Chapter 180: Bloody Fight
After ten grueling days of heading north, the endless stretch of desert sands still dominated the horizon, with no end in sight.
It felt like they were trapped in a never-ending sea of sand.
"How much further to Skyreach?" Samwell sipped from a bland bowl of oatmeal, casting a glance at Lucas Dayne beside him.
"At this pace, we're about three days away," Lucas replied.
"Three days…" Samwell scratched at the stubble growing along his jawline, his thoughts wandering.
"Brother!" Dickon Tarly suddenly appeared, cheerfully waving a bundle of arrows. "We managed to bring down a few stupid birds. Fancy adding some roast to our breakfast?"
"Absolutely," Samwell replied, feeling a hint of envy at his brother's youthful energy and optimism.
He himself felt worn down by the days spent in the harsh desert, close to the point of despair.
Thankfully, Dickon's roasted birds were a welcome change, their flavor lifting Samwell's spirits just a bit.
After their meal, the group mounted up again and continued their march northward.
Not long after setting out, a scout came galloping back, reporting that he had spotted the Royce banner up ahead.
Could it be allied forces? Or a ruse from cunning Dornish troops?
Samwell remained cautious, recalling their previous close call with impostors. He sent a few Vale knights to verify the scout's findings, releasing his hawk to follow from above as well.
Only when he was certain that the approaching force belonged to House Royce did Samwell allow his men to approach the friendly riders.
"Lord Caesar."
"Lord Yohn."
After a long time apart, Lord Yohn Royce still wore his ancient, distinguished bronze armor, his imposing presence untouched by the days on the march. His vitality was surprising—hard to believe the man was well into his fifties.
"I've heard you managed to capture Sandstone. Remarkable!" Lord Yohn's voice was booming.
Samwell laughed. "What could I do? Someone practically handed it to me. I had no choice but to accept."
Lord Yohn's white eyebrows arched in interest. "And which kindly soul was that?"
Samwell gestured to the woman tied to a horse. "None other than Lady Obara Sand herself."
Obara's face flushed with anger as she glared at Samwell, her eyes full of hate.
"Obara Sand?" Yohn Royce eyed her with curiosity. Then realization struck him. "The Red Viper's eldest daughter?"
"That's right."
Lord Yohn chuckled. "Sounds like quite the tale. Ride with me, Lord Caesar, and share the story along the way."
They rode together, Samwell recounting their exploits, though omitting a few key details. As he spoke, Samwell noted that Lord Yohn's troops appeared almost untouched, reflecting the Vale lord's cautious nature. Samwell, in contrast, had thrown himself into risk, lured by the treasures of House Qorgyle's stronghold.
"Just like his father, Randyll Tarly," Lord Yohn said in admiration. "Capturing Sandstone with only two hundred riders is no small feat. It may not hold, but it'll go down as a classic maneuver in Westerosi history."
"You're too kind," Samwell replied modestly, before asking, "What's the situation at Skyreach?"
"Still in heavy fighting. But we're stationed south of the city, so we don't have a full view of the northern defenses. We've heard the sounds of battle since we arrived, nearly half a month ago, without a break."
"Half a month?" Samwell frowned in confusion. "It's only been that long?"
After parting ways with the Blackwater troops, he had been at sea for nearly a month before reaching Starfall. It had taken days to pass through House Dayne's lands, nine days lying low in a border outpost, and nearly another month playing cat-and-mouse in the desert with Dornish troops. Including his confrontation with Obara and the capture of Sandstone, it had been close to three months. How had the Iron Throne's vanguard just started their assault two weeks ago?
Had they spent all that time in transit? Or camped outside Skyreach for two months waiting for a breach in the walls?
Lord Yohn saw his confusion and shrugged. "Truth be told, I found the situation strange myself, so I kept our forces on the move, staying concealed in the sands and out of reach of Dornish patrols."
No wonder Lord Yohn's forces had suffered so few losses—he had spent two months in a cautious dance of evasion.
"And now, what's your plan?" Samwell asked.
"We've been tracking a supply convoy from Redstone to Skyreach. With your support, we can strike."
"Count me in," Samwell replied without hesitation.
---
The battle for Skyreach was reaching its zenith.
As the key to Dorne's western defenses, Skyreach was packed with troops, food, and the region's most formidable commanders, including Prince Oberyn Martell, the infamous "Red Viper."
Oberyn's savage tactics needed no introduction, and his troops matched his ferocity.
The Iron Throne's forces, under the relentless commands of King Joffrey, matched this fury with sheer determination.
The result was a bloody, unyielding clash between attacker and defender.
The city's walls and towers, built high into the mountains, were now crowded with men locked in combat. Screams and the clanging of steel could be heard for miles.
For twenty days, blood had been spilled, night and day.
Together, the defenders and attackers had turned Skyreach into a vast, unrelenting meat grinder.
Blood ran down the fortress walls, staining them crimson, and transforming the Red Mountains into an even deeper shade of red.
Corpses, strewn across the ground, created a grisly battlefield below the walls.
Each evening, bonfires were lit to burn the dead, though it barely kept pace with the mounting casualties.
As the flames rose, a thick, acrid stench hung in the air, enough to turn even the strongest stomach.
Queen Mother Cersei, unable to bear the smell, had retreated ten miles from the battlefield.
Even young King Joffrey, initially bold and eager for battle, had lost some of his arrogance after witnessing the horrors of the siege.
This type of brutal warfare demanded a hardened heart, and Joffrey's patience was quickly wearing thin—though he never had much to begin with.
In his ignorance, the young king was baffled by how hard it was to conquer a single city. Castles and towers had fallen easily before them up until now. Even King's Barrow, despite its defenses, had crumbled within ten days. The assault on Skyreach, however, was a grueling ordeal.
Frustration, anger, and even a hint of fear simmered within the King, fueling his impatience.
To him, the stalemate was due to cowardice in the ranks, soldiers he believed were slacking off instead of fighting. If only they'd put in the effort, he thought, Skyreach would have already fallen.
Thus, each morning meeting began with the King's furious beratement of his commanders. Every day, he issued another "final demand" for the city's capture.
Naturally, these demands went unmet, leaving the king to throw yet another tantrum in front of his disheartened nobles.
This cycle of empty threats slowly chipped away at his authority.
But today, perhaps out of desperation or newfound conviction, King Joffrey took a drastic step.
Thunk!
A bloody head landed at the nobles' feet, and for a moment, most of them assumed it was the head of a Dornish prisoner.
It took only a second glance to recognize the face. The head belonged to one of their own.
It was Ser Manwy Buckwell, the younger son of House Buckwell of Stag's Horn.
"Your Grace!" Lord Eddard Stark's tone was thick with barely restrained fury. "What crime did Ser Manwy commit to deserve this?"
Joffrey sneered. "He failed in battle."
"Ser Manwy has led three assaults in a row, fighting valiantly each time, and now you dare call him 'unworthy'?"
Joffrey's words ignited a wave of anger, and the tent erupted with shouts and accusations.
"Silence! All of you, shut up!" Joffrey barked, his anger growing. "I am the king! I have the right to execute any noble who fails me! And if you don't take this city today, I'll kill again!"
With that, Joffrey stormed out, oblivious to the disdain, resentment, and outright hostility in the eyes that followed him.
The "war council" had ended in a chaotic mess, its only effect a further erosion of morale.
As Lord Eddard Stark left the tent, a voice called his name.
Turning, he saw Lord Mathis Rowan, the head of House Rowan of Goldengrove.
"Lord Stark, we can't allow this madness to continue!" Lord Mathis voiced his frustration openly.
Though Mathis Rowan was technically a vassal of Highgarden, his House held extensive lands in the northern Reach. Even Lord Mace Tyrell treated him with respect.
"What else can I do?" Eddard replied, his face etched with worry.
"You're the Hand of the King, and the commander of this army. You have every right to prevent the king from meddling in military affairs."
Eddard sighed but stayed silent.
Growing frustrated, Lord Rowan added, "Listen, Lord Stark. I suggest you send the King to the rear, where he and the Queen Mother can stay out of our way. Skyreach is just a city—without him hindering us, we could have taken it by now!"
Eddard Stark sighed heavily. "You don't understand the Queen, nor the King. If I did as you suggest, I'd lose what little command I have. Things would only get worse."
"Lord Stark, whatever your reasons, let me be clear: if the King kills another of our own, I cannot guarantee that my men will continue fighting for him. And if he executes one of my Reachmen…" Rowan's voice dropped to a deadly calm, "I'll pull every soldier of Goldengrove off this field myself."
Stark's expression turned grim, but he gave a small nod of understanding.
Lord Rowan stalked off, leaving Eddard to stew in his thoughts. Calling over a servant, he gave a quick, decisive order.
"Bring me my armor."
The servant hesitated, surprised.
Eddard cast a look up at the imposing walls of Skyreach, the bloodied battleground before him. His jaw clenched.
"Today, I'm leading the assault myself."
(End of Chapter)