A War of Speed

The rain cleared, and the army moved. Ronan's goal was simple: devour the last two silver stags in one campaign. Stannis and Renly could not be allowed time to understand what had happened.

He committed nearly everything he could move quickly. The Blood Wolf Company gathered on the unnamed beach. The Jomsviking Warband waited for the chance to strike Storm's End again.

Drogo's Dothraki had reached Westerosi soil by ship, sour and furious from the crossing, but alive.

Ronan chose Mongol cavalry because speed mattered more than weight. If Robb Stark learned too much too soon, the whole board could shift. Ronan needed to kill the southern variables before the northern wolf could bite.

The ride was hard on Sansa. She endured the saddle with stubborn silence, taking the hardship as the price of staying near him.

"Lord Ronan," she said at last, eyes resentful with exhaustion, "is it enough?"

He knew exactly what she meant and did not indulge himself. Time was worth more than teasing.

When King's Landing fell, one thought had settled in his mind. A war of speed.

Strike before the enemy shaped an answer. Break Renly and Stannis together. Let Westeros boil with the news that, after a century of old crowns, a new conqueror had come.

A scout arrived before noon.

"Khal, enemy camp ahead. Tens of thousands. Renly's main force."

Ronan's blood warmed. "Already?" Sansa looked troubled. "They have tens of thousands." He touched her hair, almost amused. "Then there are tens of thousands of targets."

He ordered the cavalry to rest briefly and prepare for the hunt.

That was what it became in the men's minds: not a battle, but a hunt. Renly's army was the beast. The Mongol riders were the hunters circling it.

Drums began to beat. Horns answered. Men who had looked bored minutes earlier came alive with a hunger that made Sansa edge closer to Ronan.

The first storm of arrows fell before Renly's camp understood it was under attack.

"Enemy raid!"

"Stannis has come!"

"Shields!"

Men died outside tents. Others took arrows while still scrambling into armor. Worse, fire followed the shafts. The camp had been hidden well, but hidden ground became a trap when flame found canvas, rope, and stores.

Mounted archers swept past, loosed, vanished, and returned from another angle before knights could force contact. Noble officers trying to organize resistance died under targeted shots. Men without orders shouted over one another, and confusion spread faster than fire.

Mace Tyrell finally dragged enough soldiers out of the burning camp to form a line.

By then, the attackers had slipped back among the trees.

Ronan did not need to destroy the army in the first pass. Renly's host was not a rabble. Highgarden could afford armor, good horses, and trained retainers. Panic them first. Bleed them second. Break them when the other blades arrived.

His falcon brought the next message. Come quickly. Jebe had done his part. Harlon, Griffen, and Soren reached Ronan soon after, riding hard.

"Commander," Harlon said, "reporting."

"Commander," Soren echoed.

Sansa flinched into Ronan when they approached. Blood and road-dust clung to them. They carried the smell of men who had been working.

Ronan studied the three of them. They stood still and waited for orders. Pride, excitement, and a trace of fear sat carefully behind their eyes. They had served Ronan before, but conquest had changed the air around him.

Sansa noticed that too. In his arms, she grew strangely proud. Ronan did not give her room to misbehave.

"Coordinate with the Mongol cavalry," he told the commanders. "Three hours. I want Renly's army broken."

"Yes."

No elegant plan was needed now. Attack was the plan.

...

The second assault hit like a door kicked inward.

Blood Wolf infantry and riders drove into a camp already singed by fear. The Jomsvikings took contact with brutal joy. The Mongol riders cut men down when they tried to flee or regroup.

The field became screams, steel, smoke, and hooves.

Renly watched with his courage draining from him. He had never seen men keep fighting after wounds that should have dropped them. One Blood Wolf soldier, with blood pouring down his face, tore at a Reachman as if pain had lost meaning.

"Devils," someone whispered. "Cursed devils."

That word spread. Mace Tyrell tried to pull men back, his face pale with terror. Retreat became collapse in the space between two breaths.

"Go!" he shouted at Renly. "We have lost. We must leave now."

Renly stared at the ruin of his army, unwilling to believe that everything he owned could disappear in an hour.

An arrow struck Mace in the shoulder and knocked him from his horse before he could say more.

"Lord Mace!"

Mace was alive, but the fall shattered the last shape of the retreat. Renly turned toward him, and a cold voice spoke from behind.

"So you are Renly."

Renly looked back. Harlon stood there with blood on his armor and no patience in his face.

"Who are you?"

"Take him."

Renly tried to protest, but Blood Wolf men dragged him away through smoke and shame.

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