your comment make me happy
read full story in patreon : CaveLeather
only for 9$
Red Ronnet sheathed his sword and looked around at the wreckage. Routed soldiers bolted in every direction while bodies lay twisted in the mud, some still twitching, most already cooling. These men had been his brothers-in-arms that morning. Now they were the enemy he hated most.
Picking the wrong side cost more than most men could pay.
He thought of Ser Barristan Selmy, the old Lord Commander who led their army. During Robert's Rebellion, Barristan had cut down half a dozen of the Usurper's closest friends on the battlefield, fighting for the Targaryens right up to the last bloody minute. Wounded and captured, he should have lost his head. Instead Robert ordered the maesters to save him. Once he healed, Barristan took the pardon, pulled the white cloak back on, and served the king who had destroyed his old one. Not a single lord in the Seven Kingdoms called him a turncoat. People still spoke his name like it was holy. The story of Barristan and Robert had become legend.
Red Ronnet had been nine years old when it happened.
Because his cousin Jon backed the wrong horse, House Connington went from earls to landed knights overnight. Lands stripped, titles gutted, honor pissed away. From that day on, Red Ronnet had been obsessed with one thing: learning exactly when to jump ship.
He never quite got the timing right.
He'd abandoned his sick father and his castle, spent every last dragon raising troops for the Iron Throne, and still people whispered he was a weather vane. That red beard of his? Traitor's flag. One day he'd switch sides again and they'd hang him by it from the battlements.
Red Ronnet had been swallowing that bitterness for years.
The king hadn't shorted him, though. He'd expected maybe a few villages back. Instead Joffrey Baratheon stood in front of every lord at court and gave him back every acre his family had ever held—plus a few extra parcels thrown in for good measure. Swore it on the gods themselves.
Red Ronnet's bastard son was roughly the king's age. Folks said the boy had a vicious streak. Red Ronnet had been quietly proud.
Then he met Joffrey in person and understood what real command looked like—sharp, decisive, and a man who kept his word without a single ounce of bullshit.
No wonder his father, even while dying, still spoke Robert's name with nothing but gratitude.
The day King's Landing was saved, Joffrey had walked the lines himself, pouring wine for every man who'd fought and clinking cups until his arm must have ached. Red Ronnet had been three sheets to the wind, but the king stayed sober the whole night. He remembered every face. He remembered every promise.
"You're Ronnet, right?" Joffrey had said. "Stormlands are on you now. Ride with Ser Barristan. Do good work. When this war's over, your reward's waiting."
Red Ronnet's tongue had gone dead in his mouth. All he could do was nod.
The assignment suited him. Barristan Selmy was the knight he'd wanted to be since he was a boy—ten years old borrowing armor for a tourney, sixteen beating Ser Duncan the Tall, twenty-three joining the Kingsguard, four kings served and not one stain on the white cloak.
Thanks to Joffrey, Red Ronnet finally had his chance to learn from the best.
Two months later he still hadn't learned a goddamn thing.
Renly had stripped the Stormlands bare of real fighting men. The garrison left behind had no commander, and the lords couldn't agree on one. Barristan had simply rolled south along the kingsroad, taking castles as he went, then stopped. No legendary charges. No songs worth singing. Just steady, boring progress.
Red Ronnet had begged to take three hundred men through the hidden trails at Griffin's Roost, swing around the rainwood, and hit Storm's End from behind. Barristan turned him down flat and stuck him on supply duty instead.
Supply runs. Servant work. No glory, no loot, no chance to make a name. And every straggler left from the routed Stormlands army treated the wagons like free meat. They hit and ran, hit and ran, vanishing back into the kingswood like rats.
Nobody trusted him yet. That much was obvious.
Barristan had seen the resentment and called it out plain.
"The king trusts you," the old knight said. "That's why I'm putting the army's life in your hands. We don't need more killers right now. We need men who are loyal, careful, and reliable."
It helped. A little.
But Red Ronnet was still a fighter. Those stragglers kept biting. Barristan didn't seem worried, but Red Ronnet knew they'd be poison if left alone.
He laid out his plan. Barristan gave him full authority on the spot.
Red Ronnet picked three hundred of the toughest bastards from the supply train, dressed them as porters, and spread the word that a fat grain convoy was rolling along the edge of the kingswood. The enemy took the bait without thinking twice.
Now the field was quiet. Red Ronnet hauled Ser Dermot upright by the collar.
The hedge knight from the rainwood had a reputation in the Stormlands. They'd crossed swords once before.
"Ser, even you turned to banditry?"
Dermot's eyes flicked left, right, anywhere but Red Ronnet's face. "We yield. We surrender, Ser Ronnet. We had no choice."
"Prisoners eat?" Dermot licked cracked lips and glanced at the nearest wagon. "Wine would be even better."
"Depends how much you know." Red Ronnet dropped him back into the mud.
Word had already reached them. King Joffrey had taken Goldengrove and was now hammering Highgarden with a massive host. The Kingslayer had just collected a fresh load of supplies and was racing east along the Mander under cover of darkness.
Joffrey had learned Renly was sailing straight for Lannisport. He knew the real fight was coming, so he'd told Barristan to pull whatever troops he could spare.
Red Ronnet wanted to be there when it happened.
That was why he'd set this trap—to squeeze a prisoner for fresh intelligence on enemy movements.
Dermot's eyes kept darting. Finally he muttered, "I don't know anything."
"Bullshit. How many more of you are still hiding in the kingswood?"
"Don't know."
Red Ronnet's boot came down on a severed finger without him noticing.
"I know, I know—fuck! There's at least three more bands. I'll take you straight to them."
Highgarden.
Joffrey broke the seal on the raven scroll and read it twice before handing it to Eddard.
"The Stormlands have no organized forces left," he said. "But Ser Barristan won't make it in time."
Eddard's face stayed grim.
"Renly's army is already marching south through the night."