[center][sup][h1][img]https://i.imgur.com/wUF0E7v.png[/img]
[b][color=orange]A S H F O R D   M E A D O W S[/color][/b][/h1][/sup][/center]

[sub]collaboration with [@Dusty][/sub]
[color=khaki][i][h3]One Day Prior…[/h3][/i][/color]

            “Lord Brant, I want you to divide your squadron into smaller detachments of twenty or eighty horse and conduct reconnaissance in the areas of Starpike, Whitegrove, Ashford, Cider Hall, and Longtable. Do not become decisively engaged with anyone from the Reach. I am looking for any assembled hosts from the rebels. They may be flying the Peake or Blackfyre banners.” Ser Tylan Fowler gave instructions to Ser Brant Blackmont, son of Ser Gordon Blackmont, brother to the Lord of Blackmont. Lord Brant commanded the cavalry squadron from his house to conduct the primary reconnaissance. “If you spot any formations, get as much detail as you can and report back to me. If the enemy should pursue, give them some parting shots, but do not become engaged in a melee fight. Live to fight another day. Your purpose is to acquire information.”
        	“Aye, sir!” Lord Brant responded.
        	“Lord Willem, position your squadron north of the main body of Spearmen moving through the marches. Send out a troop ahead of the Spearmen so they do not walk into an ambush. Watch your left flank and be prepared to assist Lord Brant of House Blackmont if he is being pursued by Rebels. If he is being chased, engage in melee combat with the enemy for no more than fifteen minutes and then break off your fight and return to the main body.”
        	“Fear Our Venom!” Lord Willem responded with his House Words in affirmation.
        	“Ser Darris, your squadron should follow about a mile behind the Scorpion’s Squadron and perform the same task as Lord Willem. Assist Lord Brant’s cavalry if they are being pursued.” Ser Darris Uller is the legitimate son of Dorrin Uller, Lord of Hellholt. His brother Jarden Sands would accompany him with the Cavalry.
        	“Burning Bright, m’lord!” Ser Darris Uller, at age twenty and four years, was a hot-tempered young man. He was prone to running off and attacking when he should not. His bastard brother Jarden was the more level-headed of the two. Tylan Fowler hoped the younger brother could rein Ser Darris in.
        	“Ser Yronwood, you can lead the spearmen through the Marches. Keep them moving. Don’t stop for anything. I will be by your side for most of the trip.” Tyran Fowler felt confident in Russell Yronwood’s leadership ability. “Keep your wife’s cousin, Lord Tavian, safe. Your wife just might appreciate that.”
        	“Yes, m’lord,” Ser Rusty took note of all the instructions and formations this Dorne host was taking on its mission.
        	Fowler’s host left Nightsong at early light. The cavalry galloped off to take up their positions to the north and east. The cavalry thinned and spread out through the lands of House Carron and House Peake. They were curious and eager to meet the enemy. There wasn’t a man among them who was foolish enough to think they might be able to take on a much more powerful Reach Lord if they encountered one. Except for Lord Darris Uller. The Ullers had a reputation for being slightly crazy at the wrong times.
 
[color=khaki][i][h3]The next day…[/h3][/i][/color]
         	Brant Blackmont neared the river south of Ashford. They searched for a bridge or ford across the river. Following him were twenty men from his house wearing the yellow tabard of his house with the black vulture carrying a pink infant in its claws. The soldiers were quiet in their approach, being cautious, knowing they could bump into the enemy at any moment.
        	Ashford is also known as Ashford Castle and can be found in the shape of a triangle, which is considered an odd shape for a castle. The city has round thirty-foot towers at each of its three points. Between the towers run thick crenelated walls. The orange banners of House Ashford can be seen fluttering in the breeze above the battlements. Before Brent Blackmont ever reached Ashford Castle, he and his men could see a small inn on the far side of the river near a mill that had burned years earlier.
        	They found a ford across the river and made their way into the woods near Ashford Castle. After a brief movement through the forest, they could see the outline of the castle to the west. The castle showed no signs of movement. The group of twenty riders made their way north to see if there was any movement along the road network. When they came out of the woods, they made their way up a small rise of hills. Upon cresting the highest, Brant Blackmont spotted dust rising to both the east and the west. Within several minutes, they identified a few thousand infantry supported by cavalry displaying the banners of House Peake. The Dornish cavalry was able to spot the brown banners of House Selmy moving towards them from the west. Their host appeared to be slightly larger than the Peake’s.
        	“This is exactly the sort of information Lord Fowler was seeking,” Lord Brant spoke softly to himself.
        	“Ser Blackmont!” One of his riders shouted, pointing to the north-east. Brant peered in the direction the man was looking. He could see many Reach Cavalry heading towards their location. The soldiers wore the tabard of House Peake
        	“It is time to depart these happy hills, my friends, and make haste back to Lord Fowler.” The detachment of Dornish Cavalry turned on their heels and raced off towards the river. They anticipated a much larger force of Dornish Cavalry from Sandstone to be somewhere south of the river to cover their movement to the south.
	A hundred pairs of hooves thundered across the open lands. The flower of the Reach’s nobility set forth in pursuit, alerted to the Dornish light cavalry's presence. Adorned in full gleaming armor and wielding ten-foot lances, they made the picture of gallant courage and ferocity. Lord Gormon himself led the way, astride his red destrier stallion, who tossed his head whinnying in hot-blooded temper. Even the horses were in fighting spirit, and after weeks on the road, man and beast alike were eager to shed the lifeforce of the reviled Dornish. They’d left their standards in place, an attempt to lure the light scouts closer, and now crested a small rise, a half mile separating them from the foe. In a moment, the Dornish turned and fled before the oncoming horse. Gormon rallied his riders, his spurs drawing blood from the flanks of his destrier. “See how the sand blooded flee? After them, I say! Drive them into the river. Steel shall taste flesh and stain these waters red! For King Blackfyre and the March!”
	“For the King and March!” Came the reply from a hundred throats. They drove the warhorses into a gallop, skilled riders leaping over obstacles that barred their paths, stones, fences, fallen trees; it mattered not. The fastest pulled ahead, eager to be the first to claim a kill, yet ever before them went Gormon himself, his face hidden behind a heavy armet helm. He plunged into the forest in hot pursuit, his knights following hard on his heels. Drawing in his lance, Gormon held it at half-length to prevent the weapon from being caught in the branches. The trees slowed them, scattering the riders through the underbrush, but onwards they went undeterred. Glimpses of retreating Martell colors led them on. Shouts and taunts filled the woodland, sending startled birds skyward, while herds of deer sprang clear.
	“Manfrey!” Lord Brant shouted as the twenty riders spurred on to the southeast. “Blow the signal! Blow the signal!” Whether or not anyone was at a distance to listen to him was something Brant Blackstone may never know. His bugler let loose a cacophony of bugle calls, alerting the surrounding countryside that contact with the enemy had been made and that at least his squadron should turn in toward the Marches. The light cavalry pushed on as hard as they could. It could take almost an hour of racing ahead of the Peake Cavalry before they reached the squadron from Sandstone. [i]‘Hopefully, Ser Willem will hear the bugle call,’[/i] Brant thought to himself. He would at least hear the pounding of hooves heading in his direction.
 	Fortunately, for Ser Brant, his pursuers did not catch him before he reached relative safety. Ser Willem did hear something. “Face to the left!” Ser Willem yelled. “Open Ranks!” The three troops of cavalry in the first rank, numbering two hundred forty, stopped moving, turned their mounts to the left. Each horse had at least two meters of space between them. The second rank, with one hundred sixty cavalrymen, repeated the movement of the first rank. About five meters of spacing between the first and second ranks. “First rank, ready shields and spears! Second rank, ready bows!” Ser Willem yelled in command. He intended to send a few volleys of arrows at the enemy when they appeared and engage them with the spear when they got close.
	The sound of twenty hooves pounding on the earth resonated across the field on which the Sandstone cavalry was formed up. Each man wore a red tabard with three black scorpions on the facing. They readied themselves for the onslaught about to strike them. They knew not from whom, just that this was their moment to shine…or die.
	The Blackmont cavalry erupted over a slight rise to see Sandstone’s finest arrayed in formation. They spurred their mounts to push past their Dornish brothers and head for the infantry formation more than a few miles beyond this squadron of light cavalry. Brant’s riders were out of the fight. The Sandstone Scorpions would accept the charge from whoever rose to face them.
	They did not have to wait long. Lord Gormon whipped the reins of his steed, urging the great beast onward. The horse’s flanks heaved from the spirited ride, its mouth foaming, sweat wetting the dark red fur. He could feel the powerful muscles flexing under him as they surged together over the rise. The sight laid out before him might have faltered a lesser man. Outnumbering the oncoming Marchers four to one, the Dornish waited in ambush like a scorpion poised to strike. The metaphorical tail flashed, and hundreds of arrows hissed forth, clattering off cavalry shields, armor, and barding alike. Screams of agony from both man and horse could be heard as proud knights were thrown from their saddles, or merely slumped where barbed shafts found purchase through gaps in steel. The great red destrier under Gormon neighed wretchedly, an arrow lodging itself between the barding and shoulder bone, where ringmail and plate did not protect. It was everything he could do to cling on as the stallion reared and bucked. Somehow, he managed to keep himself from being thrown. A second volley snaked through the hesitating Marchermen, and more knights fell. 
	“The Others take you, cravens! Sssssdeaaaath!” A wild howl escaped Gormon, and he drove his spurs deep. The red stallion reared again, and furiously they charged. Numbers be damned. He would not turn and flee when the enemy was so close at hand. Behind him, his knights reacted accordingly. Trained since they could walk to ride and hate Dornish, they would not sit idly while their liege pushed forward alone. They followed lances couched, at full tilt across the open ground, a steady roar rising from their throats, ninety now thanks to the marksmanship of the scorpion’s tail. The third buzz of arrows whistled harmlessly over their heads, the horse archers taken unawares by the sudden surge of movement. There wouldn’t be time to unleash a fourth. Already, Lord Gormon spotted the man he would kill. A Dornish knight or lordling, a red cockatrice adorning his tabard. The foemen rallied forward in a counter charge, long spears and round shields against war lance and triangular shields. A deadly array of color, horse, and man. Gormon could almost taste their fear. Reach knights were fearsome when they came to grips in the melee, and their lances were longer. The first rank of men-at-arms would fall like autumn leaves before the armored charge. His lance remained steady on target, his horse raged and screamed. Gormon braced himself against his stirrups, his white-knuckled grip crushing the pine lance. They closed faster now, a blur of movement. Thirty meters, ten, five.
	The Dornish knight perished before he hit the ground in a tumultuous crash of metal, a foot and a half of Gormon’s lance protruding from his heart. His own spear deflected off Gormon’s shield, leaving a long gash upon the orange-painted oakwood. Throwing away the ruined lance, Gormon whipped free his mace, a wicked flanged head the shape of a castle tower on a three-foot Ashwood shaft. His momentum carried him forward through the din of milling horses and warriors until he met a second man, one hurriedly stowing his bow and reaching for a sword. The mace swung in a deadly arc, crushing the man’s helm and scattering brains and viscera and bits of skull from the force of it. The fury of his charge carried him past the battle line, and he drew his horse up short, spinning around in his eagerness to return to battle. The red beast stumbled but regained its footing, and again they charged. Another horse archer rode up, scimitar in hand. They met, clashing in a series of blows that sent reverberations down Gormon’s arm. This man did not wish to die and fought like it; nevertheless, he rode against Lord Gormon himself. The red stallion surged forward of its own accord and sank its teeth into the Dornishman’s leg, biting to the bone. The doomed wailed in agony until Gormon caught his sword arm in a downward blow, and then his chin in the following upswing. The man collapsed from his saddle, silent besides an agonized gurgle through his ruined jaw. Taking a moment to catch his breath, Lord Gormon cast about, looking for a fourth warrior to kill. Searching for the enemy commander.
	Ser Willem Qorgyle set his formation ready to receive whoever charged over the rise. He had no idea what enemy force the Lord of Blackmont had dragged into his ambush. It did not take long to uncover the prey stepping, no charging into his kill zone. But what he saw was a bit unsettling. As a Dornish lord, training in the martial arts of armed combat was a custom passed on through the generations. His brother, Lawson, the Lord of Sandstone, rode with the Prince and should have camped out near Summerhall. Ser Willem volunteered to lead the cavalry contribution from their house. His younger brother, Brandon, led the 2nd spearmen regiment with their Liege-Lord. Ser Willem enjoyed being on campaign and took pride in his accomplishments as well as those of his House. Their father had passed years ago after the Prince of Dorne bent the knee to King Daeron I when he and his brothers were children. Many lords did not agree with their liege-lord, and Ser Samwel Qorgyle was one. During a minor revolt that ended up in the Lord of Sandstone’s death somewhere in the Red Mountains, ten-year-old Lawsen Qorgyle inherited the castle, lands, and titles of his father. Willem was only five at that time. Although they were told how their father died, they did not grow up hating the Targaryens. They honored their father’s death but chose to make a name for their house under Targaryen rule.
	The Reach Cavalry thundered forward. Although their numbers were fewer than the Men of House Qorgyle, they were better equipped and using lances rather than spears. The Dornish cavalry wore studded leather armor under their house tabard, a flaming red. Their steel conical helmet trimmed in a yellowish-orange cloth wrapped around the edging, showing fealty to House Martel. The soldiers of Dorne were not surprised, but a majority of their number were green to actual combat aside from the drills they practiced. The one trait they all possessed was confidence that they would prevail.
“Loose!” The Archery Master in the second rank yelled. A volley of one hundred sixty arrows flew through the air, striking a few riders either in the mount or the rider. Two more commands of loose and the attackers were too close.
	Racing to the center of the first rank, Ser Willem yelled, “Charge!” propelling the two hundred forty soldiers in the front of his squadron forward, armed with their small round shields and spears. The spear is no lance, significantly shorter and lighter. Wearing lighter armor, the Dornish soldiers planned to rely on greater flexibility in the saddle or the strength of their round steel shield to help deflect the lances away from them. The hooves thundered as the two lines neared one another. A relative quietness or at least eeriness surrounded the men on both sides just before the collision of men and horse, the crashing of wood and steel upon leather and steel; a loud explosion of might.
For most of the soldiers, success with deflecting the oncoming lance blows was achieved. Unfortunately for several soldiers, the lance, held by a seasoned warrior, found its mark. The pointed tip narrowly avoided the underside of a shield or penetrated studded leather armor, knocking the rider to the ground. In more than a few cases, the Dornish cavalrymen died within a few minutes of striking the ground. 
	A maelstrom of riders who had thrown or stabbed their spear quickly drew their Roynish scimitar to begin the conduct of a full-scale melee between the Peakes of Starpike and the riders of Sandstone. Orange and red-clad soldiers hacked and slashed at one another. 
	Ser Willem Qorgyle wore banded mail armor, which was light and comparably as strong as the armor worn by the men of the Reach. Ser Willem’s Grey Andalusian, named “Solaris,” behaved with a calm demeanor, but with athleticism and spirit. The horse was in control, knowing when to sidestep another horse or jump over a downed soldier. Willem reacted with an equal level of athleticism to his horse’s movement. Like his comrades, the younger brother to the Lord of Sandstone drew his uncle Rego’s scimitar, which contained more than a few emeralds and rubies. The hilt of the blade was painted black, and the blade was originally painted in red, but the color had worn off over the years of use and sharpening. Much of the blade shone its metal.
	Even with his visored helm, Willem could see a noble of House Peake charge into the second rank of riders as they were switching weapons. He wheeled his horse around and headed to confront this man. With shield and scimitar in hand, he rode hard towards his prey.
	All around, the conflict progressed into its most vicious stage. Bodies began to pile, horses trampling over wounded men. Meadow grass became torn into dirt, and blood ran thick, leaving only mud in the whirlwind of battle. The Dornish men-at-arms were brave, to their great credit. They swung scimitars, thrust spears, and loosed arrows, but more often than naught armor turned the blades. Sturdy oaken shields held against the onslaught while the knights retaliated in equal measure. The Reach knights knew how to fight Dornish light cavalry. They ignored the wickedly swift curved swords, letting them bounce off breastplate and helm, bullying forward on stronger steeds to bring down warhammer and mace in cruel arcs. Bones shattered, flesh split, and men died by the dozen. Ser Samuel Sootman, the huge knight wearing a sigil of a burning barn laid all about him, using a greatsword of immense length, aiming for horses as much as men. Riders would be thrown from their screaming mounts, and he would trample them under hoof mercilessly. Another knight, Ser Anthony Ambrose, still wielded his lance. He would keep his opponents at a distance, dancing away on a swift mare while he exploited weaknesses in his foemen’s armor, using the speed of his horse to drive the weapon home. For every Reach knight that became incapacitated or killed, three Dornishmen fell. The weight of numbers might still tell, but Ser Willem Qorgyle would need to act fast and defeat Lord Gormon before his soldiers' courage deserted them and the battle became a rout.
	They spotted each other across an open space between the warring horsemen. Three black scorpions amidst red like blood set against the triple castles on orange like molten rock. The scorpion raised its tail, claws outstretched to tear stone and mortar apart, whilst the sturdy keep prepared to break its foes upon walls unassailable. Together, they crashed in a ferocity unmatched by any around them. Men paused in their battling to watch, open-mouthed as lord and knight determined one-on-one who would take the field. Here on an unassuming stretch of Ashford meadow, one of them would perish.
	Lord Gormon grunted in frustration, his mace clanging once again off the boss of Willem’s round metal shield. The scimitar against him snuck around his defenses, leaving a stinging score across Gormon’s thigh. The grey steed the Dornishman rode would dart away, not letting itself be caught. Both horses bore multiple bite marks, but the mighty red Gormon rode breathed heavily, already worn down by the gallop to reach the battle and the preceding victories the duo had already won. Blood leaked down the beast’s foreleg, where the irritating arrow remained stuck fast, causing a spreading weakness to shake the muscles of the animal. Gormon could almost sense the growing weariness in his mount; if he became dismounted, he would surely lose. Willem closed once more, and the Lord of Starpike narrowed his eyes, determined not to let this wily scorpion escape him again.
	Willem sensed the time at hand; he could win. He drove Solaris forward, urging the horse to greater efforts. They powered straight into the opposing lord, horses slamming together in a flurry of hooves and gnashing teeth. The red stumbled, and Solaris fixed his jaws upon its opponent’s bloodstained neck. Meanwhile, the riders exchanged blows in equal savagery, Willem's scimitar clanging against Gormon’s helm, sounding ringing vibrations through the steel and causing stars to burst into Gormon’s vision. His round shield warded away the mace that sent bone-shuddering blows through Willem’s arm. Down came the scimitar once again, in a heavy, telegraphed blow that would surely send the lord slumping from his seat.
	The Lord of Starpike saw his chance. He threw away his shield, splintered to ruin, and caught the sword blade in his hand, closing gauntleted fingers around the blade like a vice. It would have been wise for Willem to release his sword and break away again to retrieve a fresh weapon, but he tested his strength against Gormon’s to his undoing. He tried everything in his power to wrench his blade free, but to no avail. Having no hands available, Gormon let the mace fall and grabbed a fistful of the red’s mane, wrenching back to bring the stallion rearing onto its hind legs. Willem cried with dismay as he followed, still stubbornly holding onto his scimitar. He only thought to let go when he was halfway out of the saddle, his grey panicking beneath him. He sat vulnerable, dangling precariously sideways off the edge of his saddle, struggling to regain his seat as the red’s steel-shod hooves and the hilt of the captured sword came crashing down on top of him.
	The terrible force of it snapped his spine and sent the proud knight tumbling into the mud. A slap from the scimitar sent Solaris away, and Gormon urged his red stallion to rear high in the air again. Once, twice, thrice he drove the hooves onto the prostrate form of his defeated enemy. If it had been a knight from the Westerlands, or the Crownlands, or even a far-flung northerner, Gormon might have shown mercy. There was no space in his heart for such restraint for the Dornish. 
	Leaving the dead man where he lay, Gormon switched the captured scimitar from his left to his right, inspecting the fine weapon. The rubies embedded in the hilt glimmered all the more beautiful for being won in glorious conquest. Meryn would appreciate the curved blade, he thought, running a thumb down the edge to check the sharpness. His youngest son would revel in the tale of the fight and admire how his father won. Thrusting the sword safely into his belt, Gormon leaned down from the horse and reacquired his mace before straightening and surveying the battlefield once more.
The Dornish Cavalry from House Qorgyle could see their numbers thinning, more so than the riders from House Peake. When their Commander, Ser Willem’s beaten, twisted body flung upon the ground, the Dornish cavalrymen fled to the south. The grey horse ridden into battle by Ser Willem ran with the remainder of the horses of his squadron.
	A Man-at-Arms, named Howar, rallied the survivors from House Qorgyle and rode to the front of the column to locate Ser Fowler. “M’Lord!” Howar called Ser Fowler as he rode forward. “M’Lord!” Lord Fowler and Ser Yronwood turned to see the rider, who was bloodied and worn. His horse lathered from the ride.
	“M’Lord, we were set upon by a company of heavy cavalry in the meadows south of Ashford. They were Lord Gorman Peake’s men. I believe he may have led this company. I am afraid we lost at least a hundred men in the fight, and probably another hundred were badly injured. Ser Willem did not make it. He fought bravely against Ser Gorman personally, and the Peake Lord bested him. I fear he may intend to pursue the column.”
	“Send a rider ahead to Summerhall. Inform our Prince that House Peake and House Salmy are in the area. We should arrive before nightfall.” Lord Fowler was concerned with the heavy losses in one of his squadrons. He would need to keep Lord Uller’s and Lord Blackmont’s squadrons available to counter this move.