As they set off again, Samwell decisively removed his own double-headed eagle banner. He also ordered the knights from Horn Hill and the Vale to take down their flags, replacing them with those of the Qorgyle family—three black scorpions on a red field.
The disguise was rudimentary. A close look would reveal they were outsiders, given their different appearances, weaponry, and armor. But from a distance, they'd be hard to distinguish from real Qorgyle soldiers.
This simple disguise led to an amusing, if unexpected, mishap.
One of Samwell's scouting teams, venturing too far, got slightly lost and happened upon another group bearing the red scorpion banner. Mistaking them for allies, they rode over to meet them—only to realize, too late, that the other party was a real Qorgyle patrol.
The two scouts panicked, recognizing their blunder only after noticing that the enemy cavalry numbered far more than their own force. In their fright, they made a hasty decision: they turned and bolted.
Had they kept their distance and stayed calm, the Dornish riders might not have noticed the difference and could have thought the scouts were merely fellow patrols. But a sudden retreat drew immediate suspicion, and a dozen Dornish horsemen quickly pursued.
Samwell was livid when he saw his scouts returning with a full Dornish patrol on their heels.
"Lord! Dornish cavalry—four hundred riders!" the two frantic scouts shouted as they galloped toward him.
Samwell's command was immediate: "Retreat!"
In war, the unexpected can turn the tide, and today, it seemed the gods had not finished toying with them.
Just as the Dornish and Samwell's riders had spotted each other and were engaged in a full chase, the skies darkened and fierce winds arose. A sandstorm had rolled in—a massive wall of sand sweeping across the horizon with astonishing speed.
In an instant, the two groups of riders were swallowed by the advancing sandstorm, reduced to mere ants in the vast sea of sand.
Samwell quickly wrapped a cloth around his face, shielding his mouth and nose. His visibility reduced to nearly zero, he called for his soldiers to cluster together, arranging their horses in a tight circle to provide shelter against the storm.
In the face of this natural calamity, the rivalry between the two sides became irrelevant. Survival was the only goal.
Hand in hand, the men gathered closely, heads down, waiting out the brutal onslaught of sand. The storm raged for nearly two hours.
When the winds finally calmed, Samwell opened his eyes to a transformed landscape. The surrounding dunes were all reshaped, the familiar contours of the desert utterly altered. Had he not known they hadn't moved, he'd have thought they'd been blown to an entirely new location.
The storm, though chaotic, had worked in their favor. All traces of their movement were now buried under sand.
As his brother Dickon took count of their forces, Samwell sent his hawk aloft to scout from above. Soon after, Dickon reported back—all their men were safe, though they'd lost two horses to quicksand, swallowed up as they floundered in the shifting sands.
It was a better outcome than Samwell had anticipated. The men were safe, and as each soldier had two mounts, they could absorb the loss without much consequence.
After a brief rest, Samwell dispatched new scouts with strict orders not to wander too far. This time, he also sent out his hawk to verify the Dornishmen's position and avoid another mishap.
His hawk quickly spotted the Dornish patrol. Strangely, they'd somehow ended up ahead of Samwell's force. At some point during the sandstorm, they must have passed each other by mere inches, both oblivious to the other's presence. And to Samwell's surprise, the Dornish commander had neglected to leave scouts behind, as if confident that nothing could be hiding behind them.
Typically, one would not station scouts behind their own lines—after all, they'd just crossed that ground. But this oversight left Samwell breathless with excitement.
A golden opportunity had presented itself.
"Lucas!" Samwell called to his knight. "Order all scouts to return immediately."
Lucas, slightly puzzled, asked, "But, Lord, without scouts, how will we advance?"
"Just follow me!" Samwell commanded, not explaining further.
Lucas, though unsure of his lord's intentions, obeyed without question. Once all scouts were recalled, Samwell took the lead, guided by his hawk, heading slowly south.
Soon enough, they came upon the tracks left by the Dornish force.
The atmosphere within Samwell's ranks shifted, everyone's breath quickening with anticipation. Without needing further orders, the soldiers moved in complete silence, careful to reduce any noise that might betray their approach. The tension grew, killing intent simmering beneath the quiet as they closed the gap.
Samwell's plan was risky. He was betting that the Dornish force had no idea their target was right on their tail. He gambled that the enemy commander would not send scouts back to recheck his path. He wagered that he could get close enough to strike before being discovered. Though the Dornish cavalry outnumbered his own two-to-one, a well-executed surprise attack would tip the scales in his favor.
Originally, Samwell had intended to be cautious and avoid such risks. But when the goddess of victory handed him an opportunity like this, ignoring it would be criminal. Moreover, he estimated that this group represented all the mounted forces the Qorgyle family could muster. Sandstone was not a wealthy region; supporting four hundred cavalry was likely their limit.
If he destroyed this force, he'd be free to roam the desert near Sandstone, while any remaining infantry would be too slow to catch him. After this, he could continue his raids without significant opposition. Taking a risk now seemed entirely worth it.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting the desert in a warm golden hue, Samwell came to a halt, and his troops followed, sensing his intentions.
In the fading light, the Dornish force also stopped to rest.
"Dismount, rest, and eat," Samwell ordered in a low voice. "No fires."
The men silently obeyed, chewing on their rations and drinking water in preparation for the upcoming attack.
Time dragged in the tense silence as they waited. When the sun finally disappeared and the stars began to appear faintly in the sky, Samwell was the first to mount his horse again. The others followed without a word, moving with ghostly stealth in the gathering darkness.
They left behind spare horses and heavy baggage, donned their armor, and advanced, guided by the tracks left by the unsuspecting Dornish.
In the dusky twilight, the Dornish soldiers were oblivious to the danger creeping up from behind. They'd posted no fires, confident that they were alone in the desert, unaware that death stalked them in the shadows.
Closer and closer.
Samwell could smell the scent of horses and the faint aroma of Dornish spices wafting on the breeze. Even the wind seemed to favor him tonight, blowing in his direction, masking his approach.
Dickon, barely containing his eagerness, gave his brother a look, asking silently if they should charge.
Samwell shook his head.
They moved even closer.
Now they were so near that a Dornishman would only need to turn his head to see them. It was risky—too risky. But Samwell was eerily calm. His heart beat steadily, his hands steady on the reins.
For Dickon, however, it was nearly unbearable. Even Lucas Dayne, usually level-headed, was visibly anxious, worried they were pushing their luck too far.
Finally, Samwell gave the signal, gently spurring his horse forward.
The desert wind picked up, and as if on cue, two hundred riders broke into a full gallop. The sound of hooves echoed across the sand, impossible to conceal any longer.
The Dornishmen were caught completely off guard.
They'd just finished their evening meal, many beginning to settle for sleep, when they felt the earth tremble.
Barking sounded from their camp, the dogs alerting them just moments before the first shouts rang out: "Enemy attack! Enemy attack!"
Confusion filled their ranks. Soldiers scrambled in a panic, some already having removed their armor for the night. With the enemy so close, there was no time to properly equip themselves; they grabbed what weapons they could and frantically mounted their horses.
Some fled in terror, others tried to organize a defense, but chaos had already spread. The officers attempted to restore order, but fear and confusion were overpowering.
Into this mayhem charged Samwell's force.
His two hundred riders formed a sharp wedge, cutting through the disorganized Dornish ranks with terrifying momentum. At the head of this charge, a blazing red light erupted from Samwell's sword, Dawn, like the first glimmer of dawn piercing the night.
But the dawn he brought was one of death.
(End of Chapter)