The golden kraken of the Iron Islands, the sun-piercing spear of Dorne, the sun-and-moon of Tarth, and the crowned stag of Storm's End rode side by side. Their banners wove together in the wind, painting a rare picture.
This joint column moved at a leisurely pace along the Kingsroad. To the untrained eye, it might have seemed a chance meeting of travelers, but beneath the surface lay a cautious calculation—safety was the paramount consensus in everyone's mind.
Elia had not informed the Mad King of her decision to leave Rhaegar with her daughter, Rhaenys.
No one could predict how Aerys II would react upon learning this news; after all, this was a monarch who would suddenly order nobles burned alive at a feast.
The main force of the Iron Islands had already taken the route via Riverrun, heading back toward Ironman's Bay in a mighty procession. Only Euron insisted on traveling with the Dornish, determined to personally escort Elia and Ashara further south. They would traverse the rugged hills bordering the Riverlands and the Stormlands, all the way to distant Storm's End. From there, the two ladies would take a ship across the turbulent Shipbreaker Bay to finally return to the soil of Dorne.
Only the most loyal core remained by Euron's side:
Gwendolyn, the Red Priestess, followed silently, her flame-red robes snapping in the wind like an unquenchable fire of faith.
Dagmer Cleftjaw, steady as a reef, his scarred face etched with the marks of time and unchanging loyalty.
Victoria Daniels, the Sorrowful Man assassin, kept a discreet distance, neither too close nor too far.
And twenty elite Ironborn warriors, each a survivor of the harsh culling on Pyke. They were silent, their eyes sharp as knives, the salt and smoke of the Iron Islands seeped into their very bones.
Though small in number, this squad was like a finely tempered dagger—elite and dangerous.
---
When Robert Baratheon learned at Harrenhal that Princess Elia intended to divorce Rhaegar and take her daughter back to Dorne, he burst into laughter that shook the stone walls of the hall.
"Good! Good! Good!" He drank three toasts in succession, his rugged face flushed with excitement, his broad palm thumping his chest. "On my turf, you can rest easy! Be it the Mad King or that self-righteous Rhaegar, whoever dares to stop us—"
His voice suddenly turned sharp, the fierce courage of a Storm Lord flashing in his eyes. "—whether it's Gold Cloaks or Kingsguard, I, Robert Baratheon, will kill them all!"
He could never forgive Rhaegar for the humiliation at the tourney—that arrogant prince daring to crown his betrothed, Lyanna, as the Queen of Love and Beauty in front of everyone. It not only sullied Lyanna's reputation but was a public trampling of the honor of Houses Baratheon and Stark.
Watching Elia choose to leave Rhaegar, Robert felt a surge of vindictive pleasure.
"Let those Targaryens understand," Robert's voice echoed like a storm in the hall, "not everyone is willing to endure their arrogance and madness!"
Lord Selwyn Tarth of Evenfall Hall and his daughter Brienne joined the southbound procession with dozens of Tarth knights. As bannermen to Robert, Lord of the Stormlands, they were traveling to Storm's End both to report and to catch a ship back to Tarth.
Few knew that Brienne harbored a simple, pure wish. The maiden rode silently in the column, her azure eyes frequently drifting to the figure at the front, his hair tousled by the sea breeze—Euron Greyjoy.
Whenever Euron discussed routes with Dagmer or spoke in low tones with the Red Priestess, Brienne would unconsciously slow her horse, just to catch one more glimpse of him. For her, this journey south was not just a road home, but a precious span of time—she simply wanted to share the same road a little longer with the Ironborn youth who had shone so brilliantly at the tourney.
Lord Selwyn saw his daughter's thoughts but merely sighed in tacit permission. He waved his hand, ordering the Tarth knights to merge into the column, their banners adding another unique stroke to this already peculiar group.
---
Euron rode at the very front, his dark curls dancing in the wind, constantly scanning the woods and hills lining the road. Both he and Robert Baratheon had publicly angered the Mad King at the tourney. When facing a deranged ruler, common sense and boundaries were nonexistent.
"Remember," Euron had told Oberyn and Robert, "we cannot judge the Mad King's actions with reason. An ambush on the road? For him, that's just an afternoon pastime."
Every knight in the column remained vigilant. Dornish spearmen and Ironborn axemen coordinated, covering front and rear, forming an invisible protective net. Ashara Dayne rode her grey mare close to Elia, her pale blonde hair flying in the wind like a gentle banner.
Little Rhaenys was held tight in her mother's arms, oblivious to the impending danger, occasionally letting out bell-like laughter. Yet every adult understood—on this road to Storm's End, every shadow might hide the Iron Throne's blade, and every gust of wind might carry killing intent from King's Landing.
---
The shadows of the Kingswood danced as dappled sunlight filtered through layers of leaves onto the marching column. In this tranquility, the rapid, rhythmic sound of hooves suddenly erupted from behind, rolling like distant thunder, shattering the forest's peace.
A troop of nearly a hundred Gold Cloaks galloped from the end of the road, kicking up clouds of dust. They had clearly ridden hard; horses foamed at the mouth, and golden cloaks were stained with dirt, yet they maintained the majesty of the Crown. After receiving the raven's message, they had ridden day and night to catch their target here.
The leading knight spurred his horse forward a few paces, his voice loud but restrained: "Is that Her Royal Highness, Princess Elia, ahead?"
The column halted. Knights of Dorne, the Iron Islands, and Storm's End quietly adjusted their formation, creating a protective barrier.
Princess Elia frowned slightly, stroking the uneasy Rhaenys in her arms. Her gaze was calm as she looked at the newcomer. Sunlight illuminated her pale, dignified face; in those deep eyes characteristic of House Martell, a look of understanding and caution flashed.
The entire Kingswood seemed to freeze in that moment. Only the heavy breathing of the Gold Cloaks' horses and the occasional birdcall pierced the tense atmosphere.
The carriage curtain was lifted gently by a slender hand. Princess Elia's face appeared pale in the shadows. She looked steadily at the man, her voice soft as a Dornish breeze but clear: "I am Elia. And you are?"
The knight in the gold cloak bowed slightly in his saddle, armor clinking. "I am Jacelyn Bywater, Captain of the City Watch of King's Landing."
Elia's fingertips tightened unconsciously, but she remained composed. "Ser Jacelyn, may I ask why you are here?"
Jacelyn's voice was steady but unquestionable. "I have come to escort the Princess back to King's Landing."
In the brief silence, only the wind in the trees and the restless stamping of horses could be heard.
Elia took a deep breath. Her voice was light but carried unshakeable resolve. "There is no need. I have made it very clear to Prince Rhaegar. I am taking Rhaenys back to Dorne."
Her gaze drifted past Jacelyn toward the south, as if she could already see the red dunes and sunlit courtyards of Dorne. This was not just a reply to the captain, but a princess's declaration of her own fate.
Jacelyn Bywater's hand rested steadily on his sword hilt. "Whether Prince Rhaegar agrees is not for us to question. We follow the orders personally issued by His Grace, the King."
Before Elia could respond, a black horse charged out like a whirlwind. Oberyn Martell blocked the path to his sister's carriage. His narrow eyes burned with a fury as hot as the Dornish desert.
"It's all the same whose order it is!" He sneered. "My sister has dissolved her engagement with Prince Rhaegar. Now she returns to Dorne with me. If you know what's good for you, take your men and crawl back to King's Landing immediately!"
Jacelyn slowly drew his longsword, the steel glinting coldly in the forest light. "The King's command cannot be disobeyed, my Prince. Please do not make this difficult."
He dares to draw steel?!
Just as Euron and Oberyn exchanged a glance, preparing to give the order to attack, another figure moved faster than both of them.
Robert Baratheon was already charging, his warhammer swinging up like a storm. His mighty roar shook the forest:
"Enough of this shit! You want a fight? Let's fight! KILL THEM ALL!!!"
His massive frame seemed to transform into a cyclone as he smashed straight into the Gold Cloaks, Stormland knights following close behind. The scream of his warhammer tearing the air became the loudest overture to this inevitable conflict.
---
The Gold Cloaks of King's Landing were indeed well-equipped. Their new armor shone like mirrors in the sunlight, every plate polished to a sheen. Their swords were sharp and cold, without a single scratch from battle.
It was this excessive, perfect cleanliness that exposed their fatal flaw—a lack of true battlefield tempering.
Compared to the elites of Storm's End, Dorne, and the Iron Islands—who had just fought their way out of the meat grinder of the Harrenhal melee—these City Watchmen were leagues behind.
When Robert's hammer ripped through the air, when Oberyn's spear struck like a viper, when Euron's blade carved a lethal arc—the chilling killing intent condensed from life-and-death struggle made many Gold Cloaks tremble, barely able to hold their weapons.
The battle was one-sided from the start. The neat formation of the Gold Cloaks was shattered in the first clash. Ornate armor proved as fragile as children's toys before battle-hardened warriors. The clash of steel, the neighing of horses, and screams of terror instantly filled the clearing.
As majestic as the City Watch had looked upon arrival, their retreat was equally pathetic.
Many didn't even have time to turn their horses before being knocked from their saddles; more scattered in panic, fleeing in all directions, casting aside so-called royal commands and duty. The conflict rapidly devolved into a complete rout. Their shiny armor and discarded weapons glinted ironically in the sun.
A cold light flashed in Euron's eyes. He shouted, "Wipe them out! Leave no one alive! If one escapes, a swarm will follow!"
Oberyn understood instantly, waving his spear forward. "Chase them down! Spare no one!"
Cavalry from Dorne and the Iron Islands shot out like cheetahs, launching a ruthless pursuit through the woods. Amidst flashing blades, Gold Cloaks fell one by one, their screams echoing through the Kingswood.
In the chaos, only Captain Jacelyn Bywater showed superior survival instincts. Ruthlessly using his comrades' bodies as shields, he spurred his horse into a desperate gallop, his armor stained with the blood of his own men. Just as he was about to break through the encirclement and escape into the deep forest—
A lithe figure leaped from the shadows like a ghost. With a flash of cold light, a longsword cut through the air, piercing precisely through Jacelyn's breastplate and pinning him hard to the ground.
Euron narrowed his eyes, recognizing the assassin who had quietly appeared.
Wenda the White Fawn.
She stood quietly in the forest, petite yet radiating a heart-stopping killing aura, as if she were one with the woods themselves.