Chapter 57: Preparation
…
Richard POV
The hilltop was warm under the sun, the air alive with the earthy scent of fields stretching below.
The breeze stirred the tall grass around me, rustling softly as though whispering of the coming storm.
I sat tall in the saddle, Lancelot shifting beneath me, his muscles rippling with barely restrained energy.
My eyes remained fixed on the plains where the steady thud of boots echoed upward like the beat of a war drum.
Below in the distance, four formations of eighty men moved with mechanical precision.
Each man had rectangular shields strapped securely at their sides, with their spears angled upward, their polished tips glinting in the sunlight.
In front of each formation, a commander known as a centurion barked commands with sharp authority, while standard-bearers held high the black and gold banners of House Neméos, the roaring lion vivid against the sky.
These infantrymen, trained in the style of Roman legions gleaned from John Falcon's memories, would be the backbone of my army.
Behind me, my twenty knights waited in tense silence, destriers stamping against the ground.
Their tabards and shields bore the black and gold of House Neméos, the lion emblem seeming to roar defiantly in the summer breeze.
A distant rumble of hooves broke my focus. I turned to see a column of riders approaching, their formation tight even at a gallop.
At their head rode Ser Reynard, his posture straight and commanding.
The man who was in his early thirties had a story as scarred as his face—a knight of a fallen house who had survived the destruction of the Reynes by Tywin Lannister.
Under my banner, he had found purpose anew.
Eight moons ago, I had entrusted him with the garrison at Nemosport, a cornerstone of my vision for a professional army.
Under his stewardship, it had grown into a formidable military base, offering programs that laid the foundation for my ambitions: the knights' program for chivalric excellence, the infantry program for disciplined foot soldiers, the cavalry program to hone mastery on horseback, and the navy program for skilled seamen.
The riders slowed as they neared, dismounting in unison. Armor clinked and leather creaked as fifty men knelt, heads bowed in reverence.
Ser Reynard stepped forward, removing his helmet to reveal sharp green eyes framed by shoulder-length brown hair.
His voice was steady and clear as he addressed me. "My lord, the men of Nemosport greet you."
I inclined my head, my tone firm but even. "Rise, Ser Reynard. You and your men have done well arriving ahead of schedule."
Reynard straightened, a flicker of pride crossing his scarred face. "Thank you, my lord," he said, his voice steady before shifting back to business. "The men are trained, they stand ready for your orders."
"Good," I said, letting a faint smile touch my lips.
My gaze shifted briefly to the distant village, its rooftops just visible beyond the treeline.
"Make camp near the village," I said, pointing toward the distant settlement.
I turned back to Reynard. "Once everything is in order, gather the centurions at the village. I'll be waiting there."
He bowed deeply. "Yes, my lord." Without another word, he turned, and with his men they mounted their steed with practiced ease, riding down toward the infantry below.
Their movements were smooth, efficient, a reflection of the discipline I demanded.
As the riders merged with the ranks on the plains, my attention returned to the formations below.
The centurions continued leading the march toward the village, their voices cutting through the rhythmic sound of marching feet.
Shields gleamed, spears shifted, and the men moved as one, a wall of bronze and resolve.
Though they were well-trained and organized, they had never seen battle.
No amount of training could replicate the chaos of real combat—the clash of steel, the screams of the dying, the weight of a spear piercing flesh. Those lessons could only be learned in the fire of battle.
I turned slightly, glancing back at my knights. They were my elite force, their loyalty unshakable, but like the infantry, most had never tasted battle. I had no illusions about the cost of their inexperience.
This conflict against House Stilwood, whose lord Ser Jamond now fumed over the silk-wrapped head of Qynton, his daughter's betrothed, would be their crucible.
A few hours later, I sat in a well-lit room. A map of Westerling lands stretched across the oak table before us, its surface marked with inked notations of villages, rivers, and bridges.
This map had been given to me personally by Gawen Westerling, who had expressed his desire to aid me in this conflict.
Around the table stood Ser Reynard, Erwen, and the four centurions, their expressions a mix of anticipation and resolve.
The weight of the task ahead rested heavily on their shoulders.
I leaned forward, hands resting on the table's edge, my gaze sweeping over the assembled men.
My eyes flicked to the map again, counting the forces we had gathered.
"About three hundred and twenty infantrymen led by the four centurions, around fifty cavalrymen led by Reynard, a hundred levies led by Erwin, and twenty of my knights," I murmured under my breath before lifting my eyes. "In total, we have close to five hundred men."
I straightened, my voice steady and firm. "This campaign will be swift and decisive. Three days. That's all I need from each of you. Three days to cripple Jamond's forces and arrive at his keep."
I paused, letting the words settle.
"On the first day, I want all the surrounding villages of House Stilwood bordering Neméos to be razed to the ground. Send word to the people that their lord has caused grave grievances against Neméos and that Neméos will be willing to take them in." My eyes swept over the table, ensuring every man understood the severity of the order.
They all responded with a silent nod, their faces hardening in resolve.
I turned to Erwin, meeting his gaze. "Set up camps to organize for the refugees that may be fleeing to Neméos."
Erwin nodded, his expression neutral. With his hundred men, he would stay at the rear of the line, managing the flow of refugees and supplies, ensuring nothing was lost in the chaos.
I considered the implications of what I had just said. This campaign would not just break House Stilwood; it would expand the influence of Neméos.
My land population was still small—only about fifty thousand souls lived in Neméos territory—but this would change that.
The people fleeing House Stilwood's territory would find refuge in my growing domain.
"On the second day, we will capture these objectives." I pointed to the marked villages, bridges, and forts on the map.
"All these positions will cut off any potential escape for Ser Jamond. I want him to either fight us head-on or risk being trapped in his own keep."
The four centurions nodded in unison, their plans already forming. They would lead the infantrymen to take these key positions, ensuring the roads and passages would be sealed.
"The cavalry will act as scouts," I continued, my gaze now shifting to Ser Reynard. "Sweep the lands, warn of any incoming forces, and ensure we know where Jamond's men are moving."
Reynard met my eyes with a resolute stare. "It will be done."
"On the third day," I said, drawing a deep breath, "if Jamond does not attack any of your positions, we will lay siege to his keep."
I could already feel the weight of those words settling upon the men. They understood the importance of the siege.
Unlike the first two days, which would be spent on swift offensives, the siege would be long—challenging, brutal, and unyielding.
Luckily for my men, I intended to join them on the third day, to personally oversee the final push.
The room was silent, each man aware of the stakes. The plan was set. The operation would begin.
…
Third POV
The solar was bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, the rays spilling through narrow windows to pool on the stone floor.
Shadows from the iron latticework danced along the walls, their shapes flickering in time with the dying fire in the hearth.
Jamond Stilwood sat slumped at his desk, the weight of his choices pressing heavily upon him.
It felt as though the chair beneath him was trying to swallow him whole.
His face was haggard—a portrait of a man unraveling.
Bloodshot eyes were rimmed with dark circles, his unkempt hair clung damply to his forehead, and his clenched jaw ached from the strain.
The desk before him was a battlefield of chaos. Ink-stained parchment was scattered everywhere, littered with half-written letters and desperate pleas.
At the center of the mess sat a single goblet of wine, emptied.
The stained letter from Lord Gawen Westerling lay atop the papers, its damning words burned into his mind.
You are no longer connected to House Westerling.
Jamond buried his face in his hands, the weight of those words suffocating him.
"Seven curse you, Qynton," he muttered, his voice hoarse and bitter. "You dragged us all into ruin."
The faint creak of the door behind him made him look up sharply. His face twisted in irritation.
"What now?" he barked, his voice harsher than he intended.
Elayne, his daughter stepped into the room, her footsteps soft against the threadbare carpet.
She hesitated for a moment, her amber eyes—so much like her late mother's—steady but tinged with unease.
"Father," she began, her voice calm but laced with tension. "A hundred conscripted men have arrived. But there aren't enough weapons or armor to equip them. What should we do?"
Jamond let out a bitter, humorless laugh. He leaned back in his chair, which groaned under his weight, and shook his head.
"Of course there aren't," he muttered, half to himself.
For a moment, he stared at the scattered papers on the desk, his mind racing through possibilities that all led to the same grim conclusion.
Finally, he exhaled heavily.
"Use the treasury," he said, his voice hollow. "The gold, the jewels—everything we've gathered. Send word to the neighboring houses. Tell them we'll pay for weapons and armor, whatever it costs."
Elayne blinked, surprise flickering across her face, but she quickly masked it.
"As you wish," she said softly. She gave a small nod and turned to leave, her movements brisk and deliberate.
The door closed behind her with a muted thud.
Jamond sagged forward once more, his elbows propped on the desk as he buried his face in his hands.
The golden light of the sun faded entirely, leaving the room dim and cold.
He clasped his hands together, his knuckles white as he began to whisper, his voice trembling with desperation. "Seven above, forgive me. Deliver me from this ruin. I beg you, grant me salvation."
His words, though fervent, felt hollow in the silence that followed. The gods gave no reply. Only the faint crackle of the hearth broke the stillness, a reminder of the fire's inevitable dying embers.
…
Author note: Sorry about the late update, procrastination got the better of me.
This chapter had so much to edit, it was originally 3,000 words and had many word dumps, but luckily I managed to narrow it down to 1800 words.
Expect another chapter today or tomorrow.