The Battle of the Red Plains, part 2

The Cavalry of Westeros cleaved into the left flank of the cult of R'hllor like a thunderbolt cast by an angry god, cultists, a disorganized mass unable to form ranks, and lacking in polearms to brace against the tide of armored men and horses, we're caught under a steel wave of lances, hooves and barded armor. Their disorganized mob trampled under the thunderous assault. Within moments the wing of the army which had sought to encircle the Westerosi line had been shattered utterly, what survivors held on at the back of it scrabbling away as the Knights of Westeros drove onwards, turning into the flank of the horde.

Robert was at home.

Atop his mighty Destrier, he was the very image of the Warrior himself, smashing aside the unshielded and unarmed wretches that made up the forces of the red cult with ease, each swing of his Warhammer shattered skulls and sent men flying back into their comrades broken and dying, he was a great golden knight in the midst of a sea of enemies, a veritable titan of battle.

And he couldn't keep the smile off of his face.

He couldn't help it, there was just something comforting about facing such a foe, even if Viserys was a disappointment who would not match him head-on, he could at least cut through these chaff as easily as a knife through warm butter. One tried to knife his leg, the man's blade shattered on his armor, and with a swing of the pick side of his Warhammer Robert ripped out the top of the man's skull through his eye, sending gore flying out onto the grass.

This was his home, not that damned old tower or that damned old throne.

He almost wanted to reprimand his Kingsguard, for keeping a perimeter around him so that only a few of the enemy got through, he would rather be in the thick of it like Tarly some hundred feet to his right, swinging that Valyrian greatsword back and forth as if it weighed nothing at all, killing more than one man on each swing.

Ah but then, he was supposed to be a leader too, not just a warrior, and mores the pity for it, he took a moment to survey the battle line, his eyes drawn to where the banners of house stark stood.

He chuckled to himself as he saw that even after receiving the charge of such a mass, his friend and the infantry as a whole were advancing, chopping through the enemy methodically, like butchers slaughtering newborn pigs. It seemed all these cultists do well was…

'Ah.' Robert's eyes traced the battleline, finding the fire across the field, the palm forest starting to come ablaze with light and smoke. 'Not a coward then… just a fool.'

Even if Viserys was, as he thought, striking out around behind their forces with the cavalry, he would find himself hard-pressed to find easy targets. The farmstead and fields at the center of the valley would shutter any charge against the rear of the infantry, and the camp was hardly unguarded, what with Renly and the Knights of the Reach there to guard. By the time the dragon Prince achieved anything his own infantry would be broken, or perhaps even killed to a man if they were half as mad as they appeared to be.

Still, that did not mean that Robert would let him run free.

"TARLY." He bellowed, catching the man's attention, and leading his men over to him, trampling more of the worthless fanatics underfoot as he went until he was right up against the greatsword wielding Reachman.

"Your Grace." The Lord saluted, but could not bow on his horse. "What need do you have of me?"

"The Dragon has shown himself, a snake if not a worm, but one caught in our trap nonetheless. I aim to go join my brother and slay him. See him there, on the hill." Robert raised his Warhammer, gesturing to the black-armored man in the distance, leading a great force of Red armored cavalry but distinct in his black plate and with his blazing sword, coming up on the far left flank out of the back of the palm forest. "You take command here, I'll take the Kingsguard and we'll fight our way out."

It only took a moment for the reached to grasp the situation, nodding firmly. "Aye your grace, go slay your dragon, I'll run these scum back into the ground that spawned them. TO ME MEN."

Robert nodded as the Lord began shouting gesturing to his own Kingsguard to follow.

The dragon would die either way, but given the option, he would end the man himself.

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Sam had been watching the battle below, tracing the progress of his father amongst others, as well as the fire on the left flank, when the call to arms was sounded in the camp as those cavalry left in reserve quickly moved to their mounts. Lord Renly circling the camp with that Valyrian steel ax of his raised high into the air, waving it above his head in circles as it gleamed in the light like a beacon.

At first, he did not see the urgency of it, the battle below was going well, the cult seemed to be being beaten back with little progress, beyond their little fire trick that had driven the archers out into the open on the left flank, but which ultimately didn't seem to do much damage.

Then he cranes his neck further and saw them, riding up the aide of the ridge at a gallop, the cavalry of the red cult. Their armor seemed like he had heard of Qohorish Cataphracts, red lamellar covering their entire bodies, and those of their horses, and they held long lances with still burning sticks of incense worked into their handles. Their helmets had gruesome masks that covered their faces, and many of their horses were decorated with sigils that seemed to smolder even now. At their head rode a knight clad all in black, and the eyes of horse and rider seemed to burn with the same fire that lit his sword, raised brightly at the head of their charge.

'That's Viserys then…' his mind informed him rather stupidly as he realized they were charging towards him, or the camp behind him more specifically, like an army of demons spat straight from the gates of the Seven Hells. Sam found that he could only stand paralyzed and watch as the thundering of their hooves grew louder and the strength of his knees began to fail.

Then, like the calling of heaven, he heard a familiar horn blast from behind him, and the roar of men to charge, and out of the camp came pouring the hosts of the reach, the Knights left to guard the camp riding to their purpose and meeting the charge of the Dragon with their own brave cries, Lord Renly was at their head, as heroic as he had been at the Rhoyne and encased in all the brave panoply that marked him as part of the royal house, though his antlered helm lacked the crown found upon his Brother's.

With a yell shared by his men, the charged began, to great hosts of cavalry moving along the side of the slope against each other, their lances readied.

It was almost like something out of a tale of the wars of old.

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"For Baratheon, For the Seven, For Westeros!" Renly shouted, taking up the great ax that had in many ways become the mark of his heroism at the Rhoyne.

It was different now, this second time, perhaps it was what his brother felt at war, or perhaps it was something different entirely.

Either way, the trickery of Viserys had given him one more chance to show his mettle.

He recalled the morning, when Loras had egged him on, told him to earn enough glory for both of them on the field today, whatever his command, it brought a smile to his face thinking he would have the opportunity to do just that, and in a righteous defense of the innocent in the camp behind him as well.

He hefted the ax up to the sky as he had grown accustomed to doing, a task made easy by the supernatural lightness of its blade and shaft, and in but a moment he brought it down before him, shouting his lungs out with the rest of his men as he issued the charge.

It was a wondrous and glorious thing, and the fearsome appearance of the enemy gave him no pause, for, at the end of it all, he had slain greater beasts, bested a Triarch of Volantis personally. He was not the untested Renly Baratheon who had started this campaign, and he would smash aside this obstacle just like the others, for the fury was his as well as his Brothers'.

With the slope to aid them, the Westerosi crashed down upon the red cult's cavalry, lances sunder in and man and horse both being thrown into the air or smashed to the ground as the sheer impact of the two forces clashed with the fury of a thunderclap, dust choking the air from the very presence of their hoofbeats.

He smiled as the head of his ax cut into the armor of the enemy as if it were parchment, Valyrian steel finding even the workings of Qohor insufficient to hamper it's passing, especially when used in such a large weapon. He marveled too at the ease with which he drew it out of their flesh, hacking his foes apart as if they were carcasses meant to test his blades sharpness, rather than armored enemies.

Oh, a few gave him the trouble of course. These were trained soldiers, elites even, and they fought like madmen, but his weapon was simply superior, batting their aside with ease and cutting his way through despite their skill. He had to pace himself however, for his men did not fare quite so well.

The Knights of the reach were superior no doubt, the charge had shown that especially their armor was simply more effective than the lamellar of their opponents, but the fighting was still brutal in the frontlines, as any clash between heavy cavalry forces was destined to be. Still, his forces were-

With a mighty sound as if the air itself was tearing on a seem, the great conflagration of fire nearly drove him from his horse as he leaned to the side, barely able to avoid it. Seemingly uncaring, it left men of Westeros and Essos both screaming on the ground, charred all over as their own armor cooked them alive, red hot and molten as if it were being forged anew. The horses fared no better, the ones at the center of the blaze near incinerated, screaming and dying. The air was filled with the smell of charred and burning flesh and cloth, and Renly's eyes widened as he saw the source of the conflagration.

The dragon prince sat at the end of a path in the fighting some sixty feet long, and near ten across, clutching his flaming sword above his head, and gesturing in mockery towards Renly, his black play distinctive from his army, and his eyes blazing balls of fire.

For the first time since the battle at the Rhoyne, Renly felt terror smash aside all of that bloodlust, that glory, as he saw the devastation that Viserys had wrought with but a swing of his sword saw those glowing eyes.

The whole battle between the cavalry seemed to freeze around them, none daring to block the path that the fire had opened, not even to help the wounded of either side, who sat there screaming in pain. Even that noise seemed to fade away as Renly felt his blood grow cold, those burning eyes staring into his own like those of a true dragon.

Then he felt the fire return to his own gut, the heat rushing through his blood once again, and he screamed, his spurs drawing blood from the side of his terrified warhorse as he spurred it to battle. It didn't matter what magic this basted brought, he would kill him, sunder his armor and shatter his spine, just as Robert had done at the trident.

His charge seemed to catch the dragon prince entirely off guard, the man barely having time to get his guard up and deflect the ax that Renly very nearly brought down upon his head as their horses clashed, biting at each other in a frenzy of bloodlust. The flaming sword seemed to scream at the bit of Valyrian steel, but it held firm nonetheless.

He could hear the battle resume around them as the blazing eyed prince seemed to regain his control, to recover from the unexpected response, and Renly deflected his next swing with almost contemptuous ease. The Dragon may be strong in sorcery, and even skilled, but his arm was weak. Renly followed through his deflection, shifting his grip on his ax as he tried to deal yet another deathblow, his axe coming down upon the bastard's head.

Only to fall in shock as Viserys sat back in his saddle, the blow instead falling onto the back of his horse, easily digging deep into the creatures back, sending it falling to the ground its knees buckling in pain.

In the time he could process the impossibility of it all, Viserys was already moving, with a grace that seemed nearly impossible for a man in full plate, he had leaped from his stirrups, up onto the back of the falling horse, and pressed his foot onto the handle of Renly's ax, pulling him down from his own saddle.

There was a screeching sound as Renly's gorget was split apart by the flaming sword of the dragon, driving into his neck.

And then Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storms End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, brother to the King on the Iron Throne, Master of Laws and Hero of the Rhoyne, knew no more.

There was no hush following his death, the melee around it and it's suddenness meant that it took the Knights a moment to even realize it had happened, and by then, the dragon prince had already pried their Lord's head from his shoulders and clutched it in his gauntlet as he raised it up above his head, the very fires of his blade spreading into it.

Low and guttural, the tongue of ancient Stygai began to flow from his lips, and the blood that dripped down from Renly's corpse began to burn. The sky above seemed to darken as if the sun itself was shuddering under the presence of that dark tongue, and the inferno of the blood erupted into a pillar of fire, roaring up from the corpse of the slain Baratheon.

The Knights of the reach, so proud mere moments before, drew back, their horses, and indeed many of the men themselves, terrified at the display of furious magic, but the worst was yet to come.

Across the field, wherever the servants of the red god had fallen, fires began to glow in their eyes, red and white, it spread throughout their bodies, blazing in their wounds as it brought them to their feet once more, their blood continues to pour from their walking corpses aflame as they threw themselves at the lines of the Westerosi once more, their frenzied fanaticism once again rekindled in their deaths.

As the Dragon Prince turned to survey his great work, the head and helmet of Renly Baratheon crumbling to ash in his hand, he was distracted by a shout.

He turned, raising his sword once more towards the host of white armored men that had arrived to challenge hid power further. Their leader the crowned stag himself.

The would be dragonslayer had arrived.