Power is Everything Chapter 30 - The Battle of Ashford

The wind howled across the rolling hills of the Reach, carrying the scent of rain and steel as Robert Baratheon's army marched toward Cider Hall. The column of men seemed to stretch from one horizon to the other, just over 40,000 men all of them of the singular purpose of destroying those loyal to the king. And at the head of the column was none other than Robert Baratheon. The Storm Lord himself. Someone who was quickly proving himself to be one of the most Powerful Aura users in Westeros. In his arms, he held his mighty Warhammer or as the soldiers had come to call it. 'The End. For if he was the Storm, then the hammer he wielded was the End. The entire journey so far Robert's mind had been clouded by rage, so much so that his aura seamed to spark and flow over him as if it couldn't be contained.

Behind him, Stannis rode in silence. The younger Baratheon was making just as much of a name for himself on the battlefield, maybe not in the same breath as Robert, but when people spoke of him, they spoke of an intelligent man. The younger Baratheon's horse kept pace with his brother, but his posture was stiff, his hands tight on the reins. Unlike his brother, Stannis's mind was not clouded by rage. He saw the danger in their what they were doing today, the vulnerability of their position. They had no reinforcements, no Golden Company to bolster their numbers. Daemon Blackfyre and his 15,000 men, along with their monstrous elephants, had veered toward Grassy Vale to secure a northern route. Stannis's lips pressed into a thin line at the thought. He didn't trust Daemon, not as a man, and certainly not as a Blackfyre. But there was no doubt he was the only one who could fight the King and perhaps win. For now they needed him.

The Stormlords riding nearby shared Stannis's distrust, though their reasons were less strategic and more rooted in fear. Lord Dondarrion, his weathered face half-hidden by a helm, leaned toward Lord Estermont. "A Blackfyre leading the Golden Company," he muttered, his breath misting in the cool air. "You can't trust a dragon, red or black. He's got his own plans, mark my words."

Estermont nodded, his gauntleted hand tightening on his sword hilt. "Aye. Daemon claims he wants no throne, but his blood says otherwise. Why else bring an army across the Narrow Sea?"

"Enough," Lord Tarth snapped, his voice cutting through their whispers. "He fought with us at Summerhall. Crushed Hightower and Whent. We'd be dead without him."

"Or he's biding his time," Dondarrion countered, his eyes narrowing. "Waiting for us to bleed so he can swoop in."

Stannis overheard the exchange but said nothing, his gaze fixed on Robert's broad back. The lords' distrust was a poison, seeping through the ranks, but he couldn't deny its logic. Daemon's power was undeniable, his duel with Gerold Hightower had been a spectacle of raw, terrifying strength. The Golden Company's elephants had broken the king's army like kindling. But a Blackfyre was a Blackfyre, and history taught hard lessons about their ambitions.

The mist clung to the ground like a shroud as Robert Baratheon's army descended upon Cider Hall, its towers looming through the haze like the bones of some ancient beast. The keep's gates were shut, but no banners flew, no archers lined the walls, and no smoke curled from the chimneys. To Robert, it was a sign of cowardice, a fortress abandoned by men too weak to face him. His warhorse snorted, stamping the muddy ground as he raised his Warhammer high. "They've fled!" he bellowed, his voice a thunderclap that rallied his men. "We'll smash this husk and take what's ours! FOR THE STORMLANDS!"

The soldiers roared, their cheers echoing across the empty fields. The sound drowned out the distant caw of ravens, their black shapes circling ominously above. Stannis, riding just behind his brother, gripped his reins tightly, his eyes scanning the keep. The absence of resistance gnawed at him. Cider Hall was a minor hold, yes, but to abandon it entirely? It felt wrong, the possibility that this was a trap gnawed at him. He spurred his horse closer to his elder brother, "Robert, we should send scouts to check the surrounding woods. This is too easy. It could be—"

"Too easy?" Robert cut him off, turning in his saddle with a sneer. "You sound like an old woman, Stannis. Look at it! No men, no fight. They've run like the cravens they are. We'll tear this place apart and be at Longtable by dusk!" He waved a dismissive hand, his Warhammer swinging casually at his side. The men cheered again, their morale soaring, but Stannis's jaw clenched. He glanced at Lord Dondarrion and Lord Estermont, who rode nearby, their faces a mix of excitement and unease. They, too, sensed something amiss, but Robert's fire was infectious, and none dared challenge him.

"Form up!" Robert shouted, dismounting with a heavy thud. His aura flared briefly, a crackle of lightning dancing across his shoulders, sending a shiver through the men closest to him. "Breach the gates! Take everything!" The soldiers surged forward behind Robert as the behemoth of a man walked forward. The gates, old and unfortified by aura, groaned under the assault. Robert strode to the gate with his Warhammer raised, and with a single swing, unleashed a burst of aura that shattered the wooden gates into splinters. The men roared, pouring into the courtyard like a flood.

Inside, Cider Hall was a ghost. The token force left behind—barely two dozen guards, no aura users among them—stood no chance. Robert waded into the fray, his Warhammer a blur of destruction. He smashed through a guard's shield, the man almost exploding from the force of the strike. Lightning sparked from his weapon, arcing to another soldier who screamed as his armor melted into his flesh. The remaining defenders broke, fleeing deeper into the keep, but Robert's men cut them down without mercy. Blood pooled on the cobblestones, mixing with the mud churned by boots. Within minutes, the courtyard was theirs.

The Stormlords ransacked Cider Hall without any mercy, all of the supplies were taken. Barrels of wine, sacks of grain, and crates of weapons were hauled out, loaded onto carts for the march ahead. Robert stood in the center of the courtyard, his Warhammer resting on his shoulder, a grin splitting his blood-spattered face. "See, Stannis?" he boomed, gesturing at the chaos around them. "Cowards, all of them! They left this place to us, too spineless to fight! We'll take Longtable next, then Ashford, and I'll have those lords' heads on pikes!"

Stannis, standing near the broken gates, didn't share his brother's triumph. His eyes darted to the empty battlements, the untouched stables, the eerie stillness of the surrounding fields. "Robert, listen," he said, stepping closer. "This was too quick. No hold, no matter how small, is left this undefended. We need to—"

"Enough!" Robert snapped, rounding on him. His aura flared again, lightning crackling in the air, making nearby soldiers flinch and cower though not Stannis. "You'd have us skulk like rats, Stannis, waiting for shadows that aren't there! We've won, and we'll keep winning. Longtable's next, and I won't hear another word of caution!" He turned away, shouting orders to prepare the army to march. The men, drunk on victory and Robert's fervor, scrambled to obey, their cheers drowning out Stannis's protests.

The march to Longtable was swift, the army's spirits high despite the grueling pace. The keep, like Cider Hall, appeared deserted, its gates closed but unguarded. Robert's laughter echoed as he led the charge, his Warhammer smashing through the gates with a single aura-infused blow. The resistance was even weaker here, a handful of retainers cut down in moments. The Stormlords looted with abandon, stripping Longtable of supplies: food, weapons, coin, anything that could fuel their campaign. Robert stood atop a pile of crates, a jug of wine in one hand, his Warhammer in the other, bellowing to his men. "They're running scared! The Reach is ours for the taking! On to Ashford, and we'll crush those flower boys where they stand!"

The men roared, their voices shaking the keep's walls. Barrels were cracked open, wine flowing freely as the soldiers celebrated another easy victory. But Stannis's unease grew. He stood apart, his arms crossed, watching the revelry with a scowl. The absence of defenders, the lack of aura users—it wasn't cowardice. It was strategy. He approached Robert again, his voice low but insistent. "Robert, this is a trap. No lord abandons two keeps without a plan. We're being lured—"

"Lured?" Robert laughed, draining his jug and tossing it aside. "You see ghosts wherere are none, brother. They're weak, and they know it. Ashford's next, and I'll wager it's as empty as this place. We march at dawn!" He clapped Stannis on the shoulder, hard enough to make him stagger, then strode off to join the celebration. The Stormlords followed, their laughter mingling with the clink of stolen coin and the crackle of fires.

Stannis stood rooted, his fists clenched. He glanced at Lord Tarth, who lingered nearby, his face grim. "He won't listen," Tarth muttered. "He's too caught up in his rage."

"He'll get us all killed," Stannis replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked toward the horizon, where Ashford lay, its towers hidden in the gathering dusk. The ravens still circled, their cries faint but ominous. The army prepared to move, their carts laden with stolen goods, their spirits high. But Stannis's gut twisted. Cider Hall and Longtable had fallen too easily, and Ashford awaited. He didn't trust the silence, and he didn't trust the empty keeps. Something was coming, and they were marching right into it.

As the army set out at first light, the mist thickened, cloaking the road to Ashford in a gray veil. Robert rode at the head, his Warhammer swinging at his side, his laughter booming as he drunk freely, almost a cask an hour. Behind him, the Stormlords followed, most of them were just as jovial as their Lord.

But not Stannis.

He rode in silence, his eyes fixed on the path ahead as he tried to figure out what the plan could be and how he could counter it. The celebration at Longtable still echoed in the men's voices, but Stannis heard only the calm before the storm.

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Meanwhile further north Daemon Blackfyre rode at the head of the Golden Company. They weren't marching nearly as hard as the Storm Lords forces, and with the weather in the reach being rather temperate it felt like a nice stroll. The men laughed and joked as they rode, but Daemon was quiet as he was enthralled with the object in his hands. The number of people who could've claimed to have seen a dragon egg in Westeros could be counted on a single hand, even if there was a no life in them anymore such things were incredibly beautiful and priceless on their own.

Serra rode beside him, her own horse keeping pace with his own, her white tunic fluttering in the windas she glanced at the egg with a mix of curiosity and reverence. Howland was equally as interested, though the young northern lord was interested in anything regarding magic. The young crannogman's face, still marked by the healing gash from the Summerhall battle, betrayed his awe. The three rode in a comfortable silence as they never got bored at looking at the beautiful relic of the past.

"It's beautiful," Howland said at last. "A dragon egg... I never thought I'd see one."

Serra smirked. "More than beautiful. 200 years ago a man would've beggared himself at the chance to see such creatures. Dragons are beasts of life and magic, more intelligent than any man. Some say they could speak, in their own way, through their riders."

Howland's brows shot up, his curiosity piqued. "Speak? You mean... like men?"

"Not quite," Serra replied, leaning forward in her saddle. "Myths say dragons shared a bond with their riders, a connection deeper than words. Their auras intertwined, amplifying each other. A rider's strength became the dragon's, and the dragon's power flowed back. If you think an animal with an aura is terrifying, dragons had their aura from the moment they hatched, they are natural masters of it."

Daemon's gaze remained fixed on the egg, his thumb brushing its scaled surface. The warmth pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. "Aegon the Unlikely tried to hatch them at Summerhall," he said. "This must be one of his. Left behind, hidden beneath the heart tree. Strange place for it, though. The old gods and dragons don't mix."

"Maybe it was a prayer," Howland offered thoughtfully "Aegon wanted dragons back. Maybe he thought the old gods could help."

Serra snorted. "This egg..." She gestured at it, her expression softening. "It's alive, in a way. You feel it, don't you, brother?"

Daemon nodded, his fingers tightening around the egg. "It's warm. It does not feel like stone." His mind drifted to the stories his uncle Aegor had told him, tales of dragonriders who soared above Westeros. He wondered if the egg's warmth was a sign, a spark of the magic Serra spoke of. The thought stirred something in him. Dragons were power, yes, but they were also weapons of death. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the road ahead.

Howland's voice broke the silence. "Do you think... could it hatch?"

Serra laughed. "I doubt it, magic had mostly gone from the world, though if they were hatched I shudder to think what may happen. Some say they could sense the world's life force, bend it to their will. A rider with a dragon could crush armies, burn cities. No wonder the Targaryens clung to them so tightly."

Daemon's eyes narrowed, his grip on the egg tightening. "Perhaps it's for the best if it does not hatch," he said.

Howland stared at him, "It would be amazing though wouldn't it, for dragons to return to the world?"

"Maybe," Daemon admitted, his gaze distant. "As amazing a creature they are they are equally as terrifying."

Serra leaned closer, her shoulder brushing his. "You're enthralled with it, aren't you? I can see it in your eyes."

Daemon didn't answer, but his silence spoke volumes. The egg's warmth was intoxicating, it almost felt like he could reach something inside. He tucked it carefully into a leather pouch at his side. Before he could say more, the sound of galloping hooves interrupted them. A scout, reined in his horse before them.

"Your Grace!" the scout gasped, bowing low in his saddle. "A large army at Grassy Vale, thousands strong, camped outside the castle. They've fortified the walls, and there's movement in the fields. Looks like they're preparing for us."

Daemon's expression hardened, his hand drifting to Blackfyre's hilt. "Numbers?" he asked, his voice cold.

"At least ten thousand, my lord," the scout replied.

"Maybe more. Aura users among them, strong ones. They're flying Tyrell banners."

Serra's smirk faded, replaced by a scowl. "A trap," she muttered, her violet eyes narrowing. "They knew we were coming. Probably waiting to hit us when we're spread thin."

Howland's grip on his trident tightened, his knuckles whitening. "What do we do, Daemon?"

Daemon's gaze flicked to the horizon, where Grassy Vale was located and where the army would be waiting for them. His mind raced as he considered his options—ten thousand men, aura users, Tyrell banners. He could crush them with the golden company, but the fact they were waiting for him meant that it could also be a trap. Either that or they were overconfident. In the end, there was only one real choice. He had to secure the route north.

"We ride to meet them," he said. "Serra, Howland, pick five of our best. We'll parley first, see what they're planning."

Serra's eyes widened, her hand twitching toward her sword. "Parley? Brother, they'll try to kill you the moment you're in range. Let me scout it out first."

Daemon shook his head, "No. I need to see their leader, feel their aura. If it's a trap, we'll spring it on our terms." He turned to Howland, who looked pale but determined. "Stay sharp, lad. I need you to watch my back."

Howland swallowed hard but nodded. Serra grumbled but relented, her hand lingering on Daemon's arm. "You better not get yourself killed," she muttered, her tone half-warning, half-plea.

Daemon's lips twitched in a faint smile, the first in days. "I won't." He spurred his horse forward, The Golden Company followed, their banners snapping in the wind, as they rode toward Grassy Vale, and towhatever awaited them.

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It was late afternoon now and the sun was starting to get low, casting long shadows over the rolling fields as Robert Baratheon's army approached Ashford, they'd decided not to spend much time at Longtable, as the temptation of gaining three victories in a single day was too much for Robert. The towers of Ashfords keeprose against the horizon. Like Cider Hall and Longtable before it, Ashford appeared deserted—no banners fluttered, no guards patrolled the walls, no smoke rose from the chimneys. Robert, astride his warhorse, grinned fiercely, his Warhammer resting across his shoulder. The victories at Cider Hall and Longtable had inflamed his confidence, and the sight of another seemingly abandoned hold only fueled his swagger. "Another empty shell!" he boomed, his voice carrying over the weary cheers of his men. "These Reach bastards are too craven to face me! We'll take Ashford and drink their wine by nightfall!"

The soldiers roared, their spirits lifted by Robert's bravado. The march had been grueling, the men pushed to their limits by Robert's relentless pace, but the promise of another easy victory spurred them on. They set up camp just outside Ashford's walls, tents rising haphazardly as soldiers laughed and passed wineskins, already celebrating. The clatter of armor and the crackle of campfires filled the air, drowning out the distant caw of ravens circling above. Robert dismounted, tossing his reins to a squire, and strode through the camp, barking orders to prepare for the sack. "Break the gates!" he shouted. "We'll strip this place bare and march north!"

Stannis, trailing behind, watched the revelry with a deepening scowl. His brother's recklessness was a fire burning out of control, and the eerie silence of Ashford gnawed at him. He caught Lord Estermont's eye, who lingered near a fire, his face taut with unease. "This is wrong," Stannis muttered, stepping closer. Why was his brother so pigheaded? Why wouldn't he listen? The enemy was leading them into a trap. Why couldn't his brother say that?

Estermont nodded, his gauntleted hand tightening on his sword hilt. "It's a trap, my lord. I can feel it. But Lord Robert won't listen."

"He never does," Stannis said, his voice low and bitter. He scanned the camp, noting the lax guards, the men drinking and laughing, their weapons strewn carelessly. He approached Robert, who was draining a jug of wine, his laughter booming as he clapped a soldier on the back. "Robert," Stannis said, "We need to set proper sentries. Double the watch. This is too easy surely you can see that."

Robert rounded on him, his stormy blue eyes flashing. "Easy? It's victory, Stannis! The Reach is crumbling before us! You'd have us cower like rats when we're winning?" He gestured at Ashford's silent walls. "Look at it empty! They've run, just like the others. We'll take it and move on north where we meet up with Ned and Jon and smash Kings Landing."

Stannis's jaw clenched, his fists balling at his sides. "You're blind, brother. No one abandons three keeps without reason. We're exposed, with no reinforcements. Daemon's at Grassy Vale—"

"Good!" Robert snapped, his aura crackling with faint sparks of lightning. "Let the Blackfyre chase his own glory. We don't need him or his damned elephants. We'll crush Ashford and be in the Riverlands before he catches up!" The men around him cheered, caught up in his fervor, but Stannis's gaze hardened. He opened his mouth to argue further, but before he could, a loud horn blast cut through the air, followed by a chorus of war cries.

The camp erupted into chaos. From the woods and hills surrounding Ashford, a tide of Reach soldiers surged forth. Arrows rained down, slicing through the air striking men before they could grab their weapons. Tents collapsed as cavalry charged through, trampling soldiers underfoot. The attack was swift, brutal, and perfectly coordinated, catching the Stormlords off guard. Men screamed as swords and spears found flesh, blood spraying across the muddy ground. Aura users among the Reach forces unleashed devastating attacks—blasts of fire, shards of ice, and waves of raw energy tore through the camp, shredding tents and scattering the rebels.

In less than five minutes thousands had died and the storm landers morale had been crushed. Dozens of aura users had been crushed and many more had been injured. Robert roared, his Warhammer swinging as he smashed through a charging knight, his aura erupting into a storm of lightning. "TO ME!" he bellowed, rallying his men. "FIGHT, YOU BASTARDS!" But the enemy was relentless and they had too much momentum. A Reach aura user sent a torrent of wind slicing through the ranks, cutting down a dozen men in an instant. Another conjured a wall of stone, blocking the rebels' escape. The camp became a slaughterhouse, bodies piling up as the Reach forces pressed their advantage.

Stannis grabbed Robert's arm, his face grim. "We're routed! We need to retreat, now!"

Robert shook him off, his eyes blazing. "Retreat? I'll crush them all myself!!!!" He charged into the fray, his Warhammer smashing through armor and bone, lightning arcing from his strikes. But even his fury couldn't stem the tide. The Reach forces were fresh, while Robert's men were exhausted from the day's march. Stannis fought beside him, his sword flashing as he cut down an enemy soldier. Despite Robert's power they were losing men fast,

"Retreat!" Stannis shouted, parrying a spear thrust. "Retreat!!!!"

Robert snarled, smashing another soldier's skull. "NO!!! THEY WONT WIN!!! I WONT LET THEM!!!"

"We need to move!" Stannis urged, blocking another attack. "If you fall here, Lyanna's lost to Rhaegar forever. Think of her, Robert!"

The mention of Lyanna snapped something in Robert. His aura flared brighter, lightning crackling wildly, but he nodded back reluctantly. "FALL BACK!" he roared, his voice cutting through the battle. "FALL BACK!" The rebels began a desperate retreat, fighting their way toward the riverbank, but the Reach forces pressed harder, their cavalry circling to cut off escape routes. Robert and Stannis fought at the rear with the rest of the Knights and lords, covering their men's withdrawal. Roberts hammer was crackling with lighting as his aura seemed to grow; each strike against the enemy send dozens of them flying as lighting streaked between them.

The retreat went about as well as could be expected. Thousands of men who were exhausted from the days march now had to run for hours in the opposite direction while they were constantly assualted by the reach army. But soon enough they were getting close to Longtable and Cider Hall when a scout, rode toward them. "My lords! Cider Hall's occupied! Longtable too! Armies at both, waiting!"

The words hit like a hammer blow.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Stannis's expression turned to stone, his mouth tightening as his eyes swept the terrain. His worst fears had been realized. The castles hadn't been abandoned—they were bait. Ashford, Longtable, and Cider Hall weren't just names on a map anymore. Together, they formed a triangle, a killing field with Robert's army at its center. The Reach had planned it perfectly. Armies hidden in the orchards and hills, waiting for the exact moment to close the trap. There was no clean escape. Any attempt would be met with the loss of their army.

Robert stood in the center of the road, his chest heaving, the head of his Warhammer dark with blood. Realization dawned across his face, a mix of fury and disbelief as he stared toward the horizon. "A trap..." he muttered, the word grinding out between clenched teeth. His gaze burned toward the distant banners, golden roses fluttering in the wind. "Those fucking flower boys played us!"

Lightning crackled across his skin as his aura flared wildly. The air itself seemed to bend with it. His men could feel the ground hum beneath their boots as arcs of blue-white light danced around the iron head of his hammer. Robert Baratheon's rage was a living thing and in the moment they had never seen it be so terrible.

"WE STAND AND FIGHT!" he roared, his boice echoing across the field. "I WONT HAVE ANY COWARDS HERE!"

Some men flinched at the sound. Others straightened, shame burning away their fear.

"I'LL KILL ANY MAN WHO RUNS!" Robert bellowed, eyes sweeping over them with the fury of a storm. "WE FIGHT, YOU HEAR ME? WE FIGHT!"

The soldiers of the Stormlands answered with a ragged cheer, half despair, half defiance. They lifted their swords and shields, forming a line around their lord. Mud sucked at their boots, the stench of death thick in their lungs, but they would not run. Not while Robert stood. The Reach army began to close in, their formation tightening like a noose. Rows of spearmen marched in perfect rhythm along with archers behind them. Behind them, mounted knights held their lances, banners of green and gold swaying above their helms. Among them stood aura users, hundreds of them all of them fresh and ready for battle.

From the distant hills, a new host emerged—ranks upon ranks of spears catching the last light of the dying sun. At their head rode Randyll Tarly, the Lord of Horn Hill, his armor dark and unadorned save for the glint of his Valyrian steel sword, Heartsbane. The sight alone drew a hush from the rebel lines. Beside him rode Jon Connington, the King's Hand, his expression carved from iron. His crimson cloak fluttered behind him, marked by the golden griffin of his house. A smug smile and as etched onto his face as he saw the traitorous lords in a grave of their own making. To his other side rode Ser Richard Lonmouth, once squire and sworn brother to Prince Rhaegar. He looked towards Robert Baratheon with a gaze akin to hatred. He had to stop himself from drawing his sword and charging the Stag Lord there and then.

Across the field, Stannis drew his sword, the steel rasping loud enough to turn heads. His jaw clenched as he looked to his brother. "They want to kill us all, we will make them bleed for it."

Robert grinned through his fury. "Aye," he said, resting the Warhammer across his shoulder. "Let's give the bastards a fight they'll never forget."

Robert's rage erupted anew, his aura surging with lightning. "WE STAND AND FIGHT!!" he bellowed, raising his Warhammer.

"OURS IS FURY!!!!"

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The gates of Grassy Vale creaked open under the midday sun, revealing a column of riders emerging from the archway. Daemon reined in his horse at the head of his small entourage, his purple eyes narrowing as he recognized the figures at the forefront. In truth he shouldn't be surprised at who stood before him, things so far had never seemed to work out, so why not add some more shit onto the pile. The man in front of him was someone he hoped he wouldn't have to encounter at least until he had already defeated Aerys.

Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.

With him was Ser Lewyn Martell, both of them were clad in the white cloaks of the Kingsguard. The presence of both of these Kingsguard made people uneasy, it wasn't surprising either, any mention of the Kingsguard would no doubt invoke fear. They were some of the most powerful aura users in the continent. Only second to the king, and that was only a regular Kingsguard.

Ser Arthur Dayne was another matter entirely.

When it came to aura users there were those who were talented and then there were those who seemed to be favoured by destiny. Arthur Dayne was a man that Daemon knew to be a mix of the former and latter. He was the man who had tamed the sun, the most talented swordsman, the most honourable warrior.

Yet his favour seemed to end when he met Rhaegar Targaryen.

What he was before was a man in his prime, someone who had just as much talent as Daemon did, but also a near unbeatable aura ability that was unique to him. Now he was a broken shell of a man, someone who was no better than a dog at the beck and call of his master.

As Daemon looked back at his memories of Arthur he could slowly see as Rhaegar broke him and any sense of self he may of had. It was heartbreaking to see the mighty man before him reduced to such a state. Yet Daemon did not know how to help him, so in the end all he could do was put him out of his misery.

Serra tensed beside Daemon, her hand drifting to her sword hilt. "This is a mistake, brother," she whispered. "They'll try something, mark my words. We should just attack them, and you and me should take those poncy Kingsguards ourselves."

Daemon's expression remained calm. "Trust me, Serra. I owe it to them to at least talk." He replied. The guards behind them shifted uneasily.

Arthur and Lewyn halted a dozen paces away, their horses snorting. Arthur's violet eyes met Daemon's. "Daemon Silver or should I say Daemon Blackfyre," he said, his tone flat. "You've returned at the head of an army, flying the black dragon's banner. Joining the traitors forces and already killing Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Gerald Hightower."

Ser Lewyn glared at Daemon when Arthur mentioned that. "Both of them were men you had known for years Daemon! Good men, true men!"

"After all the royal family had done for you, you've rewarded them with betrayal, betrayal and treachery," Arthur said as his horse kicked the ground.

Daemon dismounted slowly, his boots sinking into the soft earth, and gestured for his group to do the same. Serra hesitated but followed, her eyes locked on Arthur, while Howland's gaze darted between the Kingsguard. Daemon stepped forward, his hand resting on Blackfyre's hilt. "No treachery, Ser Arthur. I've come for what was taken from mex Lyanna Stark and Lysa Tully. Return them, and I'll leave this place in peace, I have no want for the throne nor the seven kingdoms."

Daemon's gaze softened toward Lewyn. "Lewyn, old friend. You know me. I've no quarrel with you or Arthur, you know how loyal I am to Elia and Rhaella. Rhaegar took my betrothed. Help me get them back. Help me end the madness that Rhaegar has caused."

Lewyn hesitated, his aura flickering uncertainly, his hand twitching near his sword. "Daemon I want to believe you, everything in my heart tells me that you can't be a traitor, that our friendship was not false, yet I see you here across from me on the battlefield."

"Lewyn, can you not see that Aerys and Rhaegar have gone too far? Kidnapping two Noble ladies, killing Rickard and Brandon Stark. Nearly half the realm is in rebellion, surely your vows cannot blind you to that?" Daemon said trying to plead with Lewyn. The man was his friend and more importantly he was Elia's uncle, he wanted to do all he could not to kill the man.

Arthur's expression remained steadfast, his hand firm on Dawn's hilt. "Enough. The prince's actions are his own it is not for the Kingsguard to question them. But you've declared war on the crown. Surrender now, and perhaps the king will show mercy."

Serra snorted, her aura flaring briefly. "Mercy from Aerys? You'd sooner find it in a viper's nest."

Lewyn's eyes darted between Daemon and Arthur, conflict evident. "Daemon... stand down, I will speak on your behalf. Please we were friends once."

"We still can be," Daemon replied, stepping closer. "Help me, Lewyn. Rhaegar's gone too far. You know it."

Lewyn's face twisted. "I... I can't betray my oath."

Arthur's gaze hardened. "Lewyn, stand firm. He's the enemy, remember your oath."

The Tyrell knights tensed, their auras flickering as they prepared to act. Serra's hand was on her sword now, her purple eyes glinting with anticipation. Howland raised his trident slightly, water beginning to coil around its prongs. The guards behind them drew their weapons. Daemon stood unmoved, his hand resting on Blackfyre's hilt.

"Then we have nothing more to say," Daemon said. The air grew heavy, the tension snapping like a taut bowstring.

The parley had failed, and the clash was inevitable.

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Blood.

Sweat.

Death.

It all started from the north, Cider Hall's forces charged first crashing into their Western flank. Arrows whistled from their archers, dark shafts blotting the sky like a swarm of locusts. The rebels raised shields, but the barrage hammered down—wood splintering, men screaming as iron tips punched through mail, embedding in throats, eyes, chests. A rebel knight, tried to use his aura ability to summon a barrier of wind; it shattered under the volley, arrows ripping into his torso as it overwhelmed his aura, pinning him to the ground like a grotesque pincushion.

"Brace!" Stannis shouted, his own aura flaring, it was powerful enough that it protected him from the arrows. He also sent out aura infused slashes to protect the men closest to him, yet even as he did his best to stop them, there were too many arrows. Men fell by the dozen as arrows impacted their skulls and gaps in their armour.

From the east, Longtable's troops surged, their cavalry thundering across the field. Hooves churned earth into bloody slurry, riders leaning with lances levelled pouring large amounts of aura into it. The rebels' front line buckled under the impact, their lances punching through shields, impaling men with wet crunches. A Stormlander knight, tried to counter; he summoned a spike of earth that skewered a horse mid-charge, the beast screaming as it collapsed, crushing its rider's legs into pulp. A smirk crossed his face as he dew his sword and ended the rider, though the stormlander knight was then skewered by another through the back.

The cavalry pressed on. A rebel soldier was trampled—hooves smashing his helm inward, brain oozing like grey jelly from the cracks. Another was lanced through the gut, the tip bursting from his back in a spray of blood and viscera, intestines uncoiling like wet ropes as he fell. The air reeked of shit and iron, the ground slick with offal and gore. Aura users clashed amid the mayhem; a Reach knight with earthen fists pummelling a rebel's face into bloody ruin, bones cracking like dry twigs, teeth scattering like dice. The rebel countered with a summoned club that extended forward, blasting the knight back—his armor denting inward, ribs shattering with audible snaps, blood frothing from his lips as he gasped.

From the south, Ashford's main force advanced, led by Randyll Tarly himself. His Valyrian steel sword, Heartsbane, gleamed ominously as he rode at the head, his aura a dark, oppressive shroud that made the air heavy. Their army was fresh, disciplined—tens of thousands strong, outnumbering the rebels two to one. Tarly's voice boomed like thunder: "For the crown! Crush these traitors!"

The Reach infantry advanced in formatio, shields locked, as they pushed and herded the rebel forces. Rebels met them with the full determination of someone who knew they would die, their swords hacked into shields, splintering wood, biting into arms. A rebel aura user unleashed a strange animal hybrid that breathed fire, scorching a few Reach soldiers. One soldier clawed at his face, their eyeballs bursting from the heat, jelly-like fluid running down his cheeks. But  a Tarly knight countered, his aura flaring and summoning a vortex of aura that absorbed the flames, snuffing them out like candles.

Connington directed archer. Arrows punched through rebel lines. A Stormlander lord who tried to summon his aura ability which were flaring green vines for defence, was overwhelmed; arrows shredded the vines, embedding in his chest with wet thuds, blood frothing as he drowned in his own fluids. Lonmouth, driven by rage, waded in with his sword, his aura a blazing red fury. His aura was so strong it made those near him soil themselves; though the shame did not last long as he cut through them like they were made of butter. Even those who had auras didn't last long against Lonmouth, for he was fulfilling his 'Noble Vow' and what nobler cause was there than fighting for your Lord against rebel insurgents.

The rebels held desperately, their lines fracturing under the onslaught. Mud churned to bloody slurry, bodies piling like driftwood. A rebel aura user summoned conjured arrows, impaling Reach soldiers. But Tarly shattered the arrows with a swing of Heartsbane, the aura-infused blade cleaving through aura and flesh alike. A rebel's arm was severed at the elbow, bone splintering, blood jetting in spurts. He screamed, clutching the stump, until a Reach spear silenced him, punching through his mouth and out the back of his skull.

Robert fought like a demon, his Warhammer a deliverer of death, by the time most soldiers saw it, they couldn't do anything but die. He smashed a Reach knight's helm inward, brain matter shooting out of the back like paste. Lightning arced from his strikes, electrocuting clusters of men; skin blackened, eyes burst, bodies convulsing before collapsing in smoking heaps. "COME ON, YOU FLOWER-FUCKING CUNTS!" he roared, his aura storming wild. A spear thrust at him; he caught it, snapped the shaft, and drove the splintered end into the attacker's eye—gore erupting in a wet spray. He then grabbed a man by the head and crushed it before using his body as a secondary weapon, even going so far as to infuse his aura into it.

Nothing truly demoralised a man than seeing his friend being used as a Warhammer.

Stannis held the center, but most importantly he kept an eye on Robert's back. While he was not as much of a monster as Robert was he was still a Baratheon and he was just as martial oriented as his brother even if not overwhelming. He easily overpowered the reach men that came into his path, aura user or not. His sword sliced through man after man, as every stormlander fought for their lives.

Lord Dondarrion rallied a group, his aura manipulating the leather around his armour that lashed out, hardening and shredding Reach soldiers. One impaled a man through the chest, ribs cracking audibly, heart bursting in a crimson spray. But a Reach aura user countered with a strange 'Archer' ability blasting Dondarrion back where his body broke on the ground as soldiers tramped him. They would have finished him under boot had Robert not been there.

Robert wrenched Dondarrion up by his collar and shoved him back toward the friendly ranks with a roughness that bruised the Lord's skin. "Come on, Dondarrion," he barked as he let him go, and the man tried to stand. Robert spat and wiped his hand on the dead man's cloak. "Get up, don't tell me these flower boys are stronger than a Lord of the Stormlands."

He swung his hammer without any difficulty. The weapon cracked through the air and found a Reach knight full on, the haft driving through his aura and steel until the knight's breastplate ruptured like overripe fruit. The man's chest caved inward in a wet, bone bending collapse. The shock of the strike sent soldiers back and left a rent in the line.

"Fight!" Robert roared. "Fight! No man better die with a clean sword or I will tear him into pieces." He then charged headlong into the thickest part of the Reach formation.

The impact was seismic.

Robert carved a path with each strike, bodies flung aside like ragdolls. He leapt into the air and brought his hammer down with both hands, the weapon crashing into the earth with a sound like a thunderclap. The force rippled outward, sending dozens of men flying; their bones shattered, armor warped, limbs twisting in unnatural directions. A shallow crater marked the point of impact. When he landed, his hammer was gone. It had been torn from his grip by the shockwave and buried beneath mud and blood.

But Robert didn't slow.

If anything, he moved faster.

Fists broke bones. Elbows shattered skulls. He tore through the Reach soldiers like a god of war unchained. He grabbed one man by the legs and swung him into another, crushing them both. Another he seized by the chestplate and simply ripped apart, the scream cut short as blood splashed across Robert's face. Every time a sword struck him, lightning sparked from his aura, arcing down the blade and crawling back into the arms of the attacker. Men seized mid-swing, their muscles locking, eyes rolling back before they fell twitching to the ground.

Then, in the chaos, he spotted it... his hammer, half-buried in muck and gore.

He reached for it.

The moment his hand closed around the grip, lightning flared again, brighter than before, his aura screaming to life. He spun the hammer in a wide arc, faster and faster, building speed, drawing power into its head. The air cracked around him as pressure built.

Then he slammed it down.

The ground screamed.

Stone and soil split open, the very earth twisting and warping beneath the force. A shockwave tore outward in a jagged ring—men were thrown like dolls, some shattered by the concussive force, others swallowed whole as the ground collapsed beneath their feet. Screams echoed. The battlefield fractured.

And then—

A blur.

From the enemy's side, something shot forward like a bolt from a crossbow. Steel met steel. The impact sent Robert stumbling back, his boots skidding through the mud as both figures tumbled across the blood-soaked earth.

Robert roared as he rose, his eyes flashing in anger. Across from him stood Ser Richard Lonmouth, mud streaking his armor, his blade already drawn.

"You do well at killing those weaker than you," Lonmouth said, voice calm, sword steady. "Let's see how well you fare against a man of skill."

(AN: So we have our two next big aura battles. Arthur vs Daemon and Robert vs Richard Lonmouth. For those of you who don't remember the was in chapter 3 of this story. He hasn't be showcased a lot, but he's strong. I mean why else would Rhaegar squire him? He has been bringing people with power to his side for a while.)

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