The Dornish borderlands.
A cavalry army of three thousand charged forward with unstoppable momentum, their hooves trampling the grass along the way.
It was noon, and the sun blazed overhead.
The army slowed its pace and made camp by a stream.
According to the map, this location was on the edge of the Red Mountains, still dozens of miles from Nightsong, the fortress at the entrance of the Prince's Pass.
A black and a pale blue dragon stood by the riverbank, their massive forms still as soldiers cautiously fed them cattle and sheep.
Inside a tent on the hillside, Rhaegar, clad in a black robe, gathered the noble lords to discuss strategy.
How to fight, where to fight—these decisions had to be made.
Time passed, minute by minute.
Outside the streamside camp, a raven flapped clumsily as it arrived.
A message from Nightsong: mercenaries were driving hordes of starving refugees to assault the fortress, urgently requesting reinforcements.
Mund held the letter with a look of disdain. "Highgarden sent three thousand reinforcements, yet House Caron still can't hold?"
"They haven't seen war in decades. Some fortresses are in disrepair, and their garrisons are naturally understaffed," Donald retorted, clearly unimpressed.
"Thirty thousand refugees will soon overwhelm the fortress and besiege Nightsong."
"The Prince's Pass has multiple fortresses. If we move quickly, we can reach Nightsong before the refugees do."
The discussion became heated, with sharp words exchanged.
Unlike the treacherous Boneway, the Prince's Pass was a broad, open road.
Watchtowers and arrow towers lined the route, but they were powerless to stop tens of thousands of desperate people.
The fortresses were sturdy, but each housed only a few hundred defenders.
With dwindling supplies and well-equipped mercenaries leading the charge, they fell quickly.
After a brief argument, Mund became serious. "Prince, the refugees are heading straight for Nightsong. We must set out immediately."
The camp wasn't far from the fortress—they could still make it in time.
Rhaegar remained silent, studying the map intently.
The Prince's Pass was a straight road. Nightsong sat atop a gentle hill at its entrance.
The refugees had broken through the fortresses along the way and would eventually be funneled into the choke point at the pass's entrance.
That choke point was another fortress, personally defended by House Caron.
After examining the map, Rhaegar made up his mind.
The enemy was coming—there was no more to discuss.
His eyes sharpened. "Ready the cavalry. We ride at once and reach the checkpoint before sundown. We'll face the refugees head-on."
"Shouldn't we wait for the main force?" Donald frowned, preferring to regroup with the infantry.
Rhaegar glanced at him and asked, "Do you think three thousand cavalry can't handle thirty thousand refugees?"
In Westeros, cavalry were heavily armored, equipped with lances, and fought as one with their steeds—living battering rams of steel.
When they charged, even ten times their number in regular troops wouldn't dare stand in their way.
Let alone mere refugees.
Donald hesitated, then answered truthfully, "No problem, my prince."
"Then we move now. We must reach the checkpoint before the refugees do."
With that, Rhaegar left the tent.
He intended to set the battlefield within the Prince's Pass, preventing the refugees from breaking through and flooding the Riverlands.
---
The Prince's Pass
Tattered refugees huddled in the mountain's shadow, seeking shelter from the blistering sun.
Yet their sheer numbers were overwhelming—a dense, endless swarm like ants.
Most were gaunt, their skin pale and sallow. Many lay sprawled on the ground like corpses, letting the dry winds whip across their bodies.
On both sides of the mountain pass, a watchtower smoldered, its walls battered and crumbling.
Some people stared blankly at the destruction, silently praying to their gods.
Unlike when they first entered the Prince's Pass, there were now fewer foreign faces among the refugees.
With food running low, many had starved along the way, unable to keep up with the mercenaries.
The mercenaries had joined forces with a detachment of Dornish soldiers, marching toward Nightsong.
---
Meanwhile
At the checkpoint before Nightsong stood a fortress manned by defenders.
The stronghold was positioned near the pass's entrance, with arrow towers on either ridge, where archers took cover.
The road leading down was narrow, blocked by trenches and wooden barricades to slow invaders.
Hoooorn!
Suddenly, a deep, solemn horn echoed from one of the arrow towers.
At the end of the road, the enemy had arrived.
Two thousand mercenaries, clad in light armor, wielding curved swords and carrying crossbows.
One thousand Dornish soldiers, dressed in yellow-brown armor, armed with curved swords and round shields.
The battle was about to begin.
As the enemy drew closer, the arrow towers struck first—raining down arrows like a storm.
"Charge! Bring down those towers!"
The mercenaries shouted in Valyrian, with shield bearers leading the way while crossbowmen followed behind.
They heaved aside the heavy barricades and unstrapped the wooden ladders from their backs, laying them across the trenches.
"Loose the arrows!!"
The defenders were no amateurs. In an instant, they loosed flaming arrows.
The arrows struck the trenches and barricades, igniting a roaring inferno.
The area had been doused in oil beforehand.
"Charge across the trench!"
Sacrificing a wave of men and horses, the mercenaries rushed across the relatively narrow trench and began scaling the ridges on either side.
Boom!
Boulders rumbled down, crushing everything in their path.
The watchtower's position was naturally defensible and difficult to breach. It wouldn't fall easily.
However, sheer numbers were on the attackers' side.
After repeated assaults, the watchtower exhausted its supply of fire oil and rolling boulders, leaving the defenders with no choice but to hold the gate and keep shooting.
Wooo—wooo—
Just as their arrows ran out and the watchtower was on the brink of being overrun, a powerful horn blast echoed through the battlefield.
Accompanying it was the fierce neighing of warhorses.
Three thousand cavalrymen stormed in from the other side of the road, carrying banners of various designs.
"Charge!!"
Mond, brimming with confidence, raised his clan's sword—Truth.
The cavalry surged forward as one. The soldiers in the front row had twisted grimaces, gripping their long lances as they launched their charge.
The road was only so wide. The mercenaries had nowhere to hide except for scrambling up the ridges.
A symphony of collisions and screams followed.
The first charge tore through the mercenaries, leaving men and horses sprawled on the ground, some skewered together like locusts on a skewer.
"Counterattack! Loose the arrows!"
Before the second charge could begin, the mercenaries formed up—shield-bearers and spearmen took the front, creating a defensive line for the archers and crossbowmen behind them.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
Triple-shot crossbows fired in rapid succession, loosing a barrage of bolts that filled the sky.
The cavalry's heavy armor rendered the bolts ineffective, bouncing harmlessly off iron plates.
But their warhorses had no such protection. Agonized neighs filled the air as arrows pierced their chests, bellies, and legs, sending both riders and mounts crashing to the ground.
"Reform ranks! Charge!"
Mond roared, rallying his troops. Under the protection of his guards, he spurred his horse forward once more.
The cavalry suffered only minor losses. The rear ranks replaced the fallen, galloping forward with lances ready, while the former front line moved back, discarding their lances in favor of swords.
"Skrraaa—"
A deep, resonant dragon's roar exploded through the mountains, shaking the earth and sky.
A massive black dragon soared into view, its enormous body casting a shadow over the battlefield. Its vast wings blocked out the sun, plunging the world into sudden darkness.
Rhaegar, seated atop the dragon's back, gazed down coldly.
"Dragonfire."
The beast's emerald eyes gleamed with cruelty as it dipped its head, opening its enormous maw.
Boom—
A torrent of green dragonfire rained from above, cascading like a mist over the mercenaries' formation.
At first, they failed to recognize the danger. But the moment the fire touched them, they turned to charred husks in an instant.
"Aaaah! I'm burning!!"
"Run! Get inside the tower! A dragon—!"
Panic erupted. The mercenary ranks collapsed completely, their terrified screams filling the air as they desperately tried to extinguish the eerie green flames.
Mond commanded his cavalry to maneuver around the burning troops, hunting down the fleeing Dornish soldiers.
"Skrraaa—"
With a deafening roar, the black dragon swooped low, its wings slicing through the air. Spotting mercenaries scrambling up the ridges, it unleashed another stream of dragonfire.
"No! No—!"
The mercenaries shrieked, writhing in agony as the cursed flames consumed them.
There was no escape.
The road was overrun by cavalry—running was futile.
The sky was dominated by a dragon—hiding was impossible.
This was an unprecedented catastrophe for the invading forces.
"Finish this quickly!"
From above, Rhaegar surveyed the battlefield and barked an order, stopping Mond from getting too carried away with the slaughter.
"Skrraaa!!"
Just then, another dragon's roar echoed across the valley.
At the far end of the road, a raging inferno of orange and pale blue flames erupted in the distance.
_(End of Chapter)_