Chapter Text
Part 3
War Child
The Glimpse of Shining Armor
The morning sun broke over Highgarden like a slow exhale—soft and golden, the kind of light that made the stone of the keep glow warm despite the cold within Grayson’s chest.
He stood still while a young servant fastened the buckles of his new armor. The boy’s hands trembled slightly, and Grayson wondered if he noticed how his own did the same. The breastplate was polished to a mirror shine, etched with a modest crest—his family’s hawk, wings tucked and diving. It fit snugly, not the borrowed plate of a knight twice his size, but forged for him. A gift from Lord Mace, delivered without ceremony and yet heavy with meaning.
Grayson had trained in armor before. He knew the weight, the restriction. But this—this felt different. Final. Real.
“You’ll grow into it, my Lord,” the servant boy mumbled as he adjusted the brace on Grayson’s left arm.
Grayson nodded. “Thank you.”
The boy paused, looked like he might say something more, then thought better of it and disappeared through the tent’s flap.
Grayson reached for the sword resting on the stand beside him. The steel glinted clean and straight, the leather grip wrapped to his preference, the pommel weight perfectly balanced. He gave it a few slow swings, the motion familiar. Comforting. It had arrived only two days ago, with a sealed note bearing the family's crest. No words—just a sword. That was Byron Hornscout’s way.
He inspected the edge, then sheathed it with care.
Next, he took up the dagger lying on the table. Short, curved slightly, simple in design. He’d carried one since his thirteenth nameday. It had a twin. The second pair had been Wina’s. He had given it to her before the march, pressing it into her hands without explanation.
“Keep it,” he’d told her. “Even roses need thorns.”
She had smiled, only a little. “Then don’t you go needing yours.”
Now he tucked his dagger back into the hidden sheath at his boot.
The camp stirred to life around him—clanking metal, the whinny of horses, voices muffled through canvas. Banners rose like waking giants, green and gold fluttering alongside the sigils of vassals from across the Reach. The Hornscouts, the Tarlys, the Hightowers, the Fossoways. The knights were mounted, the squires ready. The wind carried the scent of steel, leather, and dry bread.
Grayson stood with the rest of the riders in the yard, armor strapped tight, sword sheathed at his hip. His heart beat like a war drum.
Lord Randyll Tarly gave a brief command—no speech, no sentiment. That wasn’t his way. Discipline, not drama.
That was left to Lord Mace, who stood atop the southern ramparts with a flourish of his green-and-gold cloak. His voice carried across the courtyard, full of pride and pomp.
“The Reach rides for House Targaryen!” Mace Tyrell called. “This is what we were made for.”
He raised his arms wide, gesturing toward the horizon. “Let the wolf whimper, the lion sulk—and the stag, who broke the peace, will learn that no antler pierces the garden. The stormlords will bend… or bleed!”
The lords and knights roared in response, steel clashing against shields.
“They all will learn that the rose rises!” Mace cried. Then he turned to the ranks—green-cloaked, sword-belted, young and old alike. “And my sons—my sons will carry our banner to glory!”
Grayson didn’t cheer. He couldn’t. He didn’t feel like a son of glory.
But he lifted his chin. He set his jaw. And when the horns sounded, he spurred his horse forward.
The road to Ashford wound through green hills gone dry in the early summer heat. Dust curled beneath hooves and wheels. Birds scattered overhead, startled by the thunder of a thousand men on the march.
Grayson rode near the center of the vanguard, his cousins Arec and Eren just ahead, chatting in low tones. Lord Tarly and their fathers rode further up, always silent, always watching. Behind them stretched the banners, the pikes, the baggage carts—all of it moving as one great beast toward the edge of the Reach.
To war.
Grayson should have been nervous. But something else lived in him now. Not calm. Not confidence, exactly. Something harder. Sharper.
He rode with his head high.
This was the test he had been shaped for. The hours in the yard, the bruises, the lectures at Lord Mace’s side. The sword dance. The lessons on flanking maneuvers and siege lines. The moments of doubt. The shame of hesitation.
He had trained too long to flinch now.
When they paused to water the horses at a stream, he dismounted and knelt by the edge, splashing cold water onto his face. His reflection stared back—older than he remembered. The boy who left Highgarden was not the same as the one who had arrived two years before. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.
“We’ll reach Ashford by dusk tomorrow,” Eren said, stepping beside him with a flask in hand. “Scouts say they’re still encamped north of the town. Fortified but exposed.”
“Then it begins,” Grayson murmured.
Eren glanced at him. “How’s the armor?”
“Fits.”
“Feels different, though.”
“Yes.”
Eren smiled, thin and knowing. “It always does. Until the first clash.”
Grayson didn’t answer. He stood and brushed the water from his hands.
They rode again.
The sun sank lower, turning the road ahead to molten orange. Somewhere in the haze, smoke curled from the horizon—faint, distant. Ashford.
Grayson narrowed his eyes.
He wasn’t a knight. Not yet. He hadn’t earned the spurs. But something told him that would not matter tomorrow.
What mattered was steel in hand. A calm breath. A steady heart.
And the will to stand.
The field stretched wide before them—gold and brown and dead. No trees. No shade. Just churned-up earth, brittle grass, and the stink of horses, leather, and sweat. Clouds hung low like bruises, muffling the sun to a dull glow. In the distance, the Stormland banners waved—stags rampant on gold—flanked by jagged ranks of men and steel, unmoving but watchful.
It was not yet battle. Not quite.
Grayson stood among the infantry, armor newly polished, sword sheathed but ready. The cool breeze did nothing to stop the sweat running down his spine. His breastplate shifted with each breath. The leather straps felt too tight, then too loose. He adjusted them again.
Someone coughed nearby. A horse stamped restlessly. And all the while, the space between the two armies yawned open like a wound waiting to split.
Earlier, Lord Randyll Tarly had ridden to the center of the field under a white flag, flanked by two riders bearing the rose of Highgarden. From the other side, a single rider met them—thick of chest, broad of shoulder, warhammer across his back. Robert Baratheon. No words reached the lines, but every man strained to listen. The meeting was short. A few minutes. A few nods. Then they parted.
Whatever offer had been made, it had not been enough. The battle became inevitable.
Now the waiting stretched long.
Grayson clutched the hilt of his sword and rolled his shoulders. “Looks like it’s truly happening,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.
Beside him, his father stood tall, helmet cradled under one arm. His eyes roamed the field with the casual scan of a man who had seen too many just like it.
Grayson cleared his throat. “When it starts… will I know what to do?”
Byron didn’t answer immediately. “No. Not at first. The first time is chaos. It always is.”
Grayson nodded, too quickly. “Right. But I’ll hold. I’ve trained for this.”
“You’ve trained,” Byron agreed. “But training is a clean thing. This is not.” He paused, then added, “You don’t win your first battle. You survive it.”
Grayson didn’t reply. His fingers flexed around the hilt. It felt heavier now. Everything did.
He glanced around the ranks. Some men whispered prayers. Others made crude jokes, hiding their nerves behind laughter. Grayson tried to match that steadiness. He stood tall. Set his jaw. Forced his feet to stay planted.
Byron turned to him again, reading something in his silence. “You scared?” he asked, quieter this time.
Grayson hesitated. “…Yes, Father.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Byron’s mouth. “Good. Means you’re already a soldier.”
Then he reached out—a rough hand brushing through Grayson’s hair in a motion too gentle for this place. No more words. No lecture. Just that quiet touch. Then he turned and walked away toward his mount, shoulders square, helm under his arm.
Grayson watched him go. Something tightened in his throat. Not fear. Not exactly. Something older.
He stood alone now, surrounded by the low murmur of men shifting, adjusting armor, whispering to their gods or no one at all. A breeze stirred the brittle grass, carried the scent of horse sweat and oil and cold steel. It was quiet, but not peacefully so. It was the quiet of a held breath.
Somewhere in the ranks, a raven called once and was gone.
Grayson’s fingers curled around the hilt of his sword again. His palms were damp inside the leather gloves.
The moment stretched.
No one moved. No one dared. The space between the armies still yawned wide, but it was shrinking now—not in distance, but in time. Grayson could feel it, the way a hunter knows when the arrow is coming loose.
And then—
Drums.
Low and thunderous, like the slow heartbeat of something massive waking beneath the hills. The Reach answered first—measured, deliberate. Then the Stormlanders replied: faster, sharper, like a taunt. Horns followed—long, braying cries that echoed off steel and sky.
War had found its rhythm.
Standards lifted, banners snapping in the rising wind. The green-and-gold rose of Highgarden unfurled above the Reachmen’s line, proud and bright. Across the field, the stag of Storm’s End tossed its antlers at the sky.
From the hill across the line came the final signal: a single, piercing blast of the horn that split the hush like lightning splits a stormcloud.
Grayson flinched at the sound.
The Stormlanders were marching now—tight ranks of men with heavy shields, surging forward with the grim weight of certainty.
And then the sky darkened.
The first volley of arrows loosed with a sound like tearing silk. High above the battlefield they arced—sharp and swift, glinting like ash in sunlight—before falling fast and cruel into the oncoming line. Screams rose. Shields buckled. The rhythm of the march staggered.
Another volley followed.
Grayson caught the green and red of Hornscout fletching between the blur of shafts—a mark only the forest-born carried. Their arrows struck true: not many, but precise. Always precise.
Then the command came for the charge.
And the cavalry moved.
Steel and sunlight thundered together, lances lowered, hooves pounding the earth in rhythm. Lord Randyll Tarly led the charge, his green-and-silver cloak flaring like a banner behind him. The seasoned knights of the Reach rode in formation at his back, their movement fluid, practiced, and grim.
Grayson stood just behind the cavalry line, among the foot ranks, watching them ride. As the first wave surged past, he caught a glimpse—a single look—his father, atop his horse, helm in place now, face shadowed beneath the visor. But for a moment, Byron turned his head across the distance and met his son’s eyes.
A nod. No words. Just a soldier’s farewell.
He turned back, lance braced, spurred his mount, and disappeared into the charge.
Then: impact.
Metal shrieked. Wood shattered. Screams lifted like crows into the sky. From a distance, it looked like two tides colliding—the smooth, galloping line of cavalry crashing into the jagged bristle of spears and shields. Horses reared, some toppling mid-gallop as they hit the Stormlander front like waves against cliffs. Plumes of dust burst upward, swallowing men and banners in a haze of chaos. The clash rippled outward—not a break, but a brutal folding, as if the earth itself had buckled under the weight of war.
Grayson flinched.
The sound of the collision echoed a heartbeat later—deafening, primal, as if the gods themselves had struck the sky. Dust spiraled high into the air, veiling the first rows of cavalry in a cloud of blood and earth. He watched shapes move through it—blurred, violent, chaotic. Men dragged from saddles. Lances shattered against shields. Steel sparked against steel.
From the infantry lines, it looked like the world had torn open.
Grayson stood rooted. The ground felt too solid beneath his boots, the space between him and the battle too thin. Around him, men whispered prayers or clutched tokens of the Seven. One soldier nearby was retching quietly into the grass.
He felt it in his gut—the gnawing pull to act, to move, but also to run. His legs were tight with the need to do both.
Grayson exhaled slowly and slammed his helmet shut. His heart thundered.
Then the horn blew again.
A long, rising call. The infantry’s signal.
“Advance!” a captain bellowed.
The lines stirred. Grayson gripped his sword tighter and stepped forward with the rest. His feet felt heavy, armor dragging at his limbs like chains, but he moved. One step, then another. The sound of boots around him—hundreds, thousands—beat out the rhythm of a coming storm.
Arec turned, shouting through the clamor, “With me!”
Grayson found him in the crush—his cousin already halfway toward the slope, sword drawn, eyes wild with heat and courage.
Eren followed next, lifting his shield high. “Now, Grayson! Go!”
The field was no longer wide and empty. It was closing in, fast—full of shapes and blood and noise. Ahead, the Reach’s cavalry was locked with the Stormlanders in a brutal knot of violence, and the infantry would soon join the fray.
Then Arec ran. Eren beside him. And Grayson—without a horse, without the years they had—ran after them, feet thudding against packed dirt, heart slamming in his ears. Every step he took felt heavier. Every step a little closer to death. To killing.
He tightened his grip on the sword again. Not some practice blade. Not wood. Not dull. Steel. Sharp enough to spill blood. His breath came in fast, shallow bursts. Around him, shields clanged, boots thundered, men shouted prayers and names and promises they wouldn’t live to keep.
Grayson tried to remember what Lord Tarly had said during training: Keep your shield high. Keep your footing. Don’t think—react. You only get to hesitate once.
His mouth was dry. The wind carried the coppery tang of blood.
Only yards away until the line of battle, Grayson saw little more than a blur of yellow and chainmail—and then there was no room for fear. Only motion. Only noise. Only the clash of blade on blade.
He caught up just as the lines smashed together.
And his battle had begun.