Chapter 188: Stormlands—Your Light… Has Arrived!
Before Fallenwood Castle, the winter wind howled.
The sky was a crushing leaden gray, heavy enough to weigh on every heart beneath it.
Using the flat terrain before the castle, the Stormlands coalition—under Sebastian's command—had deployed a textbook defensive formation.
Crude chevaux-de-frise jutted outward like the teeth of some monstrous beast. Behind them stood ranks of pikemen, each gripping spears several meters long. At least one shield-bearer with a massive tower shield guarded every spearman's flank. Further back waited a full thousand archers and crossbowmen in tight formation.
Several thousand troops stood in grim silence, awaiting the enemy's arrival.
Yet right at the very center of this disciplined, ironclad array sat one figure so absurdly out of place that he seemed to mock the very concept of "commanding presence."
Ralph Buckler.
If dignity were a battlefield, this man would already have surrendered.
Moments earlier, three squires had accomplished a feat worthy of storming a city wall—by brute force alone, they had somehow stuffed the Bronzegate Lord's pig-like bulk into his armor.
Each plate looked as though it had been welded directly onto his grotesquely swollen body, the joints stretched to the brink of splitting apart.
Now he perched atop his saddle, his poor warhorse trembling beneath him in the snow, silently bearing a weight no living creature should ever be asked to endure.
In stark contrast stood the heir of Haystack Hall.
Sebastian sat tall and straight as a spear, his armor polished to a mirror sheen, the bright yellow sigil on his chest impossible to miss. Snow and wind battered him relentlessly, yet he remained calm and composed, every inch the gallant young commander.
But beneath that outward poise, his eyes were cold.
They swept again and again toward the northern end of the Kingsroad, his gloved hand unconsciously rubbing the mane of his horse in mounting agitation.
An entire day and night had passed.
Wave after wave of scouts—veterans he had personally selected—had vanished like droplets into the sea. Not a single man had returned. Not one scrap of information.
It was deeply unsettling.
Eight hundred cavalry… how could they vanish so completely within the Stormlands?
Even worse—
Ever since Jon Connington had ridden out with his handpicked force of eight hundred elite Stormlands knights, there had been no news at all.
"Seven hells, this damned weather!"
Ralph's thick, muffled grumbling broke the tension.
"My bones are freezing from the inside out!"
He shifted irritably, his horse whinnying in pain beneath him.
"Kid, what do you think? Those bastards probably pissed themselves over the snow and ran back to King's Landing, eh?"
Sebastian shot him a sidelong glance and said nothing.
That look alone spoke volumes.
If the commander had been the esteemed Lord Buckler himself, retreat would hardly be surprising.
But this was Lance Lot.
That name carried weight.
As one of the most promising knights of his generation, Sebastian burned with ambition—to earn glory, to prove his valor. But he was no fool.
Duskendale.
The Kingswood.
Dorne.
Dragonstone.
The stories surrounding Lance Lot were far too numerous—and far too consistent. Even allowing for exaggeration, there was no chance he was the sort to flee before battle.
"Stay calm. Wait a little longer."
Sebastian rubbed his numb face hard, forcing blood back into it and his thoughts into clarity.
"The storm is fierce. Horses can't move quickly on iced ground."
"But no matter what, we cannot let our guard down—not even for a moment."
He snapped his head around.
"Messenger!"
Turning sharply to his guard, he barked his orders.
"Send five more scouts. High ground on both sides of the Kingsroad—wide visibility!"
"I want to know exactly where Lance Lot and his cavalry are. Now!"
"Yes, my lo—"
The words died in the messenger's throat.
A shout suddenly rang out from the front ranks of the pike formation.
"They're here—!!!"
"Three-headed dragon!!!"
The cry rippled through the army like a shockwave, stirring the once-silent ranks into restless motion.
Sebastian spurred his horse forward at once, charging toward the front. Ralph followed behind, wheezing and yanking on his reins.
Reaching the vanguard, Sebastian pulled his horse to a halt and looked up.
On the Kingsroad—
A formation was emerging, unmistakable and impossible to ignore, marching straight into every soldier's field of vision.
The Stormlands held its breath.
The cavalry's armor gleamed painfully bright, but what truly seized the eye was the white cloak streaming high at the very front—and above it, the banner snapping wildly in the gale.
Against a pitch-black field, a three-headed red dragon roared amid flames.
The sight of that banner instantly erased all of Sebastian's doubts about the enemy's whereabouts—yet his brow only furrowed deeper.
Lance Lot was here.
But where was Jon Connington?
Where were his eight hundred elite riders?
"Ha! Finally!"
Ralph Buckler's excited bellow burst out beside him.
"As long as we kill that bastard Lance Lot, I—Ralph Buckler—will be hailed across the Seven Kingdoms as the greatest knight alive!"
Sebastian turned his horse slightly away, grimacing as spittle flew from the man's mouth, afraid sheer proximity might lower his own intelligence.
Idiot.
You couldn't last two exchanges under Jon Connington, and you think you can kill Lance Lot?
Why not sit the Iron Throne while you're at it?
"Entire army—!"
"Hold your ground! No one advances!"
Swallowing the urge to punch Ralph in the face, Sebastian thrust his fist skyward and roared at the restless ranks:
"Steady! Maintain formation!"
"Pikemen—points outward!"
"Archers and crossbowmen—arrows nocked!"
"Fire only on my command!"
His voice carried absolute authority.
"Our task is simple—hold them here!"
"When Lord Connington strikes from the rear, that's when we crush them!"
"Hold the line!!!"
Messengers and centurions echoed the order in a rolling wave.
"Hold!!!"
"Hold!!!"
Pike shafts slammed into the frozen ground in unison, murderous intent thickening the air once more.
Only then did Sebastian allow himself a shallow breath, eyes locked on the eight hundred Crownlands riders drawing closer along the Kingsroad.
They stopped, just as expected, about five hundred paces away—
Beyond even the finest archer's effective range.
Snow still raged, visibility poor, yet Sebastian could feel it:
A pressure—dense, tangible—radiating from their formation.
In battle, momentum often decided everything.
Then—
"SSS—AAANG—!"
A sharp, piercing cry tore through the storm, descending from the gray heavens without warning.
That sound—
It wasn't a horse.
"What was that?!"
"Look—up there!!!"
"Seven Gods preserve us… what is that?!"
Soldiers lifted their heads in terror.
Through the swirling snow, a dark speck pierced the clouds—circling once, then plunging downward at terrifying speed.
"It's— it's a dragon!!!"
A long neck.
A powerful tail slicing the air.
Ash-gray scales glinting faintly like metal beneath the dim winter light.
The ranks erupted into a roar of awe and dread.
A creature known only from songs and legends—
The weapon with which House Targaryen had conquered the Seven Kingdoms—
Gone for over a century.
And now it flew above them, alive.
Small, yes—but unmistakable.
Fear spread like a plague.
Men fell to their knees, praying aloud to the Seven, foreheads smashing bloody into frozen earth.
Even Lord Ralph collapsed forward on his saddle, shuddering like a terrified infant.
Sebastian himself was shaken to the core—but he reacted instantly.
Morale.
Fear was unraveling everything he'd just rebuilt.
"Up! On your feet! No kneeling!"
He roared, veins bulging.
"It's just a hatchling! It can't do anything to us!"
But words alone couldn't drag men back from terror.
Some kept bowing, skulls cracking open on ice.
"Damn it!"
Sebastian ripped an arrow from his quiver, drew, aimed—
Locked onto the darting gray shape in a heartbeat.
The bow bent to its limit.
TWANG!
The arrow screamed skyward—fast, clean, deadly.
A perfect shot.
Yet at the last instant, the ash dragon twisted in midair, the shaft grazing past its tail by inches.
"SSS—AAANG—!"
A mocking, almost playful cry echoed down.
Rage exploded through Sebastian.
"Archers! Bring it down!!!"
Fear or not, discipline held.
"Draw!"
"Aim high!"
"Loose!!!"
A storm of arrows surged into the sky.
This time, the dragon didn't linger.
With a powerful beat of its wings, it surged upward, arrows stalling helplessly before falling back down.
"Scatter!!!"
Sebastian shouted too late.
The formation was too tight.
Arrows rained down—
Over a hundred men fell screaming, killed by their own volleys before battle had even begun.
Sebastian stared, sick with fury.
He'd forgotten the simplest truth—
What goes up must come down.
And the dragon hadn't left.
It circled again, triumphant, then released something from one claw.
A small, dark red object plummeted.
It struck the snow with a dull thud.
A nearby knight forced himself forward, dismounted, and lifted it—
One look.
His face drained white.
He staggered back, holding it aloft with trembling hands.
Sebastian and Ralph leaned in.
Frozen blackened blood matted crimson hair.
Skin gray with cold and death.
A face once proud, now twisted in agony.
Jon Connington.
Chaos detonated.
"Is this the power of dragons?!"
"Lord Connington is dead!!!"
"My leg—don't step on my leg!!!"
"I want to go home!!!"
Lance Lot watched it all with mild interest.
Pure white armor.
Unmoving.
Eight hundred Crownlands riders arrayed silently behind him.
Fresh from victory, spirits burning hot.
No shouts.
No disorder.
Only eyes—hundreds of them—locked on the collapsing Stormlands line.
Snow seemed to pause.
"About time."
Lance's low voice carried, calm and almost cheerful.
This chaos was his design—
Executed perfectly by Ilyon.
The dragon was still young, but already a flawless aerial reconnaissance weapon.
No scout escaped its gaze.
Lance knew his limits.
He wasn't a great tactician.
He hated micromanagement.
Those maps full of arrows and symbols meant nothing to him.
War wasn't chess.
It was momentum.
One breath.
Then another.
And then it broke.
Charge.
That was his way.
Because Lance Lot was—
The spear.
He raised a gloved hand and pulled down his visor for the first time since entering the Stormlands.
Death was coming.
"Knights."
His voice wasn't loud—but it reached everyone.
Eight hundred helms snapped forward.
Dawn lifted slightly in his left hand.
The black Valyrian greatsword sank low to the right.
"Time to dance."
"Hrrrreee!!!"
At his signal, eight hundred riders surged forward as one—
No feints.
No hesitation.
White steel became the spearhead, slamming into the Stormlands host.
"Hold!!! Hold the line!!!"
Sebastian screamed, forcing his voice steady.
Pikes trembled, braced—
Then the white knight vaulted the obstacles effortlessly.
Black and white blades crossed.
Fire erupted.
And in that blazing instant, the truth was proclaimed:
Stormlands—
your light…
has arrived.