Loras Tyrell stared across the battlefield with hungry eyes.
Banners snapped in the wind. Spears bristled like a forest. Armor flashed in the morning light.
This was the moment he had pictured a thousand times in his dreams.
Thousands of knights waited behind him.
The tall white tower of House Arryn. The red-clad hunters of House Royce. The gleaming red-and-gold fox of House Florent. Every banner belonged to an ancient house.
Loras stood at the very front, a blooming golden rose above his head.
House Tyrell was old and proud, yet they had never ruled the Reach as kings. Only after Aegon's Conquest had they been granted Highgarden. Some families still whispered that the Tyrells were nothing but upjumped stewards who did not deserve the seat of power.
Loras would shut their mouths with this single charge.
The Vale cavalry waited just across the field.
Their iron-blue armor looked dull and lifeless. Mountain ponies stood shorter, their coats rough and shaggy compared to the tall, gleaming warhorses of the Reach.
The Reach knights were a river of gold, green, and crimson. Their mounts were massive, manes and tails groomed to perfection, draped in bright caparisons.
On looks alone, the difference was obvious.
Renly had said the Vale cavalry was the allied army's sharpest blade. Break it here and Eddard Stark would have no chance to pursue them.
The task had been given to Loras—the one man Renly trusted most.
"I've crossed lances with Bronze Yohn at half a dozen tourneys," Renly had told him before the battle. "He looks stern, but he's proud underneath. He won't sit still for long."
"Lead the cavalry charge. Hit the Vale knights hard. Make it look like you're overextending. Draw Yohn out of his defensive line."
"Once their flank is exposed, our infantry will hit them from the side and grind them to dust."
Loras had not bothered questioning the plan. Renly was never wrong.
The truth was simple: they had more men and thicker armor. In a close fight the Vale men would not last long.
A thin mist still clung to the sea. Paxter Redwyne's fleet waited just offshore, hidden.
When the fighting reached its peak, the ships would strike Jaime Lannister from behind.
The horns sounded. Both lines surged forward.
The Kingslayer was hidden somewhere in the rear. Loras would not get the chance to cross swords with him today. A pity.
It did not matter. Plenty of other opponents waited.
Loras spurred his horse and charged.
---
"For Renly! For Highgarden!"
The enemy was on him in what felt like a heartbeat.
Time slowed.
Loras's lance punched through a Vale knight's sky-blue breastplate and into his heart. He dropped the broken shaft and drew his sword.
This was no tourney.
No judges. No rules. No polite surrender and helping hand afterward.
Yet Loras felt something he had chased for years on the tourney grounds but never truly found.
Blood burned in his veins. A fierce, soaring sense of purpose filled his chest.
Prove his courage. Win glory. Become legend.
He would be remembered alongside Ser Ryam Redwyne and the Dragonknight.
He would be the new Ser Galladon of Morne, riding with a shining mirror-shield, or the knight who slew a giant and rescued a princess.
Nothing could stop him.
One stroke. Another.
Loras lost all sense of time.
In the heat of battle he suddenly realized his own infantry was charging toward him from the opposite direction.
He looked around. At some point the lines had shifted.
The Vale cavalry had broken exactly as planned, driven back into their own infantry.
The Reach foot soldiers had to run farther to close the distance.
A few arrows clattered off his silver armor and fell harmlessly to the ground.
He was not worried. His horse wore plate barding.
It was not full coverage—too heavy for a long fight—but it was enough.
Loras wheeled his mount into the press of bodies, shielding himself from the archers.
The enemy reserves began to move. The Kingslayer's roaring lion banner drove into the center of the field.
At that exact moment, rows of masts rose from the western sea.
Renly had been right. The fleet had arrived on time.
Loras smiled.
Then a horn blared from the east.
Not friends.
Loras turned.
Legends always said heroes appeared on white horses with armies at their backs.
What stepped out of the mist and smoke was a massive white stag, antlers like a crown, carrying a single knight.
Loras stared, forgetting he was in the middle of a battle.
War had never been about glory.
---
Balon Swann had seen too much death and loss on his way here.
He was the second son. No inheritance.
He had skill with a blade, so he had ridden a thousand miles to King's Landing hoping to make his name at court.
He had not won much glory at the tourney. His proud archery had even been bested by some commoner.
Still, his performance had caught Prince Joffrey's eye.
"Interested in joining the City Watch?" the prince had asked back then.
"My father ignores the mess in this city, but I won't let it rot. I need honest men to clean up the Gold Cloaks."
"Ser Balon, will you help me?"
It had sounded like a good post. But Balon had not known Joffrey well.
The Gold Cloaks were a snake pit. He feared becoming collateral in some power struggle.
"Of course this is sudden," the prince had said with a smile. "Take a training post in the Red Keep for now. We have plenty of time to get to know each other."
It had seemed safe. Balon had not wanted to offend the royal family, so he had accepted.
He had walked straight into the trap.
Soon after, Balon found himself captain of the Steel Gate guard with a company of fresh Gold Cloaks under him.
Commander Janos Slynt, already failing in health, had personally come to threaten him and tell him to get out while he still could.
Balon had wanted to resign. But Prince Joffrey had left on the Vale campaign and then kept finding excuses not to see him, sending only the Hound with messages.
Then came the hunt. The assassination attempt. The war. One disaster after another.
Then the fire.
That terrible fire.
After he had been burned, Balon felt something inside him settle.
It did not matter what job he did. Why overthink everything? One day at a time. Do your duty and survive.
Then King Joffrey had spoken to him.
War is cruel, the king had said. It is nothing but pointless slaughter, a tool the powerful use to sacrifice the weak for their own gain.
But King Joffrey had also said something else.
Only by winning quickly and ending the war can true peace ever come.
Balon had been confused again.
He did not know if the words were true, so he had plied the Hound with wine and asked.
"Go fuck yourself," the Hound had growled. "Why think so hard?"
"Listen to me. Around these people, the less you think, the longer you live."
"I'm not saying obey every order like a dog. Just stop trying to guess the game behind the game."
"Trust me. I've been around longer than you."
Fine. He would listen to the old hand.
Balon had assumed that after riding all this way they would charge straight in to save their allies who were clearly losing.
But the king had ordered them to rest first.
So they rested.
The white stag waited in the mist like judgment itself.
Balon Swann tightened his grip on his sword and waited for the order he knew would come.