Chapter 404: A Rainy Night Raid

Night had fallen, and icy rain poured from the heavens.

It was late autumn, but the howling northern winds carried the sharp chill of winter's approach.

On the northern bank of the Blackwater Rush, figures moved in the shadows. Gagged warhorses let out muffled whinnies, their breath visible in the cold air.

Thousands of Westerland cavalry stood in silence, draped in thick fur cloaks, steadying their restless mounts along the riverbank.

Raindrops pelted their bodies and soaked through their cloaks, but none of the riders flinched. The biting wind seemed to seep into their very bones, yet they endured.

These were soldiers returning from the snows of the North, their resilience hardened in the frozen wastes. To them, this rain was little more than a nuisance.

Ser Davon Lannister stood motionless at the river's edge, his piercing gaze fixed on the opposite shore.

He was as still as a statue until the faint flicker of firelight appeared across the river. The flames moved erratically, signaling that the vanguard had successfully eliminated the enemy sentries at the southern crossing.

Ser Davon stretched his stiff limbs and barked an order:

"Cross the river!"

One by one, the cavalry led their horses onto the boats.

This section of the river spanned nearly two thousand feet, but the current was mercifully calm. The crossing was swift, though disembarking and reorganizing the troops on the opposite shore took nearly an hour.

By the time the army was assembled, the vanguard had secured the area. A watchtower near the crossing, reeking of wolf dung, stood as a grim monument to the Stormlanders' vigilance. Its defenders now lay lifeless, their bodies stiff and cold.

The Stormlanders' complacency was their downfall. Accustomed to the warmth of summer, they had grown sluggish in the chill of autumn rain.

More importantly, they had not expected the Lannisters to take the bold step of crossing the Blackwater and striking south.

Ser Davon had been equally surprised when he received Lord Tywin's orders. Yet, as a true Lannister, he obeyed without hesitation. Leading three thousand Westerland cavalry, he set off on this audacious mission.

"Forward!" Davon commanded, spurring his horse forward at the head of the column.

The cavalry advanced, their warhorses' hooves muffled by burlap wrappings. The rhythmic thud of their movement barely rose above the sound of the falling rain.

No one spoke. The only sound was the steady breathing of the horses and the squelch of hooves in the muddy road. The air was thick with tension, an invisible weight pressing on the men as they rode through the darkness.

The night was pitch black, so impenetrable that even an outstretched hand was swallowed by the shadows.

Ten miles south of the river, the Blackwater and Roseroads intersected at a modest but bustling town.

Tonight, however, the town served as a military outpost, garrisoned by Stormland forces.

Inside the town's sept, Lord Selwyn Tarth sat alone, drinking in silence.

His leg ached terribly. The cold and rain had worsened his old injury, and the persistent pain had robbed him of sleep.

Selwyn sought solace in his wine, hoping to numb his discomfort.

As one of the first Stormland lords to swear fealty to King Samwell, Selwyn had earned a measure of trust and responsibility. He now commanded five thousand men, tasked with holding this forward position and monitoring movements from King's Landing.

The town was over a hundred miles from the main army at Stoney Sept, but Selwyn felt little concern.

After all, it seemed inconceivable that the Lannisters would cross the Blackwater. The river was a natural defensive barrier, and Lord Tywin was too shrewd to risk a reckless engagement.

Still, Selwyn had taken precautions. The town's walls had been reinforced, trenches dug, and patrols maintained.

But tonight, a nagging doubt gnawed at him.

"Barm! Barm!" Selwyn called.

A young squire hurried in. "Yes, my lord?"

"Check the camp. Make sure no one's shirking their duties."

"Yes, my lord."

Barm pulled on a heavy bearskin cloak and stepped into the freezing rain.

The camp was eerily quiet, save for the soft patter of raindrops and the occasional rustle of fabric as men huddled in their tents.

The cold had taken its toll on the southerners, many of whom were ill-prepared for the chill.

Barm muttered under his breath, cursing the weather as he trudged through the mud.

As he neared the northern gate, he noticed flickering firelight in the distance.

A guard's voice broke the silence, calling out a challenge.

Then came the sharp blare of a warning horn.

"Enemy attack!"

The words froze Barm in his tracks. His heart raced as he turned and sprinted back toward the sept, shouting at the top of his lungs:

"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!"

Behind him, the southern gate creaked open.

"Charge!" Ser Davon Lannister roared, raising his sword high.

At his command, the cavalry surged forward, the sound of galloping hooves rising like a storm.

The black mass of riders poured into the town, flooding its narrow streets under the faint glow of the moon.

Inside the sept, Selwyn Tarth bolted upright at the sound of the horns. He grabbed his sword and hobbled toward the door, ignoring the stabbing pain in his legs.

Barm burst in, breathless and frantic.

"My lord, we're under attack! Hundreds of cavalry!"

Selwyn's mind raced. How had the Lannisters crossed the river undetected? How had they slipped past the sentries?

But there was no time for questions.

"Stay calm!" Selwyn barked. "This is a small raid. The Lannisters won't risk a full-scale assault across the Blackwater. Hold the line, and they'll be forced to retreat!"

His words steadied the panicked soldiers, and Selwyn quickly began organizing a defense. He dispatched ravens to Stoney Sept, relaying news of the attack, and rallied his officers to issue commands.

But the Lannister cavalry held the upper hand.

The element of surprise and the rain-drenched chaos gave them an overwhelming advantage.

Ser Davon divided his forces into three groups, each cutting a swath through the disorganized defenders. The Stormland troops were scattered and overwhelmed, many cut down before they could form a cohesive resistance.

Gradually, however, the defenders regrouped.

Arrows whistled through the rain-soaked air, and swords clashed in the blood-drenched streets.

The night was filled with the cacophony of battle—screams, shouts, and the relentless pounding of hooves.

The Lannisters pressed their attack, carving through the Stormland forces as the rain continued to fall, washing blood into the muddy streets.

The raid had begun, and the battle was far from over.

(End of Chapter)