The battle erupted abruptly.
Dropping Obara's lifeless body, Samwell murmured to himself, "The Red Viper truly lives up to his name," then hoisted his warhammer, bracing for combat.
The Dornish soldiers seemed hesitant to defile the Four-Faced God statues blocking the doors, opting to use ladders to scale the walls and attack from the second level instead. Perhaps they thought conquering the sept wouldn't be difficult, so there was no need to risk offending the Seven.
Who knew if they would stay so pious once the fight wore on and frustration set in.
Despite the slight advantage the statues provided, the battle was brutal.
The sept was not a fortress. Its design made defense difficult, and since the defenders were all cavalry, their weaponry and skills were tailored for charges rather than close-quarters combat.
In just under two hours, the Dornish soldiers managed to breach the second floor, bringing the fight to savage, hand-to-hand combat. Samwell swung his hammer fiercely, each blow devastatingly powerful. Shielded soldiers were thrown back, shields shattered and ribs broken by his strength alone.
But the tide was turning against them.
The Dornish were too many.
One by one, Samwell's comrades fell. Even his younger brother, Dickon, was wounded. In desperation, Samwell finally reached for his greatsword.
Once he drew Dawn, the battlefield fell silent as the blade's fire flared, engulfing ten or so Dornish in flames, their bodies igniting as they screamed.
This horrific sight seemed to momentarily stall the assault, fear gripping the invaders.
But it was only a pause, not an end. The Dornish soldiers, hardened by war and inspired by Prince Oberyn's presence below, soon charged again, undeterred. These were disciplined soldiers, not peasants, and the Red Viper's relentless oversight only fueled their aggression.
Samwell struck down another wave, slashing through ten more soldiers, but he dared not attempt a third strike. He knew that if it failed to repel them, he'd be left vulnerable, defenseless.
Seeing his reluctance, the Dornish surged forward again with renewed ferocity.
Just when the line was about to break, the Dornish forces suddenly withdrew as swiftly as they'd arrived.
Samwell exhaled a sigh of relief, yet suspicion gnawed at him. What had caused their retreat?
He sent his falcon into the air to survey the scene. Soon, he discovered that the Iron Throne's forces had resumed their assault on the northern gate, drawing the Dornish forces back to defend it. Still, a group of soldiers remained behind to keep the sept surrounded.
For now, Samwell and his company could catch their breath.
In just half a day, the Dornish onslaught had cost them over sixty men, leaving the sept shrouded in a grim and somber silence.
"Hold on, everyone!" Lord Yohn Royce stepped forward to rally his troops. "The Dornish won't last much longer. The Iron Throne's forces breached the city once—they'll do it again. All we need to do is endure a few more days. Victory is ours!"
He led the soldiers in a prayer to the Seven, and slowly, the men's spirits began to lift, at least outwardly.
Samwell tended to Dickon's injured arm, but he couldn't share his comrades' optimism.
Through his falcon's eyes, he had seen that the Iron Throne's army seemed to lack any real fervor. Their soldiers attacked sluggishly, almost reluctantly, retreating at the slightest resistance.
The Iron Throne's strategy felt off. Having already breached the walls once, their forces should be storming in with everything they had.
He quietly shared his concerns with Lord Yohn Royce.
"We can't control the battle outside," Royce said, clearly frustrated as well. "No matter what's going on out there, our only choice is to hold the sept and keep as many Dornish as we can occupied here."
Samwell nodded reluctantly. Trapped deep within enemy territory, they could only hunker down and wait.
Over the next several days, the Dornish launched a dozen more attacks on the sept. Although the assaults grew weaker each time, their casualties continued to rise. Morale was dropping fast, and worse yet, their supplies were running low.
The food held out, but they'd run out of water. The sept had no internal well, forcing Royce to order the slaughter of their horses for blood.
Horse blood was briny and unpleasant, but at least it staved off thirst.
On the ninth day, rain finally came. Inside the sept, the men were ecstatic, gathering on the second floor to drink rainwater directly from the sky.
Seeing this, the Dornish immediately attacked, forcing both sides into yet another bloody battle as rain and blood mingled on the ground, creating a surreal, haunting scene.
The Dornish finally withdrew at noon, leaving Samwell soaked and exhausted. He was just beginning to take off his armor when a knight from the Vale ran over.
"Lord Caesar, Lord Yohn... he's been gravely wounded."
Samwell's heart sank as he caught the knight's expression. "Gravely" might be an understatement.
Leaving his armor on, he hurried to the north side of the sept, where he found Yohn Royce lying on the ground, bleeding heavily.
"Didn't I tell you?" Royce murmured with a faint smile. "This bronze armor can't protect me from everything."
Samwell knelt, examining the wound. An arrow had found a gap in the side of Royce's armor, piercing his left chest. Blood pooled around him, and despite his son Robar's frantic efforts, it kept flowing.
"Enough, Robar," Yohn said softly. "Those who wear this armor don't die peacefully. Why should I be any different?"
"Father…" Robar's voice choked with tears.
Royce looked to Samwell. "Lord Caesar, I can't lead these men anymore. I leave them in your hands. Bring them victory."
Samwell nodded solemnly.
"Your armor has taken quite a beating," Royce noted with a weak laugh, gesturing at Samwell's damaged cuirass.
True enough, Samwell's armor was battered beyond recognition, with a large dent in the chest and a shattered vambrace on his right hand.
"Take mine," Royce said, motioning for Robar to help remove his armor. "I won't be needing it anymore."
Caught off guard, Samwell hesitated, feeling a mixture of gratitude and sadness. "I'll honor your gift, my lord."
Once his armor was removed, Royce lay back, breathing heavily. He whispered with his remaining strength, "Kill the Red Viper, and it's yours."
"Father!" Robar objected, distraught at the idea of parting with the family's legacy armor.
But Royce's gaze was unwavering as he looked at Samwell. "Well? Will you accept? This armor has never brought its wearers a peaceful end. They all died on the battlefield."
Samwell tensed, realizing why Lord Yohn Royce had always been so cautious.
"Is it… cursed?" he asked.
"Maybe," Royce chuckled faintly. "The choice is yours."
Samwell paused only briefly, then began removing his own armor to accept the bronze plate.
Lord Royce gave him an approving nod. "Blessing and curse are two sides of the same coin, Lord Caesar. If you can bear the curse, the gods will grant you their blessing."
As Samwell donned the armor, he felt the unyielding chill of the bronze metal. It bore no bloodstains, no scratches from countless battles. The bronze itself held strange patterns, ancient symbols that looked almost like hieroglyphs etched by time itself.
It was a lighter armor than most, affording greater freedom of movement but less coverage. Samwell found he could don it without the need of a squire.
Royce's voice, a whisper now, broke his reverie. "Remember her name."
Samwell turned, puzzled. "Her name?"
"Time," Royce rasped, his eyes distant, as if seeing through centuries past. "Time erodes all… yet, we remember."
Samwell felt the armor's solemn weight and the cold, ancient presence emanating from it. Holding the helmet, he repeated the word to himself. "Time…"
"Time," Royce echoed, eyes fixed upon the bronze armor, his gaze reaching through the ages. "Time erases all, but we remember."
Samwell lifted the bronze helmet, slipping it over his head, and suddenly Royce's words sounded distant, as if spoken across a vast expanse.
In his mind's eye, mist swirled, and visions shifted.
When they cleared, Samwell found himself facing an immense wall of ice. It rose skyward, a cold barrier stretching across the land as if dividing the world.
The Wall.
The bitter frost in the air made Samwell shiver as he took in the sight of weirwoods all around him, their trunks carved with ancient faces, crimson sap streaming down like tears.
From the shadows, seven figures emerged, each clad in bronze armor. At their head stood a man who looked just like him.
Reality reeled, the vision fracturing. In a final glimpse, Samwell saw a woman as pale as winter itself.
Her skin was white as snow, her lips bloodless, her eyes void of warmth, with a crown of winter roses adorning her head. In a world of stark whiteness, the single red petal was vibrant, almost alive.
As the vision shattered, shouts echoed around him, drawing him back.
Yohn Royce had closed his eyes for the last time.
Even in death, the bronze armor seemed to hum with coldness, as if reminding him of something.
Samwell bowed to the body of Lord Yohn and uttered the Royce family motto:
"We remember."
(End of Chapter)