of cowardice."
A snort. "The men do, or at least that's what Gawen tells me. I can see it in their eyes, even my guards. Loyal to me to the death, and yet still they think me a coward." She laughed and turned around - at least halfway, side facing the two of them while her head turned. "We hold higher ground than the enemy, while they are of larger size and are armed with at least three dozen ballistae of various sizes. Dreamfyre isn't large enough to shrug off the bolts as Balerion or Vhagar, while a trick with my archers and then scattering their cavalry managed to obtain our army a three to one kill ratio… and yet still I am a coward for not leading a charge into the unknown on the first day of battle."
Sharing a glance with Jonquil, the other girl seemed chastened by the frustrated Queen. Hating herself for doubting her. Jorelle felt guilty as well, but even still there was a point to be had. "You've thought this through, but even being seen among the men would do well to bolster morale. Dispel the rumors."
Sighing, Rhaena nodded. "Tomorrow will be the day."
"What day?"
Rhaena gave a grim smile. "They've attacked and I've repelled them. Then we attacked and they repelled us. It will be their turn to advance, either overwhelming us or grinding us into the dust. I intend to turn that around on them when they think their victory is a formality… but I need you to hold the line as long as possible. Where are we most at risk?"
Jonquil answered quickly. "Our left wing. Lord Meadows faces the Hightowers and Lord Roxton's personal banners. It was a close run thing both days against such elite troops."
"Go there with the infantry reserve and hold it. Do not let them break through, with your lives if need be." Sharing eyes with Jonquil again, Jorelle bowed, as did her friend. They would not fail their Queen.
Morning brought some fog over the battlefield. Welcome against the heat, but it definitely restricted their visibility. "Can't see shit," grumbled Lord Meadows, spitting on the ground. A gallant young knight, he nevertheless fought on foot today. Needing to maintain coherence with the men.
"It'll clear," Jorelle breathed. "Always does back home."
"Here's not the North."
"Aye, would be much more worried if the Stars and Swords were in the North." Meadows snorted, but there was some amusement in his tone. A little levity to break the tension.
A loud trumpet killed all levity. For it was not that of a man and his instrument.
Sure enough the fog did begin to clear, and with it revealed the mass of marching Reachmen. Fully clad in plate and with their pikes high in the air, shields gleaming as if polished, they trudged inexorably forward. Behind the screen though… "Seven hells…"
It was a large, tall beast. Ears wide and flapping in the wind, large white spears projected from its mouth and nose. A long nose, much more a tree trunk than a nose. They were the height of three men and bore a large box on their back to hold several soldiers. Spears and archers.
These were the elephants, mighty and powerful. Advancing in pairs while screened by a line of infantry ahead of them. Jorelle could count a dozen on her part of the line alone, let alone along the entire width of the army.
One man tried to run, only for Jorelle to punch him and haul him back into place. "Hold the fucking line!" A whooshing echo reached her ear, and she reacted quickly. "Shields men!" without a shield herself, she crouched behind the main shield wall, trying to cover herself as much as possible as the mass of arrows rained upon them. A malevolent thunk thunk thunk as the arrows hit their shields. Terrifying enough, but worse when coupled with the screams of men hit, or the wet-slaps of men who died near immediate to the hit. Jorelle gritted her teeth, waiting for it to end while praying Jonquil wouldn't be one of the corpses.
The archers had their intended effect, pinning the Targaryen line down while the Faith advanced. Banners high, both of the Hightower and the religious symbols of the very pious sons of Oldtown, they marched closer and closer. Eventually the arrows ceased. "Spears and shields!" screamed the officers, the men well-disciplined and forming their battle line even with dead and wounded comrades littering the ground.
Jorelle drew Longclaw, racing behind the line until… "Jorry!"
Gasping, she hugged Jonquil. It was quick, but the relief was innumerable. "You wounded?"
"No, you?"
"Not yet at least." They joined the same section of the line, just quickly enough to see the enemy ranks parting to the side, exposing the massive bulk of the two elephants directly to the line. Four crossbowmen from the castles atop the back loosed their bolts at the line, faltering it slightly, enough for the mahouts to guide the beasts into a rumbling charge.
The line buckled from the hit, both elephants and the mass of the thousands of pikemen. What bloodshed wracked the Targaryen line from the arrow volley was nothing compared to this as they were all brutally shoved back. Pikes skewering men through the middle. Crossbows punching out eyes. Men gored by the elephants' tusks, trampled underfoot. One picked up from the ground by the dextrous trunk and tossed aside, screaming.
A nightmare of blood and gore, the army seemingly disintegrating before the eye.
Swinging Longclaw, Jorelle hacked at the advancing pikes. Bellowing a shrill war cry worthy of a bear as she leapt out of the shield wall between the pikes. She hacked down one man, Valyrian steel cutting through his shoulder plate. Another came at her, only for Jorelle to thrust through his eye. A spear cut her side, only for the wielder to lose his head.
She would've continued hacking and slashing till she was dead or had broken through, but Jonquil grabbed her by her tunic. Stabbing an attacker with her spear before hauling her back to the shield wall. "Roxton's sending in his knights!" She pointed beyond, where dust was being kicked up, quickly racing to turn the flank.
Fuck.
Gritting her teeth, Rhaena gripped the spines up Dreamfyre's shoulder - unlike Balerion or Vhagar, it wasn't that hard a climb - as she hauled herself to the saddle. Straddling it with honed ease. 'Should've unleashed me earlier, muna,' she grunted, her tone annoyed more than anything else.
Rhaena, in spite of the tremor wracking her frame from worry, rolled her eyes. "I explained this to you from the beginning. I needed them to fully commit."
'I could've burned them from day one.'
"You're not as big as your kepa, admit it." The dragon growled lowly, Rhaena finding a slight humor even in the most intense of situations.
Behind, Ser Gawen finally slipped behind her, gripping one of the dragon's spines. "Don't delay, fly!"
"Soves." Dreamfyre roared and launched into the air, topping the hill behind which she had been concealed and finally exposing herself to the entire battlefield.
Everything was in the balance, though tilting badly against her army as the seconds ticked by. Numbers fully being brought to bear, massive holes carved through the line brought in all her reserves. Rhaena trusted her commanders to act as they needed, but the already thin battleline was getting stretched very close to the breaking point.
And with the kicking up of dust on the far right, Roxton's reserve knights were about to flank them. "There, stop them!" begged Gawen.
Peering down, Rhaena noticed some frantic horsemanship of her own. "No." Jonquil and Jorelle. She just knew. Outnumbered, they'd still slow down Roxton's men, enough for her own efforts. "Hold on!" Giving Dreamfyre the mental command, the dragon shrieked over the whole battlefield and beat her wings. Aiming for the left flank of her army.
Speed was the priority. Terror was the priority. "Dracarys!" Tongues of flame shot down and enveloped scores at a time in a furious inferno, halting whatever momentum the army of the Faith had gained and leading to yet another stalemate. Yet, this wasn't Rhaena's plan. The massive towers of grey flesh. She was not close enough to marvel at the elephants, but urged Dreamyre to roar loudly and flash a great show of flame whenever close to them.
Even the great beasts couldn't stand the presence of the dragons. Already tired and beset on all sides by javelins, spears, and darts, their prey instinct to avoid predators overrode all training. It started with one, then four, then all dozens of the surviving beasts turned and stampeded towards the stream. Nothing would stop them, not even the mass of their own troops behind.
Now it was the Targaryen army that advanced, brutally shoving their foes back.
She was not done. "Dracarys!" Jorelle and Jonquil had successfully held back Roxton's cavalry, and now a douse of dragonfire annihilated the elite knights as her grandparents did to the Gardeners not far from here. "Follow me!" she called from Dreamfyre's back, setting down on the ground for a brief moment to catch their breath. Her horsemen obeyed, and they were soon flying towards the camp of the Faith.
So focused on the developing slaughter ahead of them, whatever troops remained to guard the camp didn't notice Dreamfyre till it was too late. Flame dispatched them, while Rhaena and Gawen slid off her back. Right before Lord Roxton himself.
"Surrender," she demanded. "You have lost."
Roxton dismounted and drew Orphan-Maker. "Nothing is over while I draw breath."
With Gawen fighting his bodyguard - not a contest - the diminutive Princess battled one of the most feared knights in the entire Realm. Valyrian steel meeting Valyrian steel, a clash surely to go down for the ages. She was near overpowered at times but the agility taught her by her grandmother and husband served her well, Rhaena only getting cut in the arm once. Not debilitating.
The quick slash to Roxton's ankle was, felling him. Naught but a vile curse left his lips before Rhaena beheaded the commander of the Great Army of the Faith.
Just the noise of the dragon roaring behind them was enough. A group of Warrior's Sons and Poor Fellows remained and died where they stood in a last stand. The rest broke, routed completely. The field of Tumbleton belonged to House Targaryen, and what a victory it was.
The tent of Lord Roxton was opulent, favoring the Lord's rather expensive tastes. Rhaena sipped the finest wine from gold goblets and ate the dinner his servants prepared for him on silver plates, seated upon silk cushions while Tumbleton's maester attended to her wounds. "You are lucky, your Grace," he mused, a young man who seemed… taken with her beauty. Not an uncommon occurrence. "Valyrian steel always makes clean cuts. Far easier to stitch and heal, I assure you."
"Duly noted, maester," Rhaena replied, downing the wine and praying it would ease the sting. Orphan-maker had been painful but ineffective in taking her down. Dark Sister had no such trouble.
Entering the tent at that moment were Jonquil and Jorelle, both worse for wear and sporting multiple sets of bandages. "Do not worry, Rhaena," Jonquil remarked, grinning weakly as she plopped on another silken couch. "Just some cuts and scrapes. She-bear here got stabbed with a spear but they say all she'll have is some scar."
"The boys in the North'll be dyin' to take me for a ride," Jorelle laughed. "You?"
Rhaena puffed up. "I am the proud claimant of Orphan-maker by right of single combat."
Jonquil clicked her tongue. "Can't have too much Valyrian steel. Can I have it?"
"You fight with a spear," Jorelle snorted.
"So? Make a bastard sword and a glaive-tip for my use. Shan't let you down."
Chuckling, Rhaena rose and popped a grape in her mouth. "I shall keep that in mind. We done, maester?"
"Yes, your Grace. I'll need to put a bandage on that though."
Rhaena waved him off. "In a minute, maester." She heard a bit of a groan outside, not human in nature. "I have a curiosity to enjoy." Rhaena looked at her companions, both lounging around and enjoying the pastries Roxton had stockpiled. "No, stay here and enjoy the food. Ser Gawen can guard me."
"That is why we stick around you, Rhaena. So considerate," Jorelle remarked, causing Jonquil to chuckle. The Queen rolled her eyes, but smirked as well at her friends. Even after nearly killing themselves in battle, they still could make each other laugh.
Exiting the tent, not feeling faint at all in spite of the blood her arm wound had leaked, she kept it in the sling the maester provided her as she approached Lord Meadows. "Well, what do you have for me, my Lord?" she asked, a bit redundantly as she was staring right at something rather beautiful and majestic in its own special way.
With Lord Rogar handling the men and Samwell pursuing the surviving enemy, Lord Meadows had taken up responsibility over the captured camp and the prisoners. "About a dozen lords and highborns dead, most others fled. Hightowers, Doggett, most of the Dornish. Only prisoners are knights."
"Unfortunate." Rhaena would've enjoyed having Manfred and Martyn Hightower as her prisoners. Exchange them for Ceryse, bring her home where she belonged. "But you did capture this beauty."
"Yes, your Grace. All but five, who were unfortunately killed in the rout." Her heart twinged a bit, thinking of the poor beasts. It wasn't their fault they were bought by the Faith.
Ambling from behind the tent, Dreamfyre snorted and snapped her jaws. Growling at the newfound beast. It groaned and began to stamp its feet, scaring many soldiers who had hours ago bravely thrown themselves in the thick of the fighting. "Girl, no," Rhaena barked. It worked, causing Dreamfyre to cringe, whining apologetically. Casting one last glare, the Queen approached the skittish animal. "There there, Dreamfyre won't harm you while I'm around."
The elephant settled down as Rhaena stroked her trunk. A lumbering beast but otherwise beautiful in its own way. It lifted its trunk and ran it along the Queen, making her giggle.
"Did you capture some of the handlers?"
"Enough. They're all Essosi and willing to work for you if you spare their lives."
"Tell them if they guide these creatures to King's Landing, then they'll be hired at double the pay Hugor was offering." Again she stroked the creature's trunk - it smelled awful, but was yet another animal won over by the Queen.
If only humans were so easy to tame. The broken bodies upon the fields of Tumbletown proved to Rhaena that they would never be.
