The Withered Rose
It was merely dusk. The vision was faltering and a strange mist that was around for the entirety of the day one accomodated the situation even more.
"Damn this," said Ser Duckfield. "I imagine that we've done enough surveying for today. Set up a camp and wait 'til the morning. Can't see anything anyways." He complained, rather unamused by the shere task they were given, lest so with what they've accomplished until now.
He and Tristan Rivers were on a monticule. They rose there to scout out the field a bit better, but, as it happened, to no avail.
What was I hoping for in this mist anyways, thought Rivers as he looked at the shallow whiteness in front of them, already mixing up with the darkness of the night to come.
Nothing. Tristan didn't get the point of this ranging. What were they hoping to find east of Bronzegate. These were their lands now. They were just wearing out their horses.
Just as he was about to turn around his stallion, something rather usual reached Tristan's ears. A quiet sound of horse's neighing. The concerning fact was that it came from an unusual direction. Rivers stood, listening, as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard grew impatient. "The hell you doing, Rivers?"
Instead of answering, one of the many commanders of Aegon Targaryen stood silent, and stood frozen.
"Anyone in there?" Ser Rolly tilted his head to the side, looking at his comrade.
"Shut up and listen." He replied, quietly, unwilling to disturb his session.
Neigh. The sounds of marching. "Someone's there."
Rolly went mute along with Tristan. Now they watched into the mist, hoping to see anything. And indeed, out of there came a horseman, traveling on their side, failing to notice the two knights atop the monticule. He was still far away, but Rolly Duckfield was able to tell his sigil. "Tyrell. What the hell are our allies, Tyrells, doing here?"
Triston was always a sharper man. Thus, he knew what this was about. Seeing the soldiers behind the Tyrell wearing tabards with Tommen's personal sigil further confirmed that. "None of the allies coming our way. This one's a traitor in every way possible."
"Ain't that Lord Mace's favourite?" Lord Commander decided to inquire, merely emphasizing that he knew some things as well. And he did.
"Still a traitor nevertheless. There's blood on his tabard. Torn a bit. They're moving slowly, barely dragging their shields and weapons. His horse is hacking." That brought a meek smile on Tristan's face. "Seems good old Jon was more than successful." Then he started turning around. "Come, let's group up the men. Two charges, from each side, we'll literally destroy them."
"I'll back down a bit, but stay." Said Duckfield.
Rivers frowned. "Why the hell?"
"Someone has to take the head out. My lance's here."
"Taking him out. Not killing him. Hit his horse. We should get him alive."
"Sure." Rolly smiled.
Soon enough, the cavalry patrol was split equally on each side, ready to hit the Tommen men to the flanks, from the mist. Like ghosts. Rolly grinned at the thought of just how scared the Baratheon men would be once the lances strike.
Nevertheless, the knight soon rode to the top of the monticule, carrying a lance with a Targaryen banner on it. It snapped and spread beautifully on the wind.
That must've been the moment when all the blood in the enemy's veins froze.
Loras Tyrell was issuing orders to form ranks, but to no avail. The trembling of the ground was already clearly heard, as Ser Rolly was charging down the monticule.
His lance pierced the Tyrell's skull and the other cavalrymen led by Tristan Rivers rammed the usurper's soldiers. Dissaray soon followed, as the day came from white to red.