Stone Hedge erupted into chaos as terror seized the sleeping camp like a giant's fist.
The sentries and outriders who should have given warning lay silent in the darkness, their throats cut or their necks twisted before they could cry alarm. The main host, roused from slumber by the thunder of hooves and clash of steel, found themselves facing a tide of hardened cavalry that seemed to pour from the very bowels of the earth.
The patrols scattered between the camps became the first sacrifice upon war's altar.
Though most died in confusion, never understanding what force had descended upon them, they at least purchased their comrades precious moments with their blood—a warning written in screams and the ring of steel on steel.
Sound became a living thing that night.
The drum-roll of iron-shod hooves, the crash of man and horse in violent collision, the tooth-aching screech of blade grinding against blade, the wavering calls of horns and war drums, the cries of men filled with every emotion from rage to terror—all wove together into the great symphony that was battle.
Soldiers jerked awake to find their world transformed. Where darkness should have reigned, eerie light bathed the camp in shades of silver and gold.
Was this not the deepest hour of night? When had the sun returned?
Panic and mortal dread drove them to clutch at whatever weapons lay within reach, to wrap themselves in any scrap of steel or leather that might turn a blade. As though such paltry protection could truly shield them from what came.
Shhh—
Warhorses thundered past their tents, horizontal blades slicing through canvas and leather like knives through silk, splitting shelters nearly in two. The same fate awaited any man foolish enough to stand in their path.
Through the fresh-cut gaps, they glimpsed the hell that had erupted around them.
Several bright stars fell slowly from the heavens, transforming night into blazing day and revealing the chaos that had consumed their world. Camps blazed like funeral pyres, cavalry flitted through the flames like shadows given form, like creatures spawned from nightmare itself.
Those who bore the stag of Baratheon or the various roses of the Reach either died beneath sword and hoof, threw down their arms in surrender, wailed like lost children, stood frozen as deer before wolves, or cowered in whatever dark corners they could find.
Strange black spheres arced through the air, exploding with white-hot fury that shattered any obstacle in the cavalry's path. Wood and stone and iron alike crumbled before such terrible alchemy.
The attacking horse seemed intent on some mad race, caring only to drive forward with maximum speed. Those who avoided the destriers' path found themselves unmolested; only those who blocked—whether by design or ill fortune—faced the kiss of steel or the embrace of alchemical fire.
Was this the moment to choose sides?
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Each thunderous boom shook the very foundations of the earth, while brilliant colors exploded across the star-drunk sky like flowers blooming in gardens of light.
They were images and words painted upon the heavens themselves.
In the magical firmament above, King Renly's smile appeared—a expression so cold and calculating it chilled the blood of all who beheld it. His smirk was directed at a savage beast that gnawed upon a royal crown with bloody fangs.
Those blessed with letters saw the accusation written in letters of fire:
Renly conspired to usurp the throne, colluding with Bloodraven and other traitors to murder King Robert, slandering the legitimacy of His Majesty Joffrey, dragging the Seven Kingdoms into bloody war for his own selfish ambition—a sin beyond all forgiveness!
A voice like rolling thunder, emanating from everywhere and nowhere, boomed across the battlefield: "You must immediately recognize the true nature of Renly's treachery! Abandon darkness and embrace the light, and you may yet earn His Majesty's mercy!"
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Another horrifying tableau blazed across the sky, accompanied by lines of stern accusation and passages of majestic condemnation.
The cycle repeated without end, each repetition driving the message deeper into minds already shaken by battle and sorcery.
The soldiers had never witnessed such otherworldly warfare. Lost and bewildered, they turned instinctively to their officers for guidance, for some anchor in this storm of magic and steel.
The mid-ranking officers proved little better than their men.
Some abandoned all pretense of honor at the first opportunity, either dropping to their knees in surrender or simply tearing away Renly's stag, proclaiming themselves loyal servants of King Joffrey's righteous cause.
Others found themselves torn between life and duty, paralyzed by the weight of impossible choices.
A brave few bit back their fear and ordered attacks, but their first attempts to rally their men were scattered by the charging cavalry. They died beneath hooves and blades, or by the swords of their own soldiers who had chosen survival over loyalty.
Still others decided to believe everything the magical sky proclaimed.
The high-ranking commanders burned to counterattack, but most found themselves trapped within Stone Hedge itself, cut off from their scattered forces.
The defeat beyond the walls had already become inevitable.
The enemy's sudden assault, coupled with the swift collapse of the patrol system that should have provided early warning, meant that although the rebel host outnumbered their attackers, they had become nothing more than scattered sheep before wolves in the darkness.
Moreover, their foes possessed strange means to shatter morale and fighting spirit. How many would find the courage to resist such supernatural terror?
Yet fortune favored the rebels in one small regard.
The sprawling camps beyond Stone Hedge's walls absorbed much of the enemy's initial fury, buying precious time for the nearly twenty thousand troops sheltering within the town itself.
Ser Jon Fossoway, veteran of a dozen campaigns, immediately began barking orders for his men to form ranks.
Despite the panic that gripped every heart and the confusion that clouded every mind, the soldiers gradually responded to their officers' shouted commands. Slowly, grudgingly, they resumed something resembling military formation and readiness.
Before they could complete their preparations, the enemy arrived.
"Shield wall! Pike formation! Archers, prepare for volleys! Ballista crews, find your targets!" Ser Jon's voice cut through the chaos like a blade through silk.
Twenty thousand men began to move with the ponderous inevitability of a great machine grinding into motion.
The Blackfish knew Ser Jon's intentions before most of the Reach soldiers had even heard their commands.
"All units halt! Holy Warriors, advance!"
Ser Brynden's choice mirrored that of every other royal commander. What fool would leave such perfect weapons unused while risking the lives of ordinary men?
Several thousand cavalry drew rein as one, leaving only a few hundred to continue the charge.
Ser Jon Fossoway could not hide his confusion. What manner of strategy was this? Neither committing the full force nor halting the assault entirely—what could a few hundred men hope to accomplish against twenty thousand?
The situation remained too chaotic for him to properly assess his enemies. But he would learn soon enough, along with twenty thousand pairs of watching eyes.
Arrows, ballista bolts, swords, and even the great stones hurled by hastily-deployed catapults failed to leave so much as a scratch upon these advancing demons. For what else could they be called, if not demons born from the Seven Hells themselves?
In that moment, all the "rumors" that commanders had worked so desperately to suppress exploded through the ranks like wildfire through dry grass, carrying with them a terror more complete than any mere defeat could inspire.
The Holy City! Divine grace! Light and fire! Resurrection and creation!
Every impossible tale from King's Landing suddenly blazed with new credibility in the minds of men who had seen arrows shatter against human flesh without drawing blood.
At that moment, their solid shield wall—seemingly immovable as a mountain—revealed itself as fragile as spun glass, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.
The Blackfish had never doubted their victory, but seeing the expressions of dawning horror upon enemy faces filled him with fierce joy.
"Ser Jaime, have the artillery intensify their efforts."
The Kingslayer turned toward the cannon crews positioned on the hills and pointed toward the ancient keep that crowned Stone Hedge's heart. "No one shelters there any longer. Destroy it. Stone Hedge has no need of a castle."
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Whistling death flew over the heads of twenty thousand Coalition soldiers, causing countless men to duck and countless pupils to contract with terror.
Many turned to flee before the projectiles had even struck their target.
A tremendous shock wave erupted from the town's center as the stone-built fortress—seat of House Foote for three centuries—crumbled into rubble and ruin.
White mist billowed upward like steam from some underground spring suddenly released.
"No! My castle!" Lord Lymond Foote screamed as though he had lost everything he held dear in this world.
Ser Jon Fossoway shook his head grimly. At such a moment, who could spare thought for mere stones? It seemed doubtful they would escape with their very lives.
The Blackfish smiled like a man well-pleased with his work. "Charge."
Once again, the thunderous voice boomed from the magical array: "Those who persist in foolish resistance will face even harsher judgment! Cease this futile struggle immediately, and His Majesty the King may yet grant his divine forgiveness!"
The Blackfish's vanguard advanced like the tide itself—inexorable, unstoppable, and utterly without mercy.
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