Capítulo 19: Battle Beneath the Sun
Chapter 18 -
The chill of dawn clung to the riverbank like a stubborn fog. Luke shivered, water dripping from his sodden tunic. There'd been no time to change – every heartbeat mattered. Around him, his men scrambled, their movements stiff with cold and the lingering fear from their desperate swim.
"Those ladders!" Parmen Crane's voice cut through the damp air, a mix of urgency and authority. "We haven't the gods-damned day to wait."
True enough.
The first fingers of sunrise painted the eastern sky, a stark contrast against the billowing smoke rising from Ashford Castle.
The outer wall was lost; they were too bloody late for that. Now, it was a desperate race to the heart of the keep, where, they prayed, the Ashford household still held fast.
Ser Lanthorn Turnberry and Ser Monberry Horcross lumbered toward the pile of crude wooden ladders, their armor gleaming dully in the pale light.
Lucky bastards, Luke thought, their noble blood earning them a dry passage across the Cockleswent upon the boats they had acquired from the banks of the narrow river for their weaponry and ladders.
"Ser Callahad, Ser Geni, bring the rest" Parmen barked, and two of the shorter hedge knights, Ser Callahad the Short and Ser Geni the Cheerful, their teeth chattering, began hauling ladders to the base of the wall.
Luke fell in beside them, straining muscles aching from the frigid crossing.
They had a party of almost five hundred with them who had swam across the river, ready to aid the soldiers of House Ashford in their defense.
Above, stark against the rising smoke, a few figures were visible on the wall – Ashford men, their sigils a defiant splash of burnt orange against the grey stone sun.
Parmen was the first up the ladder, his movements surprisingly nimble despite the weight of his armor. Lanthorn and Monberry followed, grunting with exertion. Then it was Luke's turn.
Each rung was a small victory, the castle wall growing agonizingly closer.
He ignored the chill, the burning in his arms, and focused on the battle awaiting them at the top.
The top of the wall offered no respite, only a brutal panorama of the battle raging within Ashford Castle.
On the other side, beyond the keep in the courtyard, Ashford men, their orange sun sigils stained crimson, formed a desperate line at the inner gate at the far end – the last barrier protecting the keep where the women and children huddled.
Beyond them, smoke and flames devoured the town, painting the morning sky in shades of ash and ruin.
Ser Solaire the Bright, face pale, stared wordlessly at the inferno.
But Luke had eyes only for the Stormlanders.
They swarmed the top of the inner wall, their ladders scraping against stone, shouts of bloodlust barely drowned by the roar of battle raging below as the soldiers of House Ashford barely held them back from climbing over and into the courtyard their pikes gleaming with bloodied Stormlander blood.
A stocky man-at-arms, his Ashford livery torn and bloodied, scrambled towards Parmen. "Ser Parmen!" he gasped, "I am Ser Darrien Pommigham, the master at arms. Lord Ashford holds the gate, for now. The Stormlanders will-"
"We have come as promised," Parmen interrupted, his voice steady. "Lead us to the keep. My father and Lord Mace won't be long behind." He turned to indicate Lanthorn and Monberry. "We'll secure the household's escape."
Ser Darrien gulped, eyes darting between Parmen and the keep. "The ladies and rest of the household await you within the keep, ser, but make haste! The gate won't hold for long!"
Parmen nodded and turned to the rest of the Hedge Knights in the party "Ser Solaire! Take my father's squire, Luke with Ser Gaston, and Ser Hamish; along with our men, and ride in aiding the defense of the inner wall with Lord Ashford. Inform him that I am securing his household, he need not worry."
Ser Solaire's reply was a curt nod, the jovial knight's face set in grim determination.
"Mount up!" he barked, his voice cracking slightly. "Gather your weapons! Armor, any scraps you can find! We ride as one."
Luke wasted no time. Eyes scanning the pile of supplies, he spotted a dented shield bearing the Ashford sun, then grabbed a hefty warhammer. It was a familiar weight, reassuring in its brutality. Chainmail followed, the icy links biting into damp skin, but the protection was welcome.
"Ready, Ser!" Luke called over the din, as he approached the hedge Knights who were arming themselves as well.
Horses stamped nervously nearby, saddled and ready.
It was a luxury their men on foot couldn't afford, and a stark reminder of the divide between him and the highborn at his side. He himself was merely lucky enough that Ser Vortimer Crane had personally sent him with this party, and as his squire he was afforded one as well.
Sers Solaire, Gaston, and Hamish already mounted beside him, their expressions mirroring his own mix of fear and hardened resolve.
With a final glance towards Parmen disappearing towards the keep, Luke swung onto his horse.
Ser Solaire spurred his mount forward, barking orders over the clash of steel and roar of battle.
The courtyard, mercifully free of fighting, was a scene of organized chaos – wounded men being tended, supplies hastily gathered, eyes filled with fear and grim resolve turned towards the looming inner gate.
"Steady, men!" Solaire's voice rang out. "Make formation! Archers, to the wall!"
The sound of the gate shuddering under siege blows reverberated through the stone, a chilling counterpoint to the organized scramble around them. Luke felt a jolt of fear for the women and children trapped in that besieged keep.
Time was a cruel enemy.
They reached the defensive line, a desperate line of bloodied men and gleaming pikes who lined the top of the inner wall.
Lord Everard Ashford stood amidst them, not an imposing figure, but one radiating the stubborn tenacity of his lineage. His greyed hair and lanky frame spoke of battles weathered, burdens carried, yet his eyes held an unyielding spark.
"My Lord, I am Ser Solaire, a hedge Knight from the Goldengrove," Solaire proclaimed, dismounting with a swiftness that belied his jovial demeanor. "We bring the promised aid of Lord Tyrell and the Reach!" He gestured to Luke and the knights beside him. "Ser Parmen, with men, is securing your household. He sends word that Ser Vortimer Crane, and Lord Mace Tyrell will soon march on to Stannis Baratheon's army outside the outer wall. The plan is to cut off Stannis from the men already inside."
Lord Ashford visibly sagged with relief, then his shoulders straightened once more. "Your news is welcome, Ser Solaire." But his gaze was drawn, as was Luke's, to the shuddering gate. "We fight against time itself. Cafferen leads those dogs just outside the inner wall, and Stannis himself lurks with the larger force just behind him.."
The thunderous rattling of the gate underscored his words, each echoing strike a countdown to a bloody reckoning. "It won't hold," Lord Ashford muttered, a haunted look in his eyes.
Ser Solaire, face grim, wasted no time. "Men! To the wall! Shore up those defenses!" He barked orders, directing the Tyrell troops with efficiency. "Wood, rope, anything to brace the line! Archers, take position!"
Luke, hammer gripped tight, spurred his horse towards the wall.
The sight of weary Ashford men, bloodied and battered, was a stark reminder of the battle already waged.
Time was not a luxury they had.
They'd barely begun their desperate work when the unthinkable happened.
A monstrous groan of tortured wood filled the air, followed by a triumphant roar that drowned out even the clash of swords. The gate splintered, then exploded inward in a hail of debris.
"OURS IS THE FURY!" they screamed as men charged through the broken gate.
"Stormlanders!" someone screamed, a cry half-choked in terror.
The disciplined retreat Ashford commanded disintegrated into a panicked scramble.
Ser Solaire's voice cut through the chaos. "Ser Hamish hold the line! Cover Lord Ashford's retreat! Don't let these bastards approach another inch inside the wall!" He spurred his horse forward, a beacon of defiance amidst the tide of fear. "Boy!" he said turning to Luke, "Ride with Lord Ashford, I will hold the line here with Ser Hamish!"
Above, a desperate counterattack began.
Ser Geni led Ashford archers in raining a deadly hail upon the Stormlanders clambering over the shattered gate.
Luke nodded sharply, the hammer heavy in his grip.
Fear thrummed through his veins, but it was cold, focused, fueling action rather than panic.
It was a symphony of chaos that could've shattered a lesser man.
The world narrowed down to the rhythmic pound of boots against cobblestone, the rasping breaths of the wounded, shouts of panic and defiance cutting through the clangor of steel.
"Fall back, damn you!" Luke's voice was raw, barely audible over the din. A wounded spearman stumbled, clutching a bloodied arm, and Luke hauled him up. "Lord Ashford commands – to the keep! Fall back!"
Every step they gained was a small victory. Behind them, Ser Solaire's booming war cries and the vicious ring of steel upon steel held a flicker of hope. But hope wasn't enough against the tide of Stormlanders flooding through the breached gate.
"Baratheon dogs!" an Ashford soldier spat, blood dripping from a gash on his cheek. He swung a battered axe wildly, forcing a Stormlander back.
The enemy surged forward, a wave of bloodied steel and brutal victory cries. Luke's hammer rose and fell. Bone cracked, a scream cut short as he carved a path, every man stumbling back another precious foot gained. The air thrummed with a strange mix of fear and adrenaline, fueling a desperate, animal instinct to survive.
Ashford men, beaten but unbroken, rallied with unexpected ferocity. An archer, blood streaming down his face, snatched Luke's arm. "My Lord's banner! Protect Lord Ashford!" he gasped, pointing a trembling finger ahead.
Luke saw it then, a splash of defiant orange against the grey stone.
Lord Ashford's retreat was almost complete. But a knot of pursuers closed in, their battle-lust terrifying to see. There was no time for strategy, no time for anything but action.
"With me!" Luke roared, voice finally matching the battle-fury in his heart. The hammer sang it's terrible song, and the ragged group of defenders surged to meet the enemy head-on.
Luke surged forward, the reins gripped tight in one hand, the hammer a brutal weight in the other.
The knot of Stormlanders, their eyes fixed on the retreating Lord Ashford, were caught utterly by surprise.
The impact of Luke's charge sent shockwaves through the Stormlander ranks.
His horse slammed into their flank, and the ordered advance disintegrated into panicked shouts and flying bodies.
Luke's hammer was a whirlwind of death.
One man, helm dented like a broken egg, toppled off his saddle with a choked gurgle.
Another screamed, a piercing wail of agony as his arm flopped uselessly, bone splintered into bloody ruin. The sickening, metallic tang of blood hung heavy in the air.
All around, the tide turned with brutal swiftness. Ashford soldiers, moments ago stumbling and beaten, found renewed fury.
"For Ashford! For the Reach!" someone roared, and the rallying cry spread like wildfire. A Tyrell man-at-arms, eyes wide and wild, wrenched his spear free from the belly of a Stormlander, the dying man's gasp mingling with the stench of voided bowels.
The Stormlanders, caught off-guard, faced a ferocity they hadn't bargained for. Their boasts turned into strangled cries, victory replaced with stark terror. This wasn't glorious battle, this was a desperate, brutal fight for survival, and fear twisted their faces into grotesque masks. Men died screaming, died choking on their own blood, and with each one, the Ashford banner seemed to burn a bit brighter.
He wheeled his horse, seeking the next target, the next threat, when Lord Ashford's voice cut through the chaos.
"Enough! To me, men!" The battered lord's voice was surprisingly strong. "You... well done, lad..." He faltered, a flicker of emotion, then regained his composure. "Archers, aim for the walls! Cover those brave bastards at the line. The fortress will not fall while we men defend it!"
With a surge of relief, Luke saw Ser Solaire, Ser Hamish, and a scattering of men still holding back the enemy tide. It was far too few for long, their retreat inevitable.
"Cavalry!" Luke shouted, his voice hoarse. "With me! Pick off any who stray from the line!" He spurred his horse forward, the ragged band of cavalry following him. Arrows began to whistle from the walls above, and with each fallen Stormlander, the pressure on the defenders eased ever so slightly.
Luke wheeled his horse, seeking the next target. But with a surge of relief, he saw Lord Ashford's banner waving defiantly at the entrance to his keep, a rallying point for the battered force.
Every second bought and paid for in blood was precious.
"Aim beyond the line!" Lord Ashford's voice was a ragged bark as he ordered his retreated archers to cover the retreat of his reinforcements.
Luke spurred his horse forward, the ragged band of cavalry following like a vengeful shadow.
Arrows whistled overhead, their sharp song joined by the ragged cheers of their archers. It was a lifeline thrown, and Luke saw, with grim satisfaction, the Stormlanders scatter momentarily, giving Ser Solaire's beleaguered force a sliver of space.
"Fall back!" Solaire's bellow cut through the chaos. "Slow retreat, by the Gods, hold the line!" The knight was a beacon amidst the storm, his voice a mix of command and desperation.
One by one, men began stumbling away from the fray.
Hamish the Harper brought up the rear, his shield raised high. "Gaston! Cover Geni's retreat!" His voice was surprisingly jovial, belying the grim line of his jaw. "The archers on the wall won't do us any favors now!"
Ser Gaston, grim-faced, nodded and turned his horse toward the wall, shouting orders to the men following him.
They closed ranks around Ser Geni, and the archers retreated into the courtyard.
Emboldened by their dwindling prey, the Stormlanders surged anew as more poured forth over the inner walls and into the courtyard.
Luke saw the desperate battle atop the wall, Ashford and Tyrell colors struggling against the tide. There was no other choice – one final, brutal charge to buy them time.
"With me!" he roared.
Once more, his band of riders descended upon the Stormlanders, disrupting their pursuit, creating those vital moments for his comrades to reach the relative safety of the keep, just beyond the breached inner gate.
The courtyard was awash in a swirling tide of steel, desperate shouts, and the sharp tang of blood. Luke, hammer rising and falling in a vicious rhythm, spurred his horse toward Ser Geni's retreating men. His riders, emboldened, drove wedges into the Stormlander ranks, scattering them like wolves among sheep.
The world narrowed down to sweat stinging his eyes, the rhythmic thud of his horse's hooves, the brutal crunch of bone beneath his hammer.
They weren't winning, just holding on by the skin of their teeth. Every man they sent sprawling meant one less for Geni's archers to face.
A Stormlander who made past Ser Solaire and Ser Hamish's line, teeth bared in a snarl, lunged at Geni.
Luke intercepted the blow with his shield, the force of it jarring his arm. Ser Geni stumbled back, but his eyes met Luke's, ablaze with a wild mixture of gratitude and desperation.
"To the keep!" Ser Geni roared over the clash of steel, gesturing wildly. His remaining archers scrambled like frightened rabbits, but the path was clear, if only for a moment.
"Go!" Luke bellowed back, a desperate plea disguised as a command.
Ser Geni needed no further urging, throwing a ragged salute before turning towards the looming safety of the keep.
Behind him, Luke's riders snarled a challenge, their horses stamping and snorting amidst the carnage.
Time.
They were buying nothing but precious seconds, but seconds were all they had.
Luke saw Hamish, fighting with a berserker's fury, a last defiant beacon against the tide, as Ser Solaire and Ser Hamish's line finally reached the keep as well.
Then, with a roar, Ser Gaston began his own desperate withdrawal, pikemen forming a bristling shield against the relentless advance.
"One last charge!" Luke's voice was raw. "To the keep!" His horsemen, their numbers diminished but unbroken, surged once more, disrupting the enemy pursuit enough to buy those vital moments.
Luke's breath rasped in his throat, heart pounding in time with the relentless cadence of the retreat. Sweat made his grip on his weapon slip before he adjusted his fingers. The copper scent of blood mixed with churning mud and the chill air.
They could hold no longer.
He saw Ser Solaire and Ser Geni reach the base of the keep, its towering doors ajar, but Ser Gaston's pikemen, who had covered Ser Geni's retreat, were still a desperate knot of defiance against a sea of storm-swept steel.
"One last time!" Luke roared, more a plea than a command.
His horse, weary but loyal, responded with a surge of exhausted power. His horsemen, bloodied but unyielding, followed.
It was madness, he knew, a futile final charge against an unstoppable tide. But he needed to aid the Knight's retreat, some lines held by sheer, bloody-minded stubbornness.
Ser Gaston had covered for all others, Luke needed to aid him too.
The impact was brutal.
But the Stormlanders, emboldened, surged once more, the press of bodies threatening to overwhelm Gaston's men.
And still, they held, their long pikes forming a deadly barrier, their shields a flickering wall of resistance.
Then Gaston saw it – the fresh wave of men pouring over the inner wall, outnumbering them three to one.
"Fall back!" he bellowed, turning to Luke. "Luke, retreat! To the keep, man!"
The pikemen began a ragged withdrawal, bristling with steel and fury, every step bought in blood.
Luke wanted to charge again, but one look at the approaching horde told him it was madness.
"Retreat!" It was Lord Ashford's voice, harsh with command, booming from the keep. "Retreat, damn you!"
And so, with burning lungs and a heart filled with a strange mix of fury and ice-cold clarity, Luke turned his back on the fight.
Luke's breath hitched in his throat as he turned. Ser Gaston the dim, once ridiculed for his slow wittedness, now embodied the warrior himself.
His bloodied spear danced a deadly arc, fending off three, four attackers at once. His pikemen, faces contorted in desperate defiance, formed a ragged ring of steel around him.
And then it happened.
A flash of surprise etched on Gaston's face as a lucky sword thrust found a gap in his defenses.
He staggered, his spear faltering, his bright eyes wide with shock. For a heartbeat, time seemed to slow as a Stormlander knight, sensing his advantage, lunged.
The knight's blade pierced Gaston's chest, burying itself with a sickening finality.
Gaston's eyes met Luke's, not in fear, but with a flash of defiance that burned even as his knees buckled. He fell, not with a gasp, but with a warrior's roar that echoed above the din of battle.
His pikemen closed ranks, a vengeful bristle of weapons.
But without Gaston's command, their formation wavered. Stormlanders surged over the fallen knight, their victory cries a harsh counterpoint to the dying gasps of those valiant few who had sacrificed themselves to ensure their commander's retreat.
Swearing under his breath, Luke spurred his horse and joined the desperate scramble towards the relative safety of the keep's grim embrace.
There was no time for grief, no time for hesitation.
Fear and desperation fueled a mad dash for the keep, the towering doors a fleeting promise of safety. Luke's cavalry rode as one, a desperate wedge cutting through the enemy ranks. Their horses, sensing the urgency, responded with a final burst of speed.
Inside!
The doors loomed open, and they raced through, the thunder of enemy pursuit echoing behind them.
"Shut it!" Lord Ashford's bellow held the raw edge of panic. "Arrows! Aim for the bastards as they close!"
Arrows whistled overhead, a deadly rain upon the Stormlander advance.
Luke felt a jolt as the heavy doors of the keep slammed shut, followed by the frantic rumble of bars being pulled and chains secured.
Ser Solaire, face grim, barked orders. "Men to the barricades! Pile anything, everything – stop them from breaking through!"
Geni's command echoed his. "Archers – to the upper floors! The windows, damn you, man every opening! Head to the roof! I want them pinned down!"
They moved as one, fear and exhaustion momentarily subsumed by the need for action.
The keep's stone belly swallowed them, the echoes of their frantic preparations fading as they pushed deeper inside.
Only in these dim, flickering corridors did the silence settle, a heavy pall filled with unspoken grief.
Gaston's face, resolute and proud moments before, haunted Luke's steps.
Then, a flicker of light, voices raised in alarm.
They'd found sanctuary, of sorts.
Parmen stood, flanked by Lanthorn and Monberry, their expressions mirroring his own mix of grim determination and weary relief.
Beside them, Ser Darrien, master-at-arms, hovered near a cluster of pale-faced women and servants – the heart of Ashford, those they'd fought so desperately to protect.
Lord Ashford's daughter, Elianora Ashford, clearly pregnant, sat on the cleared bench in the hall beside her mother, Evelyn,
Lord Ashford, pushing his way through his men, met them.
His eyes, haunted and yet fiercely resolute, fell on them one by one. "Why?" he demanded hoarsely as he approached Parmen Crane. "You were meant to escort them to safety, why are they still here?"
Parmen stepped forward, his voice surprisingly steady. "There was no chance, my lord. By the time they were ready to leave, the Stormlanders had broken through the inner gate. I didn't want to risk leaving the keep in the chaos."
A flicker of something akin to despair flashed across Lord Ashford's face.
His shoulders slumped, the weight of defeat seeming to crush the stubborn spark that had fueled them moments before.
"Where is Mace?" he asked, voice barely a ragged whisper. "Where is Vortimer? Gods damn them both, where are they?" His gaze swept over the assembled knights, seeking an answer no one could give. "We have lost," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Lost…"
A chilling silence fell, broken only by choked sobs and the shuffling of exhausted men. Parmen remained stoic, but his eyes held a flicker of shared despair.
To Luke, the keep's dim embrace suddenly felt stifling, a tomb rather than a sanctuary.
"Surrender is…" Lord Ashford's voice cracked.
No, surrender would be a mercy they would not receive. They'd taken too many Stormlander lives. Lord Cafferen wouldn't let them live, especially if Lord Mace and Ser Vortimer begin their assault soon.
Luke's eyes strayed towards Lady Elianora, huddled against her mother, her sobs muffled but heart-wrenchingly clear.
Even amidst his own fear and the echoing silence, something in him rebelled against this bleak surrender.
He swallowed hard, searching for the courage he hadn't realized he possessed. His voice cut through the oppressive silence. "Ser Solaire," he began, forcing a steadiness he didn't entirely feel, "how many men do we have?"
A thunderous boom echoed through the keep, a brutal counterpoint to the oppressive silence. The heavy doors shuddered violently, sending a ripple of fear through those gathered. Lord Ashford whirled, eyes blazing with a mix of desperation and fury.
"What do you think you're doing, boy?" The title wasn't an insult, merely a reflection of the chasm between them. "It's over."
Luke stood his ground, chin held high. "Ser Solaire," he repeated, louder this time, "how many men?"
Another bone-jarring crash at the doors.
Ser Solaire stepped forward.
"Counting those we brought, Ashford's own… close to nine hundred, perhaps." He hesitated, glancing at the despair on Lord Ashford's face, then back to Luke.
Luke nodded, taking it in.
Nine hundred.
BOOM!
The doors rattled again.
Time was a noose tightening around their necks.
Lord Ashford let out a ragged sigh. "Ashford is lost. We are lost." There was a finality in his tone that made Luke's heart clench. "You saved my life, lad, I'll never forget that. But it's over. The castle has fallen!"
"You said earlier that the castle won't fall while your men defend it! They are still defending it! They have died defending it!" Luke shouted, then another sickening crash echoed through the keep, and Luke didn't hesitate. "Ser Darrien," his voice rang out, firm but not unkind, "are there other ways out of this fortress? Ways the women and children might escape?"
The master-at-arms hesitated, a flicker of despair mirrored in his eyes. Lord Ashford's defeated sigh and the renewed wailing of the women made him flinch. "There's… the kitchen entrance," he rasped. "Leads to the old servant tunnels, it leads to the northern wall."
Hope, a fragile flicker amidst the gloom, sparked in Luke's heart.
He nodded sharply. "Gather the women and children. Take them through the kitchens. Ser Parmen, Ser Lanthorn, Ser Monberry – with him," he barked, seeking out the familiar faces. "Fifty men, follow them. Guard them with your lives."
Lord Ashford erupted, desperation fueling his fury. "What is this? A game, boy? Do you dare command my men?" There was a plea in his voice now, a father's desperation for those he couldn't save. "We are finished. It is done!"
Luke met his gaze unflinchingly. "Ride out with me, Lord Ashford," he said, a strange calm settling over him.
Ashford stared at him. "Death and glory"
"For Ashford," Luke interrupted, his voice low but filled with a stubborn defiance that echoed in the torch-lit hall. "For your people. One last charge. We make enough noise, cause enough chaos… and they might just escape." He gestured vaguely towards the kitchens. "Through the tunnels, to the wall and over. To Safety."
BOOM!
The doors buckled, the sound like a death knell.
Lord Ashford's gaze fell on his daughter, pregnant and huddled and weeping in her mother's arms.
Then, something hardened in those haunted eyes.
A lord's resolve finally rekindling amidst the ashes of defeat.
"Yes." He whispered "Yes! The banners of House Ashford shall fly once more! One last time!"
"Yes!" Ser Solaire roared, as he prepared his battle axe. "The noon sun is on high! We shall show the Stormlanders the might of your House and that of the Reach beneath the light of the sun!"
Ser Geni prepared his bow, and Ser Hamish brandished his sword as well, roaring along in unison.
Lord Ashford turned to Luke, and placed his hand on his shoulder with a solemn look. "I would know the name of the man I am to ride to my death with."
"Luke," he replied simply. "Squire to Ser Vortimer Crane." A flicker of pride, of defiance, surged through him at the words.
Ashford nodded. He barked orders, his voice echoing in the grim hall. "Mount up then!" he roared. "Se Solaire! Ser Hamish! With me! Ser Geni, cover us with the archers!"
Ser Solaire, face alight with grim determination, rallied the battered remnants of their men. "To the horses!" he shouted. "Rally your men! Form up behind the cavalry!"
Ashford turned to Darrien and Parmen. "Get them through the kitchens!" he snapped. "Quickly now! There's no time to waste!"
Then he gestured to the castle's maester, a thin, grey-haired man who'd been hovering nervously. "Maester Tybald," he barked, "Get this man a shield!" pointing to Luke.
Luke realized then that the battered shield he'd carried was useless, splintered and cracked. It had saved Lord Ashford, its work was done.
Maester Tybald scurried away, Luke felt a surge of gratitude, but also a strange sense of finality. He returned with a shield emblazoned with House Ashford's sun sigil, this one flickered with bright stars.
It reminded him of Caelum.
This new shield would not just be for protection, it would be his battle standard.
The very earth seemed to tremble as the Stormlanders struck the keep gates once more.
The Ashford shield felt sturdy in his grip, its star-flecked sun a defiant beacon against the encroaching darkness. Luke tightened the straps, then hefted his warhammer, its weight both comforting and terrifying.
Turning, his eyes met Parmen's.
A complex flicker of emotions crossed the knight's face – guilt, shame, and a grudging respect. "Go," Luke said, his voice low. "Quickly, while you still can."
Parmen swallowed, a nervous gesture that seemed out of character.
Then, to Luke's surprise, he unbuckled his ornate breastplate. "Take this," he offered, and Luke saw the apology in his eyes, an unspoken plea for forgiveness.
He hesitated.
Parmen, for all his flaws, was no coward. And beneath that polished armor, Luke knew the man was more vulnerable than he cared to show.
Yet… every bit of protection counted now. With a brief nod, he accepted the breastplate.
Quickly donning the armor with the help of Ser Solaire, he realized it was a perfect fit.
Ser Lanthorn, Ser Monberry and Ser Darrien quickly followed suit offering their armors to Ser Solaire, Ser Gaston, and Ser Geni.
As Parmen, Ser Lanthorn and Ser Monberry turned to join the exodus towards the kitchens, the ground trembled beneath them.
The gate wouldn't hold much longer.
Turning, Luke saw Ashford and his knights mounted, grim determination etched on their faces.
"For Ashford!" Lord Ashford's roar was met with a ragged chorus of echoing shouts.
It was the cry of the doomed, the defiant last stand of men against a tide they couldn't possibly hold back.
But hope wasn't about victory today.
It was about the slimmest sliver of a chance, the barest thread for others to cling to.
There would be no more delays, no time for doubts or hesitation.
Now, it was down to cold steel, desperate courage, and the slim hope they were gambling everything upon.
Another BOOM!
Luke mounted his horse, and joined Lord Ashford at the helm.
"FORTH! FOR ASHFORD!" The Lord shouted and the cavalry charged straight for the rattling door.
BOOM!
The gates of the keep splintered, disgorging a sea of steel and fury.
With a roar echoing Ashford's own, Luke spurred his horse forward, plunging into the fray.
"FOR ASHFORD!" His voice was a battlecry amidst the storm, the warhammer rising and falling in a brutal, bloody rhythm.
He was lost in a whirlwind of blood and steel. The breastplate clanked with every swing of the warhammer, every bone-shattering blow.
His world narrowed down to the rhythmic thud of his heart, the screams of dying men, and the sickening crunch of metal against flesh.
Somewhere to his left, Solaire bellowed a defiant curse with each swing of his axe. "Yield, you Storm-cursed bastards!" the knight roared, carving a crimson path with grim determination.
Then there was Hamish, shield raised, teeth bared in a madman's grin. "Taste my steel, you dogs!" he shrieked, his laughter a jarring counterpoint to the dying gasps around them. A Stormlander spear bounced off his shield, and the harper retaliated with a furious blow that shattered his opponent's visor.
Beside him, Lord Ashford was a fury unleashed. His sword sang its own brutal song, each parry and thrust a testament to a lifetime of battle. "Hold firm!" he bellowed, his voice ragged but carrying over the din. "For Ashford! Make for the wall!"
Above them, the Ashford banner snapped and whipped, the silver sun a defiant beacon amidst the swirling chaos.
Every inch the banner gained was a victory snatched from the jaws of defeat.
With each desperate swing of his hammer, Luke felt a surge of grim satisfaction. They were not just fighting, they were moving, cutting a path for those who couldn't defend themselves.
The cavalry charge was not the stuff of legends.
This was no glorious advance through yielding ranks, but a desperate, brutal fight for every foot of stone.
Horses screamed as they were felled, men cried out as they were trampled beneath the churning tide. The very air throbbed with the clang of steel, the guttural roars of the Stormlanders, the dying gasps of the fallen.
Yet, they moved forward. Each swing of Luke's hammer, each desperate thrust of Ashford's blade carved a fleeting path of chaos, a wedge cutting through the heart of the enemy advance. They were buying time, nothing more, but those precious, blood-soaked seconds were all that mattered.
All that mattered while, behind them, a frightened procession of women, children, and old men fled towards the ghost of salvation.
They advanced like a battered spear point thrust into the heart of chaos. Luke, Ashford, and Solaire, a bloody vanguard fueled by desperation, carved a ragged path towards the inner wall. Ashford's shouts were a beacon amidst the storm, his blade flashing as he urged them onward.
"To the wall! To the wall!" he roared, his voice edged with the desperation of a cornered beast.
The opposition was fierce.
Stormlanders, drunk on the promise of victory, rallied against this final defiant stand but their morale was breaking seeing their men die like flies to a frog.
They swarmed like angry wasps, swords raised, and curses hurled.
Horses shrieked, adding to the terrifying symphony of battle, as they were felled or caught in the press of the melee. With every step forward, they left a trail of fallen men in their wake, their sacrifice buying precious strides for their lord.
Then, through the haze, Luke saw Hamish break away, a wild light in his eyes. "Gaston!" he heard the harper scream, his voice cracking with a grief-fueled rage. The fallen knight's body lay splayed across the cobblestones.
"Hamish, no!" Luke's own voice was hoarse, barely audible above the din. "Fall back! Gods damn you, come back!"
But Hamish was a force of nature unleashed.
He charged, his shield a battering ram against the Stormlander lines, drawing a swarm of enemies in his wake.
It was glorious, it was reckless, and it was tearing a wedge of chaotic distraction through the Stormlanders, disrupting their advance.
Luke, with a curse, signaled his men to follow, to cover Hamish's desperate gambit.
Lord Ashford echoed his command, his voice a mix of fury and despair.
They pushed onwards, leaving a trail of their own dead, while overhead, Geni's arrows rained from the crumbling walls above, desperately trying to cover this mad gamble.
And then it happened.
Hamish's horse stumbled, shrieked, and fell, throwing the harper violently. Before he could regain his feet, a Stormlander pike plunged downwards, its blade sinking deep into the harper's exposed neck.
A final, choked gasp, then stillness.
His charge was over, his song cut tragically short.
The sight of Hamish's fall, a brutal punctuation in their desperate charge, was a blow to the gut. But Lord Ashford, his face set in a mask of grim determination, seized the moment.
"To the wall!" he roared, his voice a beacon through the chaos. "To the wall!"
Changing course, their bloodied vanguard surged towards the breached inner gate, the shattered remains no longer a symbol of defeat, but a desperate point of hope. The Stormlanders, disrupted by Hamish's reckless gamble, hesitated, their relentless advance faltering.
Behind them, Tyrell and Ashford infantry surged forward, their shouts echoing the dying strains of Hamish's battle song.
They poured through the gaps that the cavalry had carved, taking advantage of the enemy's momentary disarray, and cut a swathe of vengeance for their fallen comrades.
Luke spurred his horse onwards, the heavy warhammer a relentless bludgeon against the tide.
Dimly, he was aware of Solaire beside him, his battle-axe rising and falling in a grim dance of survival.
Every foot gained, every Stormlander felled, was a lifeline thrown to those still fleeing.
Ahead, the inner wall loomed, stark against the blood-red late afternoon sky. Without hesitation, Ashford led the charge towards it, seeking the sanctuary of the upper ramparts.
With desperate strength, they hauled themselves and their horses up the tumbled stones of the breached inner wall.
Each agonizing push, each desperate scramble, fueled by sheer, desperate will. As Luke crested the top, his heart hammered a wild rhythm in his chest, mingling adrenaline and fear with a sudden, almost overwhelming surge of hope.
From this vantage point, they could finally see beyond the confines of the courtyard. The town stretched before them, a terrifying tableau of destruction. Homes blazed, screams of terror cut through the smoky pall, and the glint of steel reflected in the firelight - Stormlanders, sacking the town with horrifying efficiency. Only one building seemed untouched, its spires defiantly untouched by flame – the sept, and beneath it, he could just make out the hated banner of Cafferen.
Then, like a thunderclap splitting the sky, a single, clear sound shattered the air. A horn, its blast carrying from beyond the outer wall, from the west.
Distantly, Luke saw the flicker of arrows, a lethal rain falling amidst the Stormlander positions beyond the wall where the bulk of Stannis Baratheon's forces were camped.
Hope ignited in his veins, burning away the icy despair. "Ser Vortimer Crane!" he cried, a ragged shout of triumph echoing over the din of battle. "He has finally come!"
Ashford's face, bloodied and weary, twisted in a reflection of Luke's own desperate joy.
Another horn blast – this time from the east, another volley of arrows raining death upon Stannis's forces.
"And Lord Mace!" Luke couldn't contain the ragged laugh that tore from his throat. "Lord Mace has arrived!"
It felt like the tide turning, a sliver of possibility, a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.
The siege wasn't over, the fight still raged within the castle walls, but they were no longer alone, no longer the final, desperate gasp of defiance.
They had a chance.
"Stannis will retreat," Luke rasped, his voice a mix of exhaustion and determined hope. They'd done it! Against all odds, they'd bought the time needed. "He won't risk a battle his men aren't prepared for, not when fresh armies surround him."
Ashford nodded, a flicker of fierce elation in his eyes. "Yes," he agreed. "They've had a taste of victory… now they'll sense defeat snatching it from their grasp." He paused, looking out over the ravaged town, the storm of emotions a mirror of Luke's own.
Then, a spark of calculation replaced the despair in his gaze. "But this isn't over," he declared. "We've a chance, Luke, a chance to end this, not just survive it."
"What do you mean, my lord?" Luke asked, his heart pounding with renewed anticipation.
Ashford gestured towards the sept, Cafferen's standard still a defiant stain against the smoke-filled sky. "That banner. If it falls, so too does the spirit of the Stormlander forces." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "We cut down Cafferen, we cut the serpent's head from its foul body."
It was a bold gamble, a desperate one. Leave the relative safety of the upper wall, ride into the heart of the chaos… But Luke saw the wisdom in the madness. The Stormlanders, already reeling from the unexpected assault from without the walls, would falter if their leader fell. It was a desperate chance, a final, defiant throw of the dice.
"Then we ride, my Lord," Luke said simply.
There was no hesitation, no fear, only the same cold determination that had fueled their desperate charge.
Lord Ashford's smile, fleeting but genuine. "After this, lad," he said, a warmth in his voice that transcended the formalities of titles. "Come find me. You will have a place with House Ashford, as a Knight"
But even as a surge of pride warmed him, Luke forced his focus back to the desperate present.
The last battle was waiting, and titles were for the living.
They descended the wall with surprising speed, finding Ser Solaire amidst a scene of organized chaos.
Shouts, barked orders, and the clang of steel filled the air as the battered knight rallied their remaining men.
Solaire, face grim but alight with the same fierce joy Luke felt, met them at the breached gate.
"They have faltered!" he boomed, gesturing to the open space beyond the inner gate where Stormlander bodies lay in stark contrast to the retreating enemy. "The cowards heard the horns, saw the arrows, and tasted fear!"
"Reinforcements have arrived," Luke managed, still breathless with exertion. He outlined their desperate gambit, Lord Ashford's plan echoing his own desperate hope.
Geni, joining them, added a touch of grim practicality. "My archers are ready," he rasped. "As you charge, we'll cover you. Gods willing, those Stormlander bastards will be too busy dodging arrows to see their lord fall." He gave a wolfish grin. "And fall he will, if this old bow has anything to say about it. I will be joining you! Let's end this!"
Solaire hoisted his axe with a bellow. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's bring that Storm-whelp down!"
The inner gate was flung open. With a final glance back at the walls, at the archers poised like vengeful angels, they spurred their horses forward. This was it - they would end this siege, or die beneath the blood-red sky.
The retreating Stormlanders, caught between relief at escaping the keep and demoralization at the relentless hornsong in the distance, were still a formidable force.
A hail of arrows met their desperate charge - a reminder of their mortality, of the slender thread upon which their hopes now hung. Shields were raised in desperate defense, but their battered armor held, and the enemy's volley had minimal effect.
Above the chaos, Luke could see their goal – the sept, rising defiantly against the burning backdrop, and the Cafferen standard, a splash of green and two rearing horses against the smoke-wreathed sky.
Then came the answering volley - Ashford's archers unleashing their own deadly rain.
The Stormlanders wavered, momentarily distracted by the sudden onslaught from above.
It was the opening they needed.
Ahead, they could make out Lord Cafferen himself, surrounded by a knot of knights – those who dared stand so openly must be powerful houses sworn to his cause.
Luke recognized the Fell sigil, the Grandison crest… They were his targets.
Their charge was met by a bristling wall of pikes.
Luke's breath hitched in his throat as his horse soared, clearing the first rank.
He whirled his heavy warhammer with desperate force, a whirlwind of destruction clearing a bloody path.
Lord Ashford was a blur of motion beside him, his sword a flickering tongue of steel.
Solaire's axe rose and fell with savage efficiency, and Geni loosed deadly shafts even as he charged.
They were unstoppable, a storm of fury and determination cleaving through the enemy ranks.
Their cavalry became a relentless wedge, carving a path through the heart of the storm. Luke's hammer fell with brutal rhythm, shattering bones, crumpling armor. Each foe that stumbled or fell was another step closer to their goal, another thread of Cafferen's arrogance unraveling.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Geni, a blur of motion amidst the chaos.
His arrows seemed almost guided by vengeance, each finding its mark with deadly precision. Then, a grim realization struck Luke – Geni was drawing far too much attention. He had already fallen off his horse, surviving luckily with the aide of their men.
The enemy pikemen were breaking formation, swarming the archer in a desperate counterattack.
"Ser Solaire!" he roared over the din, spotting the knight nearby. "Geni needs aid! I am going to cut a path through to him!" He gestured furiously toward the archer, his voice tight with urgency.
Without hesitation, Luke spurred his horse towards his comrade.
The warhammer sang it's brutal song, clearing a path through the tide of bodies. Men screamed, horses reared, their formation shattering beneath the relentless assault. He was a shield to Geni's sword, buying the archer precious moments to loose another deadly shaft.
"Careful old man!" Luke barked, a grim grin splitting his bloodied face. He swatted away a sword thrust with his shield, then smashed a pikeman to the ground with the hammer's haft.
Ser Geni, even while loosing another arrow, gave a breathless laugh. "Don't get cocky, whelp," he retorted. "These bastards might've felled my horse, but they'll not pincushion me before you reach their lord!" The arrow soared, finding its mark in the throat of a Stormlander knight.
A Stormlander arrow whistled past Luke's head, the near-miss snapping him back to the perilous present. Geni answered the threat with a retaliatory shot, the arrow disappearing into the fray.
Luke, with a defiant roar, surged deeper into the chaos. More arrows, some finding purchase in the battered plate, glancing off with harmless thunks.
"Missed one!" Geni's voice carried a macabre cheer over the din. Another arrow whizzed past, embedding itself in the shield of a charging Stormlander pikeman. The man stumbled, providing Luke an opening for a brutal counterattack.
"Thanks for the assist!" Luke bellowed back, his hammer shattering the pikeman's helm in a spray of blood and steel.
A Stormlander knight, face contorted in fury, charged towards him. A lucky swipe grazed Luke's shoulder, momentarily unbalancing him, but Luke's hammer connected with the knight's helmet in a brutal, bone-jarring blow. The knight crumpled, unhorsed, disappearing beneath the churning tide.
And then it happened. A single arrow, arced high above the melee, a final judgement from the sky. Time seemed to slow as Luke tracked its deadly path. It struck Lord Grandison square in the eye, the feathered shaft sinking deep into his helmet. The knight toppled with a choked scream, his death throes lost amidst the battle symphony.
Luke turned to share a shout of victory with Geni… only to see the archer fall, his body bristling with arrows like some grotesque porcupine.
Ser Geni's bow clattered to the cobblestones, his last defiant shot forever loosed.
For a heartbeat, time seemed to stutter, the world reduced to the grotesque image of the archer, his laughter silenced, his body a gruesome testament to the cost of war.
Then, rage ignited, a white-hot inferno that consumed him. "For Geni! FOR ASHFORD! FOR THE REACH!" he roared, the battlecry ripping from his throat.
He spurred his horse forward, the hammer a whirlwind of bloody vengeance.
The Stormlanders wavered.
Arrows whispered past Luke, finding their marks with grim efficiency.
The charge was chaos, raw and bloody, but through the storm Luke could see Ashford beside him, his sword a flickering beacon, and Solaire, the berserker with an axe that drank its fill of Stormlander blood.
The enemy line before them was thinning, morale crumbling. Some fled, making for the haven of the breached outer gate, their cries echoing over the din. "Every man for himself!" "It's over, lads, run!" "The Reach has come – we're doomed!"
Others, trapped, fought with the desperate courage of cornered rats.
A spearman, eyes wide with terror, lunged at Luke, only to be felled by a brutal blow from Solaire's axe.
Yet, Luke saw it – the knot of knights surrounding Lord Cafferen faltered, their retreat cut off by the relentless onslaught. A surge of grim satisfaction flowed through him.
Victory, bloody and desperate, lay tantalizingly close.
He smashed through the final remnants of the line, clearing a path straight for Cafferen.
"Cafferen!" Luke roared, the name a curse torn from his raw throat.
He met the lord's eyes, saw the flash of fear beneath the helm.
Lord Fell, realizing the game was up, attempted to cover Cafferen's retreat. Lord Ashford intercepted him with his horse.
The last few Stormlanders standing between Luke and Cafferen were sacrificial lambs, their fear making them easy prey.
His hammer rose and fell with savage efficiency, each blow a hammer stroke against the crumbling Storm-built edifice. With a final, desperate charge, he smashed through Cafferen's shield, splintering the expensive wood and sending the man staggering.
"Cafferen!" Luke roared, his voice a raw echo of Geni's fallen laughter and Gaston's lost voice.
The horse beneath him danced nervously, sensing its rider's fury, the burning town reflected in its wide eyes.
Lord Cafferen stumbled back. But Luke gave him no respite. He charged again, narrowly dodging a desperate spear jab that scraped his shoulder, drawing blood.
Undeterred, he surged forward once more, the warhammer finding its mark with brutal force. The sickening crunch of metal and bone echoed over the battlefield as Cafferen's chest caved inwards. The lord toppled, his dying scream swallowed by the sounds of battle.
Whirling, heart pounding, Luke surveyed the scene. Solaire, soaked in blood, stood over the fallen body of Lord Fell, his axe raised in a final, victorious salute.
Lord Ashford, bloodied but unbowed, dismounted nearby, his gaze mirroring Luke's own mix of exhaustion and grim satisfaction.
And there, beneath the smoke-wreath sky, the Cafferen banner dipped, finally hitting the cobbled ground.
The siege was over.
The Cafferen banner's fall was the final straw.
A ragged cheer erupted, echoing from the battered Ashford men and their Tyrell reinforcements.
It was the primal roar of men who had stared down death and won, a guttural hymn of victory rising above the still-smoldering town.
Luke, exhilaration battling exhaustion, joined the shouts.
Then he saw Solaire's grin a bloody beacon amidst the chaos, and Lord Ashford, dismounting with a weary but triumphant stride.
They shared a glance, a wordless understanding passing between them.
It was over.
Ashford was saved.
Lord Ashford was already barking orders, his voice tinged with the urgency of a man ready to see this all behind him. "Take prisoners!" he shouted. "Bind their wounds! Don't let more blood stain this ground than is necessary!"
Luke blinked, the world suddenly coming back into sharper focus. "My lord," he began, his voice surprisingly steady. "I must ride to the outer wall."
Astonishment flickered across Ashford's face. "What? Don't tell me you wish to join the fight there as well? Lord Mace has this well in hand, lad!"
"My father," Luke explained. "And my uncle are with the forces outside. Lord Stannis will soon order a retreat, I need… I need to know they're safe."
"Then go," he replied. His hand clasped Luke's shoulder, briefly but with warmth. "But first… get those wounds seen to. We can't have our hero bleeding to death!"
Luke felt a flicker of surprise at the title. Then he saw it - the scrapes on his arms, the bruises hidden beneath his battered armor.
Pain, until now merely a background hum, flared in those abused muscles.
He shook his head, "I'll be fine, my lord."
With a resigned sigh, Ashford gestured towards the keep. "Then so be it. And remember, Luke, you have a place here, as a Knight." His face twisted into a grin.
Luke nodded, the title felt so small to him now, but he was grateful regardless. He couldn't wait to return home to Caelum, and Meredith.
Meredith had kept faith in him, had believed he would become a Knight. He hoped to see her smile soon when she realized that he had achieved his dream.
Solaire was beside him. "I'll ride with you, lad," he boomed, already remounting his horse.
Luke needed no further prompting.
With a final salute to Lord Ashford, they spurred their horses towards the outer wall.
Their ride to the outer wall was not one of victory, but of solemn acknowledgement. Each fallen body, Ashford or Tyrell or Stormlander, earned a silent prayer. Luke thought of those he'd fought beside, laughed with... Geni, his laughter silenced. Gaston, the dim knight turned shining beacon of sacrifice. Hamish's heartbroken charge… They'd bought this victory with their lives, and Luke vowed to honor that debt.
"Praise the Sun," Solaire murmured as they passed a particularly grim tableau. "May it guide their souls to its warm light."
Startled, Luke looked at the knight.
Solaire was now closed-eyed in silent prayer, his arms reaching out to the sky to slowly dipping evening sun. "I thought you were from the Reach, Ser Solaire."
Solaire grinned. "Yes, I am. From Goldengrove, but I don't follow the faith of the seven. I am just praying for those who died today… as they died in the sun's embrace. Seems fitting to honor that, wouldn't you say?"
"You speak of… a different god?" Luke asked, curiosity battling his ingrained faith.
Solaire was from the Reach, where the Seven held sway.
"Many gods," Solaire corrected. "I wandered far in my youth, saw lands beyond the Reach. In the Summer Isles, temples crowd the shores, each dedicated to a different power. Fire gods, sea gods, a goddess of love… if the sun god didn't call to me, I would have become a servant at that temple!" He chuckled, a surprisingly boyish sound. "Her temple was, shall we say, popular amongst the young knights."
"And the Sun God?" Luke prompted, intrigued despite himself.
Solaire's grin widened. "Ah, he was what called to be. An old temple, half-crumbled, with writings I couldn't read. But his light, his warmth… they spoke louder than words. Besides, who else gives us days like this?" He gestured toward the battle-scarred landscape bathed in the golden hues of late evening.
"Does… does your god have a name?" Luke asked, a strange sense of wonder filling him.
Solaire shrugged. "The scriptures were lost, the old tongue forgotten. Perhaps it's better that way. Makes the faith simpler, wouldn't you say?" He spurred his horse onward. "Come, we're nearly there."
They reached the shattered outer gate, the remnants of battle still clinging to its broken timbers.
Beyond, the sounds of fighting echoed, but muted, distant. The clash of steel against steel was replaced by the ragged shouts of retreating men and the mournful cries of the wounded.
"You were right," Solaire said with a grin. "Stannis Baratheon had ordered a retreat"
Luke nodded, too breathless for words.
Across the field, like a dark stain retreating from golden shore, he could see it – the banner of Baratheon, slowly retreating.
To the east, the banners of House Tyrell fluttered victoriously.
Further still, where a smaller skirmish seemed to be sputtering to an end, Ser Quentin's personal standard swayed amidst the chaos.
The relief that flooded Luke was almost overwhelming.
"My father," he managed to croak, pointing. "He'd be with Quentin's men." Then, remembering, he gestured west, where the bruised but defiant banner of the Crane still flew. "And my uncle… he fights with them."
With a shared nod, they spurred their horses towards the heart of the remaining skirmish.
Luke's battered body protested with every jolt. The adrenaline, that invisible shield that had fueled him through the desperate siege, was finally fading.
Now, pain flared with each ragged breath, a brutal counterpoint to the thrill of victory.
They rode past the sprawling beginnings of Mace Tyrell's encampment, soldiers scurrying like ants after a broken sugar jar, as they treated their wounded and carried the dead.
Up ahead, the final, desperate clash unfolded.
Ser Quentin, bloodied but unyielding, pressed a retreating knot of Stormlander spearmen.
The Tyrell banner waved defiantly above them, but as Luke squinted through the dust, his heart jolted with relief – there! Toman, his father, fighting at Ser Quentin's side, his sword a flickering beacon of loyalty.
A spearman thrust at Quentin, the knight dodging with practiced ease. Toman, seeing the danger, shifted, his shield raised in a protective arc… too slow.
The other Tyrell men, caught up in their own battles, didn't see the danger.
But Luke did.
The spear didn't stop. He saw, with horrifying clarity, the way Toman's shield arm faltered, the way the splintering wood gave way.
Then came the sickening thud, the spray of blood… and the way his father crumpled, the spear protruding obscenely from his throat.
A scream tore from Luke's lips. It was a primal, wounded sound unlike anything he'd ever uttered, a raw cry that echoed louder in his ears than the clash of battle around him. "NO!" The word tore from his throat.
He spurred his horse, heedless of the pain lancing through his body. "Father!" His world narrowed to the sight of Toman's fallen form, to the Stormlander spearmen who, seizing the distraction, turned their weapons towards the vulnerable Ser Quentin.
"You'll pay for that!" he roared, his voice a ragged snarl. Rage fueled him now, a red haze replacing the fading adrenaline. The spearmen wouldn't take another life, not if he had any say in it.
He reached them, the warhammer rising and falling. "For my father!" he bellowed with each strike.
One, two, blows rained down, crushing bone and steel. The spearmen crumpled, their dying cries lost in the chaos.
Seeing their comrades fall beneath Luke's relentless fury, the last remnants of the Stormlander spirit broke. With ragged shouts, they dropped their spears, scattering like startled rabbits before a hungry wolf. Ser Quentin, his life spared by Luke's desperate intervention, surveyed the clearing with a weary sigh.
But Luke didn't see the victory, didn't hear the other Tyrell men's cheers. He was already off his horse, stumbling towards the crumpled form of his father. His warhammer, still stained with blood, clattered to the ground.
Then came Solaire, his boisterous energy replaced by quiet concern. "Luke…" he began, his voice gentle, a hand reaching out as if to halt the inevitable.
Too late. Luke dropped to his knees beside Toman. "Father," he choked out, the title now a plea, a frantic prayer to a world suddenly gone wrong. "Wake up… please…" He reached out, trembling fingers fumbling with the bloodied clasp of his father's helm. "Please…"
He sobbed, dry, ragged gasps tearing through his lungs.
The battle, the Stormlanders, Ser Quentin – it all faded into a blurred backdrop. There was only the stillness of Toman's body, the sickening redness staining the ground, and the impossible finality of death.
As the sun finally dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the battlefield, Luke's tears fell freely.
A boy, alone with his grief, surrounded by the grim echoes of a victory he no longer cared about.
Despair washed over Luke in icy waves. He clutched his father's lifeless body, sobs wracking his frame, staining Toman's armor with hot tears.
Solaire knelt beside him, large hands hovering helplessly. "Lad… Luke, I am so sorry…" he began, his voice thick with unspoken sympathy.
The words felt hollow, even to Luke's grief-stricken ears.
No prayer could bring back the light in his father's eyes, the warmth in his rough hands.
He felt a flicker of gratitude for the knight's attempt, but it was swiftly replaced by a new wave of anguish.
Then, Ser Quentin was there too, his voice a rumble of concern beneath the rough veneer of the battle-hardened knight. "Your father… he died a hero's death, boy. He shielded me…you saved me!"
But Luke barely heard him.
His mind latched on to another name, another life left dangling by the threads of war…"My uncle…" he gasped, the words a jagged whisper.
He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the answering twinges of pain, ignoring the concerned calls from both knights. "I have to… I have to find…"
With a strength born of desperation, he hoisted his father's body onto his saddle, uncaring of the weight, of the way the blood soaked into his legs.
The warhammer, discarded amidst the bodies of his enemies, seemed insignificant now.
With a strangled cry, he spurred his horse onward.
He rode east, towards the battered banner of House Crane, tears blurring his vision, leaving a glistening trail in the gathering twilight.
His journey was a blur of pain and relentless determination. Each jolt of his weary horse sent agonizing tremors through his battered body, but he clung on, his father's body.
The Crane banner, though smaller and more ragged than when they'd left for war, drew him on like a beacon of terrible hope.
Ser Vortimer Crane had promised he would keep his uncle safe, he would know where to find him.
Soldiers, weary and bloodied, stared as he passed, their murmurs of surprise trailing him. "Isn't that the squire? What's he…" "Hush, man, look who he carries…"
Luke didn't care about their whispers, about the pity in their eyes. "Ser Vortimer…" he rasped, the name a mantra against the rising tide of dread. "My uncle Harlon… where…"
Then, a change in the atmosphere, a grim set to shoulders he recognized. "Where is Ser Vortimer?" Luke asked, his voice trembling.
The soldier swallowed, his gaze flicking to the body across the saddle. "Ser Vortimer is dead, lad."
"But my uncle… my uncle Harlon?" Luke's voice cracked with the desperation of a drowning man clinging to a broken plank.
Another soldier spoke up. "Ser Crane sent him back, last I saw."
Without waiting for further explanation, Luke spurred his horse towards the back of the Crane force.
Hope, that fragile, flickering thing, battled despair as he scanned the faces of the wounded.
Then, a shout, a ragged, hopeful shout that cut through the cacophony of pain.
"Luke!" Harlon, his face lined with exhaustion, was limping towards him, bandages around his torso stained a worrying shade of red.
He was missing his left arm, and had a giant gash on his right shoulder covered by cloth.
Yet, it was the wide-eyed shock that replaced the pain on his face that finally shattered Luke's fragile composure.
He saw Harlon's gaze flicker upwards, saw the recognition dawn.
Then, a wail of grief tore from Harlon's throat as he rushed towards the horse, towards the limp form of his brother.
The world tilted, Luke's pain flared blinding white, and he knew no more.
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(A/N) There will be another part to chapter 18.
The battle needed a whole chapter to do it justice I think.
I hope you like it. I hope the whole thing made sequential sense.
Also, yes, all OC character names are inspired or straight up lifted from from software games.
Also, next chapter will mainly focus on Caelum as most of my background set up is now almost complete for the next arc.
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