Robert Baratheon

Summerhall

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The army arrived at sunrise, marching the final miles in the predawn hours. They found Summerhall surrounded by Dornish flags, as expected, and a fair few of their own. It didn’t matter, as the Stormlander host arrived just as strong. It looked to be a perfectly matched fight.

“Summon Lord Swann,” Ser Robert ordered, dismounting from his own black steed. His own men-at-arms marched on, forming long lines of steel and gold to his left, facing the monstrosity before them. “Lady Connington, as well.”

There was no table, not many comforts. Instead a map was staked to a tree by a knife, and Robert stood beside it. Once his captains arrived, he explained. “Summerhall lay before us. Prepare the men for battle, everyone in the front lines-- no reserves. We’ll crush them with overwhelming numbers, send the dogs scurrying back into whatever sandy hole they crawled out of.”

He looked around. “Noble prisoners come to me first,” he instructed. “I do not want to hear of some Dornishman having a blood feud with the Stormlands. Not unless I initiate it.”

Lastly, a knight came up with the seven-colored banner. “Ride out and deliver them the following terms: abandon Summerhall and they will be allowed to march out of the keep unmolested to return to Dorne or to their farms. Their false King is dead, judged unworthy in the eyes of the gods. There is no reason left to fight.”