The sun flew over the skies of the Stormlands, covered by cloud and radiating a heavy gold at the edges. A few drops of rain lightly hit the soldiers below, cold against the warm and sweating skin, a soft chill spread across the field, blowing grass and hair. Wolves prowled in the woods to either side, hungering for the dead and dying, the rebel's first move was to kill them and send archers to take to the woods. The rebel commander was an old knight, not unskilled at command, but willing to train each and every one of his men. The loyalists had the hunched and half-blind Gris Baratheon, lacking in the strength that had brought his family to the throne once, but having the intellect of two crowned stags, the social skills taken from a third. Gris as a commander would draw many a comparison to Stannis Baratheon, a poor diplomat and hard man who still inspired loyalty in his men, a smart man where other stags would be strong, using cunning against brute force.

Stormlanders were bred warriors, known for their excellent bowmen and hefty constitution, all were preparing for a battle, the only visible difference between the two sides was the banner they flew. The loyalist host flew a Baratheon stag, while the rebels flew a simple black flag. The rebels were peasantry mostly, though not well armed, they were of a resilient lot, spending long days lifting and dropping. The loyalist host was made of professional warriors, they had not the numbers, but they had superior equipment and training, for every one slain, he would bring three others to the Stranger with him. The rebel archers would be fewer in number, but they were more in skill, mostly old huntsman and their children, veterans and their understudies, while the loyalists had more bows, the rebels were better at aiming and hiding. 

Ser Bartimus had sent his huntsman to take the woods, he sent his farmers up to the front to hold the men there while the veteran archers shot them from either side, his own elite units, comparable to a loyalist foot brigade, would stay in the back with the cavalry, defending the baggage train and standing in reserve.

The walls of Storm's End were in chaos. Everywhere, people were rushing around, trying to get at least one thing done, but any productivity was impossible in the huge crowd massing on the walls. Captains hastily checked the condition of their soldiers, and nobody was in ideal condition. Their armor was sloppily donned, and in most cases, half of it was hanging off of them. Those in the back rank were trying to finish up while still appearing to stay in rank. They failed at both. While all of this was happening, everyone was being peppered by falling arrows slung from the forests and masses of rebels. Bowmen on the walls were returning fire, but it seemed that with every one taken down twenty more swarm through. A few have even given up, instead hiding behind the turrets and praying to the Seven, trying to atone for whatever it is that caused them to deserve such a predicament.

A messenger was posted outside of Gris's bedroom. His job was to take whatever Gris wrote and run it to the highest general he could find. A page slipped under. Upon it was written "They are peasants. They may have a cause, but no battle experience. Assemble all of your cavalry and scare them off. Go into the lower studies, and retrieve for me Kyle's Thunder." The messenger didn't know what Kyle's Thunder was, but he ran to find a general nonetheless.

Bartimus smacked his discarded glove against his horse's arse, stumbling over to the rest of the men with clumsy purpose before looking at the huge castle before them. "Storm's End is big, but it's been taken before, Aegon the second coming and Daenarys did it, why can't we?"
"'Cause we don't have dragons ya' bloody tosspot." Bartimus was mildly offended, but pressed on with his plan, walking up towards the walls and hailing the guard."OY! You! Archers!" An arrow wizzed just by his head.
"Don't do that! I'd like a word with Lord Gris, if he surrenders there'll be no need for any blood." The archers laughed and scoffed, Bartimus felt ignored and taunted.
"I'm ready to kill ya' all, get me Gris, or I'll give the or- Ah bugger it all!" He screamed much louder.
"OY! FIRE ON THE WALLS! DO IT!" A few arrows placidly smacked into the walls, before finally the full force of the rebel archers flew against the walls of Storm's End, like deadly raindrops they fell against the roofing and walls. Bartimus was very pleased.

The army had moved now, the infantry falling even further back, while the archers were poking their heads out of the trees to fire at the walls. The rain had progressed from small drops to dribbling against the castle, mud, which had already formed, began to turn more and more to liquid, to the benefit of the rebel forces, who began hiding in the mud to avoid returning fire.

Screams of pain rang out on the walls as the rebel's flurry of arrows hit. More than one archer fell behind the walls, clutching at an eye with an arrow's stump portruding out. Below, commander of the garrison Norman was mustering up the paltry cavalry from the paltry forces they had.

"Alright, you lot!" he shouted, "In the saddles, swords ready! I don't want to see any delay! Any rider caught one second behind the man next to him will be hanged! Is that clear!?" A grumble of assent rose up from the mass of horsemen as they mounted their steeds. The thick mud would be horrible for a cavalry charge. Their only hope was that the act of charging itself would force the ill-trained peasantry to rout. Norman took an appraising look at the soldiers in their seats. Then, he jumped up on his own horse. "Listen up! They may be many, they may be hidden, and they may be killers, but we have one thing they don't! We have spirit! And I believe, that the spirit in us shall triumph against any injustice, be it inferior numbers, uneven terrain, and especially treason! CHARGE!"

Gris, along with three others, set the iron tube down at the center of the wall, pointing towards the rebel infantry. He was noticably shaking, glaring accusingly at anyone who looked at him.

"Leave me," he said to the other three, his voice seeming to quaver. They saluted quickly, and departed to join the ranks. Alone and unwatched, Gris began to work. He grabbed a heavy orb, letting it roll into the tube. Then, he took a piece of rock and a shard of steel, and began hammering them together. They created a spark, hitting a notch. The end of the tube let out a resounding BANG! followed by an eruption of smoke. The tightly packed ranks of the peasants were suddenly broken, as if a huge sword or spear cut a line into them. The footmen on the wall emerged from the turrets, praising the warrior at the top of their lungs.

The screams of the wounded, dead and dying filled the air, the remaining men of the stuck unit turned and fled immediately, Bartimus, who was right next to the walls, fell to the ground at the sound, a ringing in his ears and silence from the mouths of the screaming peasants. Whatever weapon had struck them had managed to practically destroy the front line of infantry, though the arrows continued from the woods, in a fewer number, but still noticably, apparently the huntsman thought the woods would provide them a little bit of safety, Bartimus also noticed the cavalry had gone against his orders and approached the castle, hiding beneath the walls in an attempt to avoid the powerful weapon. The knights that they had managed to recruit dismounted and walked to the moat, standing in front of where the drawbridge would fall, most had small castles of their own, and those that didn't were hedgeknights that had served castle-born lords. Whatever the case, the army had taken a large hit, and those that did remain would be forced to hide in fear of the weapon that had forced their comrades limb-from-limb.

Bartimus screamed at the knights after his ears had stopped ringing. "Fall back you fools! Let the archers do this, you lot just go to the walls!" The knights seemed not to respond, so Bartimus simply yelled louder. He continued yelling for quite a bit, but the knights refused to budge, standing before the gates and waiting.

Norman and his regiment galloped through the wet ground, their horses foaming at the mouth. They weathered the constant presence of arrow fire, occasionally losing a horse or a rider. By the time they reached the main branch of the enemy, they had lost more than half of what they started with. The horses crashed through the enemy line, trampling a few hidden archers along the way. The knights, with their heavy cavalry swords, began wildly swinging into the masses, cutting faces, necks, and torsos.

The rebel knights seemingly decreased in size as they noticed the loyalists riding into their host behind them, but instead of taking to the melee, they ran over to their horses and led the rest of the cavalry in a charge, as they were to begin, Bartimus met with them just in front of the walls. "Listen to me! If you go in front of the archers, they'll shoot you, have any of you ever been in battle before? I'm guessing not, just let our men hold the line, they know what to do here."

The knights had charged into a line of peasants armed mostly with spears and pitchforks when they couldn't afford spears, a fight that they (the knights) still looked sure to win, but one that would be a lot more difficult than if the men had worse weaponry, the archers turned from shooting at the walls to catch the now stuck knights in a deadly crossfire, willing to hit friendlies if it would rout the enemy. The much longer line also turned at the flanks, capturing the knights within. Bartimus was pleased. "Now we wait under the walls to catch any infantry, they can't hit us here."

"Shit! We're surrounded!" Shouted one of the knights, just beginning to comprehend the situation through all the blood. A few others, realizing what he had just said, turned and ran from the fray.

"Cowards!" shouted Norman. "The rest of you, fight to the last man!" But it didn't do anything to stop one rider trying to escape, then two, then three, until the only person left was Norman himself. Choiceless, he dropped his sword and raised up his hands.

"They're at the wall! They're at the wall!" yelled a captain, peering horrified at the rebels bashing at the sturdy gates. Footmen carrying steaming cauldrons and lugging huge boulders lined the walls. Rocks and oil began pouring down on the gate.

The leaderless peasantry and footmen were unwilling to accept surrender, and quickly moved in on Norman, no leader figure stepping up to tell them to leave him alive, they were looking for revenge for those that had fallen to Norman's men, they were looking to take his armor to sell, they were undisciplined and unwilling to stop, and no one cared to try to make them.

The knights at the gate were hit with oil and stones, a few falling and being killed, but more fell back to their horses, riding towards the woods where the archers were still firing, Bartimus among them, they had taken casualties, but they would still be able to fight, the archers turning back to firing on the walls.

The commanders on the walls knew it. Gris knew it. The archers on the walls knew it. No matter how hard they fought, there was not going to be a victory for the Stormlanders. Gris angrily retreated back to his room, jotted down a few things on a sheet of parchment, and handed it to a messenger. Immediately, he felt a shooting pain go up his spine.

The messenger took a small horse and rode out to the forest, waving a white flag. He stopped, and unrolled the parchment.

"Honorable foes of the Rebellion! The lord Gris of the house Baratheon recognises your strength on the battlefield! He asks that you approve of a pause in the combat, and would like to discuss with your leader terms of peace!"

(working in unity with [@bluetommy2])