GOT : All Left Behind

"If it seems too easy, it probably is."

Lord Yronwood, Franklyn Fowler decided, was a fool. His treason was bad enough on his own, but his foolishness was inexcusable. First, he declared himself independent from Sunspear at a time when Dorne should have stood together, if only to better extort the Martells, which was bad enough. But to include all the Red Mountains as his domain? Foolishness, suicidal foolishness. Even if his armies were at full strength, he would never be able to hold so broad a realm.

But then he had seemingly thrown out the last of his wits alongside his honor as a Dornishman. He had only compounded this foolishness by persisting even after losing half - fully half! - of his forces to desertion and ambush! All in a poorly conceived plan to steal lands that had belonged to the House of Fowler for thousands of years.

Franklyn had prayed for his heroic cousin's soul when he heard of his death in defense of his lands. He had prayed to the Father Above to reward him when his scouts revealed the damage they had caused. And he would dedicate this victory to his martyred cousin, without whom this would never have been possible.

Even a statue in his honor hardly seemed sufficient to honor the memory of the man who saved House Fowler.

No matter. He had plenty of time to think of better rewards.

"Are the men ready?" he asked his serjeants. These veteran men-at-arms were the ones who would lead his soldiers into battle, even if his knights and vassal lords gave the orders.

"They are finishing their meals as we speak, my lord," the man answered. A light meal before battle, something to give the men energy before they fought, was essential at this early hour. The traitors, even if their outriders reported quickly, would not have the opportunity to do the same. "Give the word, and they will be ready to march."

"Prepare them for battle," Franklyn ordered. "Lines five men deep for the infantry, archers behind them, cavalry on the left wing. All knights save for my bodyguard in the van. Once the enemy forms up to fight, give the signal to the garrison."

A wide line of battle, a well-fed force, an enemy who was outnumbered and cornered, and a small force to sally out into the enemy rear from a fortified position. Could this battle have been any more advantageous?

No doubt Franklyn would be rewarded handsomely by his liege for his actions in breaking this little rebellion. Mayhaps he would even be granted to right to collect the taxes on trade coming through the Prince's Pass. Wouldn't that be lucrative?

Before long, his three thousand men were formed up ready for battle. While by no means a massive force, it outnumbered the enemy quite handsomely, with nearly half again as many men as the traitors. Thin as his lines were, the enemy's lines would be thinner still just to avoid being surrounded.

And once the garrison from Skyreach attacked, the already-stretched lines of the traitors would be split and sundered.

Yes, he could already taste victory.

My thanks again Flement, he thought as his army began to approach Skyreach. His lines stretched from the banks of the river to almost halfway to the walls guarding the Prince's Pass. No doubt it made for an intimidating sight, especially with the armored fist of his knights at its head, ready to smash through the traitor lines and cut the enemy force in two.

Oh, he could hardly wait!

But first, it had to come to battle. And judging from how the enemy camp was writhing with activity, it would certainly come to battle. No doubt Lord Yronwood had posted scouts and lookouts to warn him of his approach. Already, he could see a steady trickle of men stream out of the fortified camp and… and stopping.

They were not making a wide line to match his own. It was a shorter line- no, a ring around the camp, to mitigate the disadvantage of his smaller army. The darkness made it hard to be certain, but Franklyn swore he could see wooden stakes jutting out of the ground around the camp. Yorick's foolishness was not absolute, it seemed.

But where was his cavalry? Where was his horse? Had he dismounted his knights and outriders? Against his skirmishing spearmen, they would be nearly useless. Tired and unfed, he would be able to harry them to his heart's content.

An easy victory, he already knew, but one that could be made easier with a quick adjustment.

"Split the line," Franklyn ordered after a moment's thought. "Attack the camp from the south and the west, focus on getting rid of those stakes. Fold the light horse into the van. And keep our men away from the north."

As his serjeants relayed the instructions, their shouts piercing through the cool pre-dawn air, Lord Fowler allowed himself a moment of satisfaction at his brilliance.

Either the traitors would waste a portion of their meager force that could be used to aid the defense by guarding against nothing or he would leave the north of the siege camp unguarded against the surprise blow from the garrison. He cared not which it would be. He would benefit from either.

Franklyn spurred his horse onwards, taking up position to the southwest of the siege camp with the vanguard arrayed before him, nearly a hundred knights sworn to him and his vassals, their dazzling rainbow of color muted in the darkness. Once he gave the word, they would thunder through the thin enemy lines. But he could not give the order too quickly, lest he wasted the full effect of the blow.

"My lord!" a messenger rode up to join him. Lightly clad, it was obvious to tell he was one of his outriders. "Their northern flank is moving to surround us! Ser Manwoody is holding them back, but our attack has stalled."

"Excellent!" he declared. Oh, this was even better than he had imagined. The enemy had abandoned his fortifications and had turned his back to the ambushing force! "Get to archers. Tell the serjeant to give the signal."

Soon, a single brightly burning arrow soared through the sky like a comet, arcing over the heads of the assembled soldiers. Dark as it was, it was impossible to mistake it for anything else. This was how he would win. Victory thanks to timely intervention, the sacrifice of his beloved cousin, and the bravery of the garrison.

It would take some time for the garrison to sally forth. Until then, he just needed to keep the rest of the traitor host in place. Or better yet, break half of their force, let his knights bloody their swords.

"Knights of Skyreach!" he shouted to the men around him. "Show these traitors their due rewards! Charge!"

As enthusiastic shouts filled the air, the hundred-strong force of heavy horse, augmented by the more numerous light horse, thundered off, raising an enormous cloud of dust.

Franklyn resisted the urge to join them with his bodyguard. As much as he wanted to join them in avenging his cousin, he had a duty and a responsibility to win the battle first. Once the garrison troops were committed, mayhaps then he would join the battle.

But for now, he would wait. Wait and-

Through the cloud of smoke, he saw something move. Something large, something so large the stars in the sky winked out for just an instant. Something so large even the moon above vanished from the night sky.

Something was wrong.

As the ground shook with the impact of a monster that would dwarf the greatest ships plying the trade routes, as the blood froze in his veins at the sight of the beast before him, Franklyn Fowler came to a single conclusion: Lord Yronwood had not been a fool.

He lacked the time to think of anything else as his horse reared beneath him, throwing him from his saddle and to the dirt below. Though his armor and padding took the worst of the blow, pain still blossomed across and through his shoulder. All around him, a lucky few knights managed to remain in their saddles.

For a heartbeat, he dared hope that one of those brave men would be able to bring down the colossal monster in their midst, even as a sickly green light began to illuminate the battlefield. Mayhaps they could drive their lances through its neck?

An instant later, an impossibly hot wave of heat washed over him as the monster unleashed a gout of green flame, green as the accursed fire of the alchemists. All around him, the knights of his bodyguard, men who had served him for decades, were brought low before they even had a chance to attack, their screams becoming indistinguishable from the screams of their horses.

"We were looking for you, Lord Fowler." From above, a voice thick with barely restrained rage spoke. Franklyn craned his neck, then craned it more until he finally saw the speaker. There, far above, so far away Franklyn would have been unable to reach even if here were mounted and armed with a lance, sat a white-armored figure. Chained to the monster's neck, though the clear rage in his tone made him wonder for whose safety those chains existed. "It is good of you to make it easy for us."

The beast's head snaked closer, ever closer, until it was close enough to press him into the dirt. Long horns embedded themselves in the ground as the creature bared teeth as long as swords. Despite the protection of his armor, he could feel the burning heat of the creature which threatened him.

Atop it, the man did not move. He did not emote. He did not gesture. Words drifted through the air, and that was it.

"Do not resist," the words came, still tinged with rage. "You will have many years to lament the fact that you could have avoided this."

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