The Stormlands. Nightsong.
A year and a half of siege had reduced the once great castle to little more than a heap of ruins. Endless bombardment from dozens of siege engines, constant assaults, poisoned weapons, intimidation, the slow grinding down of morale, the want of every resource: the proud defenders of Nightsong had endured trial after trial that would have broken any other men, but not the men of the Dornish Marches. They had won. They had held the castle and kept Dornish filth from ravaging their homeland.
Three hours later, what remained of the castle's garrison gathered on open ground behind Nightsong. Only four hundred were left of the nearly fifteen hundred who had started. They looked like walking corpses, many wounded, some sick, but despite it all, they were happy now. King Renly had come to their aid and lifted the cursed Dornishmen's siege. Now the rightful king of Westeros stood upon a low rise, thanking them for their service.
"My loyal warriors, you have all fought bravely and made great sacrifices for the sake of us all. Because of you, these lands will never again be threatened by barbarians who would ravage your lands! This battle will never be forgotten, nor will those who fought in it, from the highest lord to the lowliest unnamed soldier. Today, every one of you has written your name into history!" King Renly's gift for oratory was beyond question, and he wielded it well.
"I cannot heal your wounds, but I can at least offer some measure of reward. I will personally knight every soldier here, and each of you will receive thirty gold dragons, a set of armor, and full exemption from all taxes for the next five years. Those who distinguished themselves most will receive a grant of land in proportion to their contribution to our great cause." Such a wealth of rewards was met with cheering, shouts of support and approval. Ordinarily the smallfolk levies got nothing after a war, but Baratheon made no distinction here between highborn and common, and gave out well earned rewards generously.
"Go home now with your heads held high! You have my eternal gratitude for your efforts!"
"LONG LIVE KING RENLY!!!"
"LONG MAY HE REIGN!!!"
"KING RENLY BARATHEON!!!"
The men rejoiced; their personal nightmare had ended, and the time had come to reap what they had sown. Unfortunately, the Dornish had not stood for a full engagement; after a brief clash with the vanguard, they withdrew. That ran counter to the purpose of the campaign, which was to destroy the army of the Targaryen pretender, so the sand bastards were pursued, skirmishes broke out, and before long King Renly's army came up against the Kingsgrave, where a proper slaughter took place. The royal forces won; Dorne's army was broken, and it would take the Dornish at least two months to gather themselves back into a single fist capable of threatening the stability of the region.
No one doubted the campaign against the Dornish had succeeded, and at the king's request the lords began setting aside resources for the restoration of Nightsong. When the whole high command has a personal stake in rebuilding something, they can turn out to be remarkably generous, not from any lofty sentiment but from plain practical sense. Every lord knew from history how dangerous a Dornish invasion could be and wanted no part of enduring it again. Better, in their eyes, not to be stingy now and stop the sand bastards at the Marches than to fight them later on their own soil.
By the assurances of the rising star Lord Rowland Rogers, the new master of laws, and thanks to the generous support of the lords of both regions, Nightsong would recover its full defensive strength in under two months. Barring anything unforeseen, a Dornish invasion could be safely forgotten for a decade to come. Dorne's army had been badly mauled, forced during its retreat to abandon all its siege engines and hurry back to its own territory. The southern campaign could be counted a victory for King Renly's forces, and Dorne would not be able to quickly muster a force to match what it had thrown into the siege. And yet the lords took little comfort in it: the news from Sunspear was not good. Viserys Targaryen's fleet had reached Westeros.
The situation in the Stormlands would soon come to resemble the Reach's, only far worse. More than twenty thousand mounted horselords looked a good deal more fearsome than any ironborn, fit only for raiding coastal villages and small towns. Grasping the full scale of the trouble to come, the storm lords openly demanded to be allowed to return home and defend their own lands.
King Renly agreed with his vassals, and once again Baratheon's army was split into several parts. Some stayed to guard the Prince's Pass, some went off to prepare for the inevitable battle with the Dothraki, the rest marched to reinforce the fight against the Greyjoys. Only the northern army of reach near Ivy hall held any real interest. In the span of a couple of weeks, Willas Tyrell's force at the castle had swelled from seven thousand swords to fifteen thousand, a formidable strength, especially now, when every power on the continent stood weakened.
No enemy yet knew the reason behind the northern army's buildup, since it had previously served only to hold the Gold Road, a purpose that had become moot these last months now that Kevan Lannister had returned west with his army. And now Willas Tyrell had received his king's order, and his army marched off to war.
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