The icy rain continued to fall, drenching the battlefield as the slaughter dragged on. The thick stench of blood hung over the camp like a suffocating shroud.
Lord Selwyn Tarth, clad in armor, led a group of cavalry through the chaotic melee, weaving through the mud and blood.
The fight had devolved into a brutal and disorganized struggle. Spears and arrows flew through the air, their origins unclear, and his companions fell one by one without warning.
The rain poured harder, soaking everyone to the bone. The freezing water sapped the soldiers' strength, making the grim battle even more punishing.
Lord Tarth's arm trembled uncontrollably, barely able to hold onto his sword hilt. His quiver was empty, and his legs throbbed with sharp, needle-like pain.
Yet he gritted his teeth and pressed forward, refusing to retreat. Beside him, his standard-bearer raised the banner of the yellow sun and white crescent moon high above, rallying the scattered Stormland soldiers who could still fight.
The men who gathered around their lord were bloodied and battered, their eyes red with exhaustion and rage. They were preparing for a last stand.
The night had been catastrophic for the Stormland forces. The terrible weather had lulled them into a false sense of security, leaving them unprepared for the surprise attack that had shattered their lines.
Lord Tarth glanced over his shoulder. What was once a proud force of thousands had been reduced to less than a thousand men.
He knew the camp was lost.
The only hope now was to lead the survivors in a desperate charge to escape south toward Bronze Gate.
His decision made, Selwyn Tarth turned his horse.
"Retreat to the southern gate!" he shouted, rallying his men.
The Westerlands forces, as if anticipating this move, had stationed a thousand cavalry at the southern gate to block their escape.
"Follow me! Break through!" Selwyn bellowed, raising his sword high.
"Break through!" his men echoed, their voices tinged with the desperation of survival.
Driven by primal fear, the Stormlanders fought like cornered beasts. Steel clashed against steel, and the wet, sloshing sound of blades piercing flesh filled the air. Blood pooled in the mud, staining the rainwater a deep crimson.
The southern gate turned into a slaughterhouse, with piles of bodies—both Stormlanders and Westerlanders—forming gruesome barricades.
Lord Tarth's vision blurred with rage and sorrow. Each dying scream of his soldiers pierced his heart like a dagger.
These were his finest men, the backbone of House Tarth.
Was this how it would end? Would all his efforts to preserve his house and lands be buried in this forsaken camp?
The gods seemed to be playing a cruel joke.
"Selwyn Tarth!"
A thunderous voice boomed through the chaos.
Lord Tarth turned to see a knight clad in gilded armor, a crimson cloak billowing behind him, charging forward on a warhorse.
The golden lion on the knight's breastplate gleamed ominously, its light cutting through the murky rain.
"Which of the Lannisters are you?" Selwyn demanded.
"I am Davon, son of Stafford!" the knight roared. "Today, I avenge my father!"
Before Selwyn could comprehend what the man meant, Davon Lannister was upon him.
Selwyn's squire, Sim, tried to intercept but was skewered and sent crashing to the ground with a single thrust of Davon's lance.
Realizing his peril, Lord Tarth gritted his teeth and raised his shield despite his aching limbs.
Clang!
The impact was immense. The force knocked Selwyn from his saddle, and he hit the ground with a heavy thud, his breath escaping him in a painful gasp.
Through the haze of his disorientation, he heard Davon's triumphant laughter.
"Bind him!" Davon commanded his men.
---
Half a month later, news of the Westerlands army's crossing of the Blackwater Rush and their capture of the forward camp reached Samwell Tarly.
By then, he had just secured Sunspear and was deliberating over the fate of the Golden Company prisoners.
"What's the matter, Sam?" asked Nathalie Dayne, watching him stare at the letter in silence.
"The Lannisters crossed the Blackwater," Samwell replied grimly, snapping out of his thoughts. "They took one of our forward camps."
Nathalie's eyes widened in alarm.
"Is the northern front about to erupt into full-scale war? Will you return north?"
Samwell frowned, thinking deeply. After a moment, he shook his head.
"No. This is Tywin Lannister's attempt to force me back north and relieve pressure on Dorne. But I don't believe Tywin can afford a large-scale offensive right now.
"Although the armies of the Stormlands and the Reach haven't fully mobilized, the Westerlands forces just finished pacifying the North. They wouldn't launch another major campaign so soon.
"This must be a small-scale raid—a test, rather than a serious advance. If I overreact, I'll be playing right into Tywin's hands."
Nathalie hesitated. "But what if Tywin sees you don't respond and decides to push further south?"
Samwell laughed.
"If Tywin dares abandon the Blackwater and brings his entire force south, I'll welcome it. Defensive warfare naturally favors the defender.
"If Tywin wants to smash his forces against the walls of Bronze Gate, let him. With my father, Lord Randyll Tarly, commanding the defense, the Westerlanders will pay a heavy price for every inch of ground."
Samwell penned a response, formally appointing Randyll Tarly as commander-in-chief of the allied forces and instructing him to hold Bronze Gate at all costs until Samwell returned to lead the counterattack.
Sealing the letter, Samwell handed it to a maester to deliver.
He turned his attention back to the kneeling leaders of the Golden Company prisoners, deep in thought.
"Your Grace, we are willing to fight for you," one of the prisoners suddenly pleaded.
Samwell looked at the man and asked, "What's your name?"
"Mys Shad," the man replied.
"He's a bastard of House Fowler of Skyreach," Myria Jordayne interjected. "He killed a Manderly knight in a tourney and was exiled."
"Tourneys always have risks," Mys Shad argued. "But because I'm a bastard, the Fowlers wanted to appease the Manderlys by banishing me!"
Samwell sighed inwardly. Most of these men were like Mys Shad—outcasts and fugitives with ties to Westerosi noble families. Their presence could only stir resentment among the lords of the Seven Kingdoms.
"I don't care what crimes or grievances brought you here," Samwell declared sternly. "You are my prisoners now, and you will follow my orders.
"I will spare your lives—but only if you swear an oath to join the Night's Watch. Refuse, and you'll be executed on the spot."
The announcement sparked an uproar among the prisoners. They begged and pleaded, desperate to avoid the bleak fate of the Wall.
But Samwell remained unmoved, signaling for his guards to take the prisoners away.
Through it all, Jon Connington remained silent, resigned to his fate.
As the prisoners were led away, Samwell couldn't help but wonder about the Wall's condition with so many exiles being sent north.
"Have we received any news from Sunspear?" he asked after a moment.
"None," the maester replied. "The last raven reported a rebellion among the Riverlands and Vale prisoners, requesting reinforcements."
Samwell stroked his chin, deep in thought. He knew Sunspear was now a chaotic convergence of factions: the Golden Company, rebel prisoners, and the Yronwood forces he had dispatched.
A showdown seemed inevitable.
"Order the troops to rest. In two days, we march for Sunspear," he commanded.
"Yes, Your Grace."
(End of Chapter)