The cavalry swept through the Dornish camp, leaving a field strewn with bodies in their wake. After passing through, Samwell instructed Lucas to lead a second charge to crush any remaining resistance.
Samwell, meanwhile, waited atop his horse with Dawn at his side, observing the aftermath.
With his current strength, he could only manage two swings with the massive sword before exhaustion set in. He'd already expended one during the initial charge and was saving the other as a last resort.
Not that his help was necessary anymore. Most of the Dornish forces had already fallen to the surprise attack, and those who remained were too rattled to mount any serious defense. The terrifying suddenness of the attack, combined with the fiery light from Samwell's sword, had left the Dornish convinced they were under divine punishment, further sapping their will to fight.
Lucas and his forces swept through, rounding up those who surrendered while dealing with stragglers who resisted. Some of the Dornish managed to escape, but in the vast desert, hunting down every last one was impossible.
Within an hour, the skirmish was over.
Samwell sheathed Dawn, no longer needing to keep up appearances.
"Brother! We won!" Dickon ran over, jubilant. "Two hundred against four hundred! And we won! Seven bless us, it's a miracle!"
Samwell managed a modest smile, though he didn't share his brother's excitement. He'd once led seven hundred knights against an army of thousands in the Battle of Starfall—today's skirmish felt minor by comparison.
But Dickon's enthusiasm was boundless as he went on, "It has to be the gods' blessing, brother! Your fire sword—it has their blessing! They gave you the strength to cut through Dornish like butter! Long live my brother! Long live my brother! Ah, how I wish I could be knighted today! Brother, promise you'll knight me when I come of age?"
After calming his excited brother, Samwell turned to Lucas, who approached to ask about the prisoners.
"Interrogate them about Sandstone," Samwell ordered calmly. "We need to know how many forces the Qorgyle s still have and the location of their supply routes. Question multiple prisoners and compare their answers to verify accuracy."
"Yes, sir."
"And who commanded this force?"
"It was Lord Quentyn Qorgyle's eldest son, Ser Gullian Qorgyler."
"Bring him to me."
Lucas hesitated before replying, "I'm afraid Ser Gullian won't be coming, sir."
"He's dead?" Samwell frowned.
He wasn't particularly concerned about offending the Qorgyle by killing Sandstone's heir—this was war, after all. He was only disappointed to lose the opportunity to ransom him.
Seeing Samwell's expression, Lucas quickly clarified, "The battlefield was chaotic, my lord. No one paid special attention to Ser Gullian, but someone saw Sarya the mercenary put him down."
"That Riverlander woman?"
"Yes, she fought very bravely, killing three men on her own."
"Did she?" Samwell's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Impressive horsemanship."
"Quite skilled," Lucas agreed, though he, too, seemed troubled by the thought.
Samwell dismissed it for now. "Good. Now go and gather the intelligence we need. When you're done, have all the prisoners executed."
"Yes, sir," Lucas replied without hesitation.
Before long, they had the information.
According to the prisoners, Lord Quentyn Qorgyle had left Sandstone with three thousand men to reinforce the garrison at Skyreach, taking his younger son Ser Arlon with him. Sandstone now held only five hundred foot soldiers, plus an additional five hundred hastily recruited levies.
As for their supply route, the prisoners didn't know much. They only mentioned that every ten days or so, a supply caravan left Sandstone for Skyreach.
After cross-referencing the prisoners' statements, Lucas and his men moved in to finish the grisly task, executing the captives one by one. Soon, the sand was stained crimson.
Not wanting the scent of blood to draw more enemies, Samwell ordered an immediate departure once the field was cleared. They rode south through the desert, stopping for a rest only in the late hours of the night.
As exhausted soldiers dismounted, many dropped to the ground and fell asleep, still covered in the grime of battle. Lucas, along with three other riders, took up guard duty.
In the quiet night, the rolling dunes of the desert stretched like waves in a sea, and the crescent moon hung low in the sky, signaling the approach of dawn.
A faint noise roused Lucas from his half-doze, and he looked up to see the Riverlander mercenary woman, Sarya, emerging from the shadows.
"Just going to relieve myself, sir," she explained softly when she saw him watching.
Lucas gave a nod, his gaze lingering as she moved over the nearest dune and out of sight.
In the darkness, he heard the faint trickle of water, but then another sound—a strange, rustling noise.
"What are you doing?" Samwell's voice startled Sarya, who spun around, her heart nearly stopping.
She looked up to see both Samwell and Lucas standing atop the dune, watching her.
"Lord Samwell! How improper of you!" Sarya snapped, feigning outrage as she hastily fixed her clothing.
"Improper? You're the one being improper," Samwell replied coldly. "We took you in, yet here you are, acting suspiciously."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Samwell smirked. "Then show me what you're holding."
Unflinching, Sarya held up her hands, revealing a small scorpion. "I caught it crawling through the sand," she said nonchalantly.
"Impressive." Samwell raised an eyebrow. "Not many Riverlanders can handle scorpions better than a native Dornishman."
"I'm a mercenary, and I've taken plenty of jobs in Dorne. I know how to handle their poisonous creatures." She casually tossed the scorpion to the ground, then drew her sword and stabbed it, letting its black ichor stain the sand.
Lucas watched her closely. "I've heard the Qorgyle are known for breeding scorpions."
"Of course," Sarya replied easily. "Their sigil has three black scorpions, after all."
Lucas continued, "And rumor has it they breed a special type—the purple-tailed scorpion. Its venom is undetectable to people, but trained hounds can scent it from far off, tracking down anyone who carries it."
"Is that so? What an interesting creature," Sarya replied with a forced laugh.
But she'd noticed that several soldiers had quietly surrounded her, cutting off any escape.
"Miss Sarya," Lucas said, "were you using these scorpions to lead the Dornish riders to us?"
"You're mistaken, truly," Sarya protested, her voice tense. "If that were the case, how would our ambush have worked? Why didn't they discover us sooner?"
"That was divine luck," Samwell said calmly. "After the sandstorm, the wind was blowing against us, pushing your scorpion's trail back. The dogs never had a chance to pick up the scent."
"My lord, I swear, I'm a Riverlander," she insisted, her voice pleading.
"You have a Riverlander's face, yes," Samwell agreed. "But beneath that face runs Dornish blood. There's no point lying now. The prisoners we captured already told us who you really are."
"That's impossible!" Sarya exclaimed, reflexively denying it.
Her immediate reaction gave her away.
Samwell's smile widened. "So sure of that, are you? Perhaps because the only person who knew your identity—Lord Gullian's son—was killed by your own hand? Cold-hearted, even for a spy, killing an ally and a nobleman of your own house. Which makes me wonder just how deep your deception goes."
Sarya clamped her lips shut, but her eyes betrayed her anger.
"Not talking? Then allow me to guess." Samwell took a few steps closer, scrutinizing her carefully. "You look like a Riverlander, yes, but you claim to have learned swordplay from your father, and you mentioned a choice between a sword and tears. That reminded me of someone—a certain Sand Snake."
Sarya's eyes widened slightly.
"Your father, you said, was a mercenary—but he's also a Dornish prince, isn't he?" Samwell continued. "A Red Viper. So the choice he gave you wasn't between a sword and tears. It was between a spear and tears. And you chose the spear, didn't you, Obara Sand?"
Realizing her cover was blown, the eldest daughter of Prince Oberyn dropped her pretense. She looked at Samwell with new respect, murmuring, "Lord Samwell, you're every bit as sharp as my father warned me. A most dangerous man."
Samwell laughed, satisfied. "Thank your father for the compliment. Now, Lady Obara, lay down your weapons. We'll treat you according to your station."
Obara appeared to comply, removing her sword belt and tossing it to the ground. But as the weapon clattered on the sand, she lunged forward.
Her gaze was fierce, her movements like a hunting panther's. Though her sword lay in the dust, two daggers had somehow appeared in her hands, their blackened steel gleaming in the faint starlight.
Obara felt the thrill of the kill approaching as she closed the distance. Her aim was precise, her resolve unbreakable. She had him.
But Samwell reacted.
Obara was fast. But Samwell was faster.
Just as Obara closed the distance, a blur of motion from Samwell cut through the darkness.
A single, direct punch landed squarely in her abdomen, and the impact was so intense that she barely registered the pain before her vision blurred. Before she could react, Samwell's hand clamped onto her wrist, his grip as unyielding as iron.
With a swift, brutal twist, her arms gave a sickening pop as both shoulders dislocated.
Obara's knees buckled, and she fell to the sand, the world spinning. The daggers slipped from her grasp as her eyes fluttered shut, her consciousness slipping away.
Samwell bent down, reaching into the folds of her cloak, and pulled out a small black pouch made of animal hide. Inside, he found exactly what he expected seven or eight dark, purple-tailed scorpions, each one crawling inside the bag, venomous and deadly.
With a smile, he held up the bag for Lucas to see.
"Lucas," he said with a glint in his eye, "how would you feel about taking a bigger risk?"
(End of Chapter)