Dragonlord Chapter 166: Dragon vs Stag P2

Dark rainclouds boiled above the Stormlands as thunder rolled over Bronzegate. Rain lashed the battlements, streaming from the bronze-hued walls of House Buckler’s castle. From its towers, Lord Ralph Buckler gazed down upon the field below, where banners of Stormlords rippled in the gale.

Renly Baratheon had come. His army sprawled across the wet meadows, a sea of spears and shields, armour glinting dully in the rain. At their head rode Ser Barristan Selmy, wrapped in the white cloak of the Kingsguard, his white armour gleaming like a beacon.

And on the southern road, through the mire of churned earth, came another host: Dornish banners, red suns and spears, the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen and other Dornish houses snapping in the wind. Sellswords rode in bright silks now dulled by rain, and behind them streamed thousands of Dornish levies, spears bristling like a thorn hedge.

The battle would be fought beneath Bronzegate’s walls.

Within the gatehouse, Renly stood with Lord Ralph and Ser Barristan.

“They will come for your walls,” Renly said. “Aegon cannot afford to leave Bronzegate standing.”

Lord Ralph thumped his gauntlet against his breastplate.

“Bronzegate has never fallen, my lord. I’ll not yield one stone while breath remains in me.” Lord Ralph said with confidence.

“It will not come to that,” Barristan said quietly.

He unbuckled his gauntlets, running calloused hands along the grip of his longsword.

“We must meet them on the field. If we leave Aegon and the Dornish to encircle the castle, the gates will be battered down before the day is done. We sally forth, join our strength, and fight them here, where Buckler men may ride at our side.”

“Isn’t it better to force the Dornish to siege the castle?” Renly asked curiously.

“It might’ve been, but we must think of the Golden Company as well, my lord. Also, we will have reinforcements promised by Lord Sebastian Errol from Haystack Hall. There is a good chance we can encircle the Dornish army and finish them for good.” Ser Barristan explained.

Renly nodded once there was broad agreement from the Stormlords.

“So be it! Let Aegon learn the cost of playing at conquest.”

******

The horns came before noon. From the south marched the Dornish host with Martell and Targaryen banners in prominence. At their head rode Prince Oberyn and Aegon Targaryen.

“They come at last,” Renly shouted, his smile sharp as a blade beneath the beard. “Shall we greet them in the field and let them taste Stormlander steel?”

The men roared in approval.

“Shall we drench our lands in the accursed blood of the Dornishmen?” Renly shouted again.

Once again, the men roared in agreement.

In that moment, Renly felt like his elder brother. He had grown up with men singing tales of his brother Robert’s valour and battle prowess. He felt it was now his time to show the seven kingdoms he was just as capable as his brother. It was now his time to cloak himself in glory.

“Charge!” Renly shouted, jabbing his sword straight at the enemy host.

Horns thundered. Gates creaked wide.

From Bronzegate poured Buckler knights, shields bright with twin axes painted on them as they rode hard. They joined Renly’s host in a great wedge before the castle, the rain slashing against their helms and armour.

Across the field, Oberyn Martell urged his horse forward, spear gleaming, his dark eyes alight with savage mirth.

“Come then, little stag!” he cried, voice carrying above the clash of steel. “Come dance with the Red Viper!”

Aegon Targaryen rode beside him, sword unsheathed, his sword hungry for blood. His violet eyes were cold, his jaw set.

“No quarter,” he told his men. “Break them here, and the Stormlands are ours.”

The hosts surged together.

Arrows fell in black swarms, rattling against shields, punching through mail. Men screamed and toppled, trampled into the muck as the lines collided with a crash like thunder. Spears splintered, swords flashed, rain and blood mingled in the muddy terrain of the land, turning the battlefield into a bloody melee where both armies killed each other in droves.

Aegon cut a path through the melee, his sword whistling in great arcs. He split shields, clove helms, and drove men back with the ferocity of his assault.

“Forward!” he bellowed, voice carrying across the battlefield.

Around him, knights sworn to his cause pressed in, their helms glistening with rain and the blood of their enemies.

They drove into Renly’s line, cutting a swath of death.

Oberyn fought like a man possessed. His spear darted, thrusting and withdrawing faster than eyes could follow, skewering foes through visor and throat. He wheeled his horse through the press, his laughter wild, exultant.

“For vengeance!” he cried, blood slicking his weapon.

The melee turned bloodier as Oberyn committed the Dornish levies into the bloody melee. The battlefield turned into a mass butchery of men as both sides tried their best to kill each other.

But Renly’s men did not falter.

At their head rode Renly himself, clad in green plate, an antlered helm on his head, swinging his sword every now and then at the enemies that managed to breach the knights surrounding him protectively.

By his side rode Ser Barristan Selmy, white cloak sodden, blade flashing with measured grace. He turned aside blow after blow, cutting down foes with precision unseen in a man his age, his presence steady as bedrock amid the chaos of the battlefield.

Again and again, Aegon’s charge drove at them, and again and again Barristan was there, parrying, countering, holding the line. His voice rang clear amidst the storm of steel.

“Stand fast! Hold the line!”

The sight of him heartened men who might otherwise have fled.

From the eastern parts of the woods, Lord Sebastian Errol saw his fellow Stormlanders wavering under the relentless Dornish press. With a curse, he spurred from the woods, his bronze-hued armour glimmering like fire under stormlight. His sword rose and fell, rallying his garrison to his side.

“For the Stormlands!” he roared. “With me!”

The Errol knights crashed into the Dornish flank, hacking and slashing. Their sudden charge bought breathing space, and the Dornish line buckled, wavering.

For a heartbeat, it seemed the tide might turn in Aegon’s favour—until Barristan’s horn sounded. Stormlander reserves surged in, striking the overextended Dornish. The melee churned into chaos, mud sucking at boots, men locked in death-grip struggles.

Aegon was not blind to the change in initiative. He knew the chances of suffering great losses if the battle continued uninterrupted. So, he spurred his horse and knights straight towards Renly to cut off the head of the enemy to win the battle.

After relentlessly cutting a bloody swathe through the storm of battle, Aegon found Renly’s group.

“Usurper’s brother! Fight me instead of hiding behind the steel of real men.” Aegon challenged.

Renly’s laughter rang harshly as their swords clashed.

“You are a boy with a stolen name!” His mace hammered down, shattering Aegon’s shield, numbing his arm.

They circled, traded blows, clashing with fury. For a heartbeat, the battle seemed to shrink to only the two of them, the dragon and the stag locked in deadly struggle.

Aegon grinned and renewed his efforts to bring Renly down. He increased the pace of his swings and suddenly fainted, stabbing at the belly where the armour was weak at the joints. Naturally, Renly went to defend, but Aegon changed tactics and slashed inside the wrists of the Lord of Storm’s End.

Renly reeled back at the flare of pain, and his hold on the sword slacked.

Aegon made to capitalise on the weakness of his enemy and moved in for the kill. But Barristan Selmy was suddenly there, his white blade intercepting Aegon’s sword, his voice urgent.

“My lord, fall back! The line is failing!” Ser Barristan shouted as he pushed Aegon away.

“Traitor! Turn cloak!” Aegon snarled as he rained down blow after blow at the traitorous knight who betrayed his vows to House Targaryen.

Renly cursed, but obeyed, spurring his horse away under Barristan’s guard. Aegon lunged, but knights closed around Renly, dragging him back to safety. The chance was gone, and that made him enraged.

His blows became harsher as he channelled all the grief, desperation, powerlessness and loss that haunted him for years into his sword. He battered relentlessly at Barristan until he managed to lock swords, and with a twist of his wrist, he managed to disarm Ser Barristan.

Ser Barristan’s eyes flew open in surprise, but Aegon was far more surprised than even the man touted as the Bold.

However, that surprise didn’t stay Aegon’s hand for long.

His sword hand moved like lightning. He struck Barristan down with the flat of his blade, straight into the helmet. When the man fell on the floor, he drove the tip of his sword through the small gap he saw in the armour.

His sword met some resistance as he suspected there was some mail beneath the armour. Nonetheless, he saw blood.

But before he could celebrate, he saw a young black-haired boy charging him with a hammer.

Aegon pulled his sword free and met the boy head-on. But the force of the blow from the hammer was such that his sword simply broke in two. The remaining piece of steel in the pommel was twisted beyond recognition and useless.

The boy let out a rage-filled yell and swung hard again. This time, Aegon saw his death flash before his eyes, but he was tackled to the ground by one of his knights and took the blow in his stead.

Aegon shook as thick red blood splattered on his face. The sickening crack of bones and skull crushing under the weight of the blow echoed in his ears, making his entire body shiver. His limbs grew cold as he stared at the sight of the knight who died in his stead. There was blood everywhere, and the knight’s face was unrecognisable as only some fragments of the skull were left above the neck, and the rest was blood and mangled flesh.

Somehow, he was taken away from the field of battle by men, but his eyes remained on the monstrous boy who was continuing to kill soldiers and knights with each blow of his hammer.

Aegon felt numb as he watched the carnage of battle around him, and it was then that he noticed the dead piling up around him.

The things he did for the last few weeks and the death that now surrounded him finally took its toll on Aegon as the world around him spun. Then he knew no more.

******

By dusk, the field was a slaughterhouse. Rain washed the blood into rivers of red mud. Piles of dead marked where the lines had held longest.

The Dornish had fought savagely, but Bronzegate still stood, its gates unbroken, its lord unbowed. Renly’s host held the ground, bloodied but unbroken. As the last vestiges of light retreated from the sky, plunging the land into the dark, the Stormlanders retreated behind the walls of Bronzegate.

At last, Prince Oberyn gave the signal ending the battle.

Horns brayed, and the Dornish host withdrew, step by step, dragging their wounded, leaving their dead. Oberyn spat curses, his spear dripping.

“Not victory,” he snarled, “but not defeat either.”

The sheer numbers of the dead and the chaos of battle made it impossible to judge who won. It was then that Oberyn happened to learn Aegon was wounded on the battlefield. He rushed to the tent where Aegon was held with his heart pounding in his ears.

To his relief, his nephew was wide awake and sitting up while a maester was dressing a wound on his shoulder.

“Nephew, I’m glad to see you awake and whole.” Oberyn said with relief.

“I nearly died. I should’ve died.” Aegon said with a distant look.

Oberyn frowned, noticing the glassy look in his nephew’s amethyst eyes.

“The men tell me you slew Ser Barristan in single combat. It is no small feat.” Oberyn tried to prop up his nephew’s confidence.

Aegon’s eyes were shadowed as he stared out of the tent in the direction of the battlefield.  

“This battle will not end with Barristan’s death. Besides, I don’t know whether the man is dead. We never recovered his body.” Aegon said blandly.

Aegon glared at nothing in particular.

He aimed to take Renly prisoner or even kill the brother of the usurper. Ser Barristan’s death, while satisfactory, was still nothing much of a noteworthy feat as far as the battle was concerned. His plan of destroying House Baratheon's hold over the Stormlands failed, and that was the truth.

“You diminish what we accomplished today, nephew. Renly is now forced to hide inside the gates of Bronzegate. Our plan was never focused solely on capturing Renly. As we speak, the Golden Company under Harry Strickland marches for Storm’s End.” Oberyn said as he plopped himself on a seat and poured himself some wine.

“It doesn’t matter whether Strickland puts Storm’s End to siege or joins us to break Bronzegate. It’ll take another month for our forces to breach the gates of Bronzegate as they’re well provisioned and bolstered by Renly’s army.” Aegon observed.

“You underestimate the Dornish army, nephew. We can break the walls of Bronzegate.” Oberyn said confidently, but Aegon didn’t share that optimism.

“We’ve not taken the Wendwater Bridge. It means Renly can ask for more troops from his brother.” Aegon hissed as the maester finished threading the wound on his shoulder before cleaning it with hot water. “This battle – it was no victory.”

Aegon smacked the table beside him in frustration with his good arm.

The tension inside the tent rose sharply, mirroring the dark mood consuming Aegon. Guilt weighed him more than victory. He had compromised his honour by displacing the smallfolk and burning their homes in hopes of a crushing victory. He consoled himself by justifying that a swift victory would bring an end to the war, and the smallfolk could rest easy.

But now, suffering defeat, he saw the futility of his actions. The smallfolk of Felwood had suffered at his hands in vain as he failed to achieve his goal of capturing Renly and soundly defeating the Baratheon army.

‘I should’ve listened to my heart instead of advice from Jon and Prince Oberyn.’ Aegon thought morosely.

“Where is Connington?” Oberyn asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence in the tent.

“Jon went to scout ahead. He claimed he needed to get in contact with Varys’ little birds.” Aegon said.

For the next two days, the battlefield remained eerily quiet, the corpses of men and horses alike rotting in the no-man’s-land before Bronzegate’s gates. Neither side was willing to throw their men into battle after the initial bloodletting.

It was now a stalemate where both sides cautiously eyed the other for movement. The sad fact was that Aegon no longer had the strength to surround Bronzegate from all sides unless he was willing to risk Renly’s forces rushing out from a random gate and picking off his forces one by one. There were far too many injured in their camps, and they needed time to heal.

At the same time, he had men engaged in the construction of siege engines.

Therefore, Aegon and Oberyn positioned their host firmly to the south of Bronzegate.

Inside a grand striped pavilion, Aegon bent over a map of the Stormlands. His pale hair shone in the torchlight as he traced the painted rivers and roads with one gloved finger.

Beside him, Prince Oberyn Martell lounged against a carved chair, a cup of wine in hand, eyes alight with restless fire. The Red Viper looked less like a nobleman of House Martell and more like a hunter, eager to strike at prey that lingered just beyond his spear’s reach.

Aegon straightened, the tension in his shoulders betraying the toll that was taking on his mind because of the war.

“Renly grows cautious,” he said, voice measured. “He holds back his strength behind Bronzegate’s walls, yet he cannot sit idle forever. Not with the smallfolk begging for relief from war, not with his vassals clamouring for battle.”

“Rather strange of him to be this cautious, isn’t it? I’d have expected him to lead a few sorties out of the castle chasing glory.” Oberyn said casually.

“You know his character?” Aegon raised an eyebrow at his uncle.

“Renly is a gloryhound with subpar skills in combat or strategy who seeks to emulate the feats of the Usurper.” Oberyn said with a dismissive wave.

“Hmm. Then my guess is right. Ser Barristan survived the battle and seems to be whispering caution into Renly’s ears.” Aegon said with gritted teeth.

“Or it could be Ralph Buckler or any one of his Stormlords who counsels him so, nephew. Not all Stormlanders are simpletons.” Oberyn said with a snort of laughter.

It was then that the tent flap burst open, and a figure entered swiftly, travel-stained and heavy with dust.

Jon Connington strode forward with the bearing of a man who had not stopped to rest for days. His red hair was matted with sweat, his cloak torn, but his presence commanded instant silence.

“Jon, you’re back!”

Nothing could temper the relief he felt at the moment of seeing his foster father back by his side. He had worried rightly so when no word came from Jon, who had ridden off to gods knows where on some scouting mission to find Varys’ little birds.

“My prince,” Connington said, bowing lightly before Aegon, though his voice was urgent. “Prince Oberyn. I bring tidings you must hear at once.”

Aegon gestured sharply.

“Speak, Jon. What news?”

Connington’s green eyes glinted with excitement.

“The Tyrells have moved. Ser Garlan Tyrell has seized the Wendwater Bridge, cutting the Stormlands from King’s Landing. The Rose has sent its thorns to bite into the stag’s hide.”

Oberyn’s brows lifted, the wine forgotten in his hand.

“The Wendwater Bridge? That far east already?” Oberyn asked, to which Jon only nodded.

“Ser Garlan marches south, his host poised to fall upon Renly’s rear.” Jon added.

“But how?” Aegon asked with wide eyes. “The last we heard, the Tyrells were dancing on their toes around their bannermen because of House Florent.”

“You can thank Harrion Stark for that. It seems the Stark fleet has assaulted the Westerlands in conjunction with Tully forces on the land, bolstered by the Company of Rose. Alestor Florent has ridden out in strength to hold Lannisport.” Jon said.

“Truly! This raises our good fortunes.” Oberyn said with a chuckle.

“I wouldn’t be that optimistic, Prince Oberyn. The North has declared independence and has so far conquered the Three Sisters and the Iron Islands. They’re now expanding into the Westerlands.”

“I know the Starks better than you, Connington. They have no appetite for foreign conquests.” Oberyn said with a dismissive wave.

“We can worry about the Starks later. Focus on the battlefield before us rather than one hundreds of league away.” Aegon said before his uncle and foster father lock horns. “The roses have positioned themselves to ensnare the stag. It’s time we push the stag into those thorns.”