Chapter 435: The Prince’s Pass Meat Grinder

Dornish Marches

A cavalry force of 3,000 men approached, trampling the grass in their path. The midday sun burned fiercely.

The army slowed and halted at a stream. According to the map, they were at the edge of the Red Mountains, dozens of miles from Nightsong, at the entrance to the Prince's Pass.

"Roar..."

Two dragons, one black and one light blue, landed on the riverbank as soldiers carefully tended to sheep and cattle.

In a tent on the hillside, Rhaegar, dressed in black, met with nobles and lords to discuss strategy. They had to decide how and where to fight. Time was slipping away.

Outside the camp, a raven swooped down. A messenger from Nightsong reported that mercenaries had attacked the stronghold with refugees and were in desperate need of assistance.

Ormund read the letter aloud. "Highgarden has sent 3,000 soldiers to reinforce the garrison, but House Caron still struggles to withstand the attack."

"Decades of peace have left some fortresses in disrepair, and the garrison is understaffed," Donald retorted.

"Thirty thousand refugees will soon besiege Nightsong if the fortress falls."

"The Prince's Pass has many fortresses. If we hurry, we can reach Nightsong before the refugees," another lord added.

The room filled with heated debate. The Prince's Pass, unlike the steep Boneway, was wide and fortified with watchtowers and arrow towers, though insufficient against thousands of refugees. Despite strong fortresses guarded by hundreds of soldiers, lack of supplies made them vulnerable to well-equipped mercenaries.

Ormund, halting the arguments, spoke seriously. "Prince, the refugees are heading to Nightsong en masse. We must leave immediately."

The camp was close enough to offer support. Rhaegar studied the map intently. The Prince's Pass was a direct route, and Nightsong sat on a hill at its entrance. Refugees would break through the strongholds and eventually block the entrance.

Rhaegar formulated a plan. When the enemy arrives, there would be no time for further discussion.

His eyes narrowed. "The cavalry will depart at first light, reaching the pass before sunset to confront the refugees."

"Shouldn't we wait for the rest of the army?" Donald frowned, preferring to wait for the infantry.

Rhaegar glanced at him. "Do you doubt that 3,000 cavalry can handle 30,000 refugees?"

Westerosi cavalry, clad in armor and armed with lances, were formidable. A cavalry charge could scatter ten times their number of regular troops, let alone 30,000 refugees.

Donald conceded, "No problem, Prince."

"Then let's move before the refugees reach the pass," Rhaegar commanded, exiting the tent.

He aimed to set the battlefield at The Prince's Pass, preventing the refugees from breaching the blockade and escaping into the Reach.

...

The Prince's Pass

Ragged refugees huddled in the shadows of the mountains, seeking respite from the scorching sun. Their numbers were vast, like a dense ant colony.

Most were emaciated, lying on the ground like corpses, the yellow sand blowing over them. Black smoke billowed from a watchtower on either side of the mountain, its walls crumbling and dilapidated.

Some of the refugees stared blankly, silently praying to their gods. Compared to when they first entered the Prince's Pass, there were fewer strange faces among them. As food supplies dwindled, more refugees starved to death, unable to keep up with the mercenaries.

The mercenaries, joined by a contingent of Dornish soldiers, pressed on toward Nightsong.

...

Meanwhile

In front of the Nightsong barrier, a fortress garrison stood vigilant. Positioned near the entrance to The Prince's Pass, it boasted two arrow towers on either side of the ridge, with soldiers concealed within.

The path narrowed below, fortified with trenches and barbed wire to deter intruders.

Whoo-whoo-whoo...

Suddenly, a solemn horn blared from one of the arrow towers.

At the end of the road, the enemy appeared.

Two thousand mercenaries in light armor, wielding curved swords and crossbows, marched forward. Alongside them were over a thousand Dornish soldiers, clad in yellow-brown armor, armed with curved swords and round shields. Battle was at hand.

As the enemy approached, the arrow towers unleashed a barrage of arrows.

"Charge! Bring down the tower!" the mercenaries shouted in Valyrian. Shieldbearers advanced in front, crossbowmen behind.

They dismantled the heavy palisades, set up wooden ladders, and bridged the moat.

"Release the arrows!" The defenders responded fiercely, raining down flaming arrows.

The arrows ignited the palisades and the oil-soaked trenches, which burst into flames.

"Over the moat!" Sacrificing several men, the mercenaries jumped the narrow trench and began scaling the ridges.

Boom!

Rocks tumbled down, crushing everything in their path. The arrow towers were formidable defensive positions, but the enemy's numbers were overwhelming.

Eventually, the arrow towers exhausted their supply of gunpowder and stones, resorting to defending the gate and shooting arrows.

Woo-hoo-hoo...

As the defenders' arrows dwindled and the arrow towers faced imminent collapse, a resounding horn echoed through the air.

Alongside it came the unmistakable sound of horses neighing.

Three thousand cavalrymen charged down the narrow road, banners fluttering in the wind.

"Charge!" Ormund shouted, his spirit high as he held aloft his house Valyrian steel sword Vigilance.

The cavalry surged forward, the first row of soldiers grimacing as they leveled their yard-long lances. The road was so narrow that the mercenaries had no choice but to climb the ridge.

A cacophony of collisions and screams ensued.

After the first charge, many mercenaries lay on the ground, speared like locusts.

"Counterattack! Shoot!" The mercenaries quickly regrouped, forming a defensive line with spearmen and shield bearers at the front to protect their archers.

Swish! Swish! Swish!

The mercenaries fired their crossbows in rapid succession, creating a continuous volley of bolts. The heavy armor of the cavalry rendered the arrows ineffective against their iron plates, but the unarmored horses beneath them took hits to the chest, belly, and legs, causing some to fall with their riders.

"Regroup! Charge!" Ormund shouted. Under the protection of their guards, the cavalry charged again. The rear row became the front, lances poised, while the front row, now in the rear, switched to swords.

"Roar!"

A deafening roar echoed between the mountains. A black dragon soared in, its massive body obscuring the road, wings casting a dark shadow over the battlefield. Rhaegar, sitting on the dragon's back, commanded impassively, "Dracarys!"

Cannibal's cruel green eyes narrowed as it leaned forward, opening its blood-red mouth.

Boom!

Dark green Dragonfire cascaded from the sky, spreading over the mercenary ranks like a living mist. The fire clung to them, growing and consuming like maggots on a bone. At first, the mercenaries did not realize the danger, but soon they were reduced to charred corpses.

"Ah! We're on fire!"

"Run! Hide in the arrow tower, the dragon is coming..."

Panic erupted among the mercenaries. Their formation collapsed as they wailed and tried to extinguish the relentless green fire.

Ormund seized the moment, ordering the cavalry to charge, skillfully avoiding the burning mercenaries and targeting the fleeing Dornish soldiers.

"Roar!"

Cannibal roared again, flapping its wings and gliding low, spitting Dragonfire at the mercenaries scrambling on the ridge.

"No! No!" The mercenaries' cries echoed as Dragonfire engulfed their bodies. Trapped between the cavalry on the road and the dragon above, their fate was sealed.

An unprecedented disaster had befallen the invaders.

"Quickly finish the job!" Rhaegar ordered, stopping Ormund from becoming too engrossed in the slaughter.

"Roar!"

At that moment, another dragon's roar filled the air. In the valley behind the road, a huge fire of orange and blue blazed, adding to the chaos.

(Word count: 1,252)