A heavily armored warrior leapt deftly from the pontoon bridge, landing with a loud thud.
The trout sigil emblazoned on his chest revealed that he hailed from Riverrun.
Though Samwell had promised that the men of the Riverlands wouldn't need to participate in this war, many Riverlands knights had nonetheless volunteered for battle.
Samwell, of course, did not refuse them.
As soon as the knight stepped off the boat, an arrow whizzed past, grazing his face and leaving a bloody cut.
He merely tilted his head, muttered something under his breath, and calmly lowered the visor on his helmet. Then, with a beastly roar, he charged toward the enemy.
The Westerland army, meanwhile, found itself in dire straits.
Despite their numerical advantage on the riverbank, they were woefully unprepared to counter the white dragon. As the vanguard, they had arrived in haste without the heavy weaponry needed to threaten the creature. This left Cleopatra free to swoop down and unleash devastating torrents of dragonfire, carving fiery paths of death through their ranks.
With the dragon's support, the Southern army—though numbering only a few hundred at the time—fought with the ferocity of a vast horde, throwing themselves into combat without hesitation.
The two sides clashed in a brutal melee on the riverbank, the sound of steel piercing flesh echoing like a gruesome symphony. It was enough to send shivers down anyone's spine.
Recognizing that it was impossible to stop the Southern forces from crossing, Tywin Lannister promptly ordered a retreat. He resolved to wait for the arrival of his main army before engaging again.
It was a decisive order, but retreating was easier said than done.
Samwell, riding the white dragon, moved to the rear of the Westerland forces, cutting off their escape route with columns of fire.
Caught between the advancing Southern forces and the dragon's flames, the Westerland army fell into chaos.
Meanwhile, more Southern soldiers continued to cross the floating bridge onto the northern bank. They secured their foothold, raised their shields and spears, and relentlessly pushed forward, driving the Westerland forces into a steady retreat.
The number of Southern troops on the northern bank grew rapidly—from hundreds to over a thousand and counting. Many of them were Unsullied, whose discipline and skill made them especially fearsome.
Equipped with armor, the Unsullied became even deadlier. Operating in squads of twelve, they fought like spearheads, piercing through the Westerland lines with bloody precision. Each advance left a trail of blood and carnage in their wake.
For the Westerland soldiers, escape became their only thought.
Cleopatra, the white dragon, landed with a resounding crash, crushing several Westerland cavalry beneath her massive body. Horses and riders alike were reduced to pulped flesh beneath her weight.
The dragon's enormous wings flapped, sending scorching winds swirling through the battlefield, kicking up ash and smoke. Nearby Westerland riders and their horses recoiled in terror, many mounts rearing up and throwing their riders to the ground.
Yet amidst the fear and chaos, one knight dared to act.
Bearing the golden lion of House Lannister on his chest, this Westerland knight spurred his horse forward, charging directly at the dragon.
The pounding of his horse's hooves cut through the battlefield's din. The knight held his lance steady, his crimson cloak billowing behind him like a streak of red lightning. His charge carried a fearless, almost suicidal determination.
Inspired by his bravery, dozens of other knights followed suit, turning their horses and shouting as they joined the charge toward the white dragon.
Compared to Cleopatra's massive size, the knights and their horses looked pitifully small. The scene was like a swarm of mice foolishly attacking an elephant—or moths hurling themselves into a flame.
Yet their courage, their willingness to charge at certain death, was undeniable.
Even Samwell, though they were his enemies, felt a flicker of respect at the sight.
But admiration did not soften his resolve.
"Burn them," he commanded.
Cleopatra opened her maw wide and roared, unleashing a torrent of molten fire.
The dragonfire engulfed the charging knights in an instant, consuming a dozen of them in a blazing inferno. Their screams of agony echoed across the riverbank.
Yet a few survivors emerged from the flames, their armor and cloaks ablaze, but their lances still aimed at the dragon.
One knight, leading the charge, managed to close the distance to Cleopatra's belly. He was only a few breaths away from plunging his lance into the pale scales of her underside.
The momentum from his horse's full-speed charge would surely drive the lance deep into the dragon's flesh.
His hair had already burned away, and his armor, seared by the heat, clung painfully to his skin. But he ignored the excruciating pain, focusing solely on one goal:
He would slay the dragon.
Just as his lance tip neared Cleopatra's belly, the dragon's serpentine neck whipped around with terrifying speed.
The knight barely had time to register the massive jaws closing in on him.
A rancid, sulfurous breath filled his nostrils, and he saw bits of flesh stuck between the dragon's enormous teeth.
Then came darkness, pain, and nothingness.
The remaining Westerland soldiers watched in horror as their comrade disappeared into the dragon's mouth. The sight was so terrifying that the knights who had been preparing to charge hesitated, their courage faltering.
Samwell frowned slightly. He did not want Cleopatra to develop a taste for human flesh, even that of his enemies. He patted the dragon's back gently.
Cleopatra understood her master's displeasure. With a low growl, she spat out the half-swallowed corpse.
Though she refrained from eating, her frustration was evident. She opened her jaws again, unleashing a relentless torrent of flames.
This time, the dragonfire spread unchecked, transforming the riverbank into a hellish inferno.
Hundreds of Westerland soldiers were engulfed in flames. Their anguished screams filled the air, mingling with the acrid stench of charred flesh.
The apocalyptic scene shattered the remaining soldiers' morale. Realizing the futility of fighting the dragon, they broke ranks and fled in all directions, unable to mount any organized resistance.
A golden lion banner fell amidst the flames, crumbling into ash.
With that, the Southern army's first battle after crossing the river ended decisively.
The remaining Westerland soldiers, most of whom were mounted cavalry, managed to escape the carnage. Despite Samwell's pursuit atop Cleopatra, many fled beyond his reach.
As Samwell soared eastward, he noticed a dark line on the horizon.
The line grew thicker and darker as it approached, stretching across the plain like an ominous storm cloud.
Samwell knew what it was: the main force of Tywin Lannister's northern coalition.
(End of Chapter)