Eight thousand heavy cavalry from the Westerlands lay hidden within a dense woodland.
They had been marching rapidly along secluded paths for a long time, bypassing several castles that might have been garrisoned, and had quietly penetrated deep into the heart of The Crownlands.
Not far ahead was said to be the first foothold the Targaryens established upon landing in Westeros, as well as Duskendale, which was heavily fortified by Aegon Targaryen.
And behind Duskendale was the final destination of their journey: the besieged Starkworth Castle.
Having reached this point, Jaime Lannister did not dare to advance recklessly.
He dispatched a large number of scouts, spreading them out like a net to investigate. Not only did they need to gauge the strength of Duskendale, but some bold scouts even attempted to bypass the town to get closer to the besieged castle and ascertain the situation.
The main cavalry force remained hidden in the woods, taking the opportunity to rest and recover. They fed their horses fodder while the Soldiers silently checked their gear; the only sounds in the air were suppressed breathing and the occasional snort of a horse.
Jaime stood on his horse in a small clearing within the woods, his left hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his waist. His expression was as somber as a sky before a storm.
Several scouts knelt on one knee before him, covered in dust and breathing heavily, clearly having just galloped back.
"My Lord," the lead scout said with his head bowed, speaking quickly and not daring to hide anything, "the outer walls of Starkworth Castle are about to fall. The enemy is attacking fiercely, and the defenders are constantly retreating. The smoke is so thick it has shrouded the entire castle."
"Your servant only dared to watch from three miles away. From the look of it... the fall of the outer city is only a matter of moments!"
He was reporting what he had seen with his own eyes.
Dense smoke obscured the view, and the enemy surrounded the place like an iron barrel. It was impossible to get close, let alone ascertain the details inside the fortress; he could only report the critical state of the outer city's battle as it was.
Jaime's fingertips tightened slightly, his knuckles turning white.
The burning anxiety in his heart was almost bursting out.
Before he could ask further, another scout responsible for scouting Duskendale stepped forward quickly, his voice carrying an ill-concealed shock and doubt:
"My Lord, Duskendale... something is wrong. The entire town is deathly silent. We saw no sentries, no garrison, not even a trace of a large army being stationed there."
"Even the cooking smoke from ordinary households is sparse. It doesn't look like a strategic military town at all; it's far too abnormal."
Doubt, like cold vines, instantly coiled around Jaime's heart.
How could Aegon Targaryen leave a vital choke point like Duskendale undefended? There must be an ambush behind this.
One wrong step would lead to eternal damnation.
But he had no time to weigh the options, and no way back.
Cersei's face flashed through his mind, imagining her trapped amidst flames and battle cries, imagining young Myrcella and Tommen terrified and helpless in the smoke... the last shred of hesitation in his heart was utterly crushed.
Even if it were a mountain of blades or a sea of fire, even if it were an obvious death trap, he had to charge in.
Rescue the people, withdraw immediately, and never get bogged down.
Since Duskendale was not blocked by heavy troops, there was no need to take those long and difficult secluded paths through Sows Horn, which would only waste time.
"All troops, hear my command!"
Jaime suddenly drew his longsword. The blade traced a cold arc in the sparse light filtering through the woods, the tip pointing straight southeast... in the direction of Starkworth Castle.
The wind blew his golden hair back from his forehead, revealing cold and determined eyes. His voice was resolute, ringing throughout the silent woods:
"Abandon the original route! Change course to the main road leading directly from Duskendale to Starkworth Castle! Advance at full speed! We must reach the battlefield before the castle falls!"
"As you command!"
Eight thousand heavy cavalry responded in unison, the wave of sound startling the birds into flight.
Iron hooves thundered against the ground, making the woods tremble as dust billowed into the sky.
The Lannister banner of the roaring lion unfurled at the front of the cavalry formation, dancing wildly in the wind.
Jaime took the lead, being the first to charge onto the much flatter main road. Behind him, a torrent of steel surged, galloping at full speed toward the distant smoke-filled horizon, the deafening sound of hooves like rolling thunder.
What Jaime did not know was that not far from the woods where they were hidden, a castle was garrisoned by a large army. With just a single deployment, they could block his retreat.
Ravens Perch.
This castle stood on the northern bank of The Blackwater Rush, adjacent to Claw Isle, making it the northern gateway to The Crownlands.
During the Dance of the Dragons, Targaryen dragonriders and their dragons had fallen here.
At this moment, inside the castle's main hall, candlelight flickered, casting long shadows of the ancient stone carvings on the walls.
A detailed map of The Crownlands was spread out on a long table.
Laswell Peake leaned over the table, his fingertip pointing to a spot on the line connecting Duskendale and Starkworth Castle. His expression was cold and solemn, as if he were quietly waiting for something.
Several core officers of the Golden Company stood on either side. The hall was silent; no one dared to disturb the heavy stillness.
Hurried footsteps approached from the stone corridor outside the hall.
A messenger pushed the door open and entered, kneeling on one knee, his voice clear and loud:
"My Lord! Urgent report from the front! Eight thousand Westerlands cavalry have successfully bypassed Duskendale and are pushing toward Starkworth Castle at full speed!"
As the words fell, Laswell Peake's eyes darkened slightly as he stared at the map, thinking to himself: As expected, this Westerlands army has truly taken the bait, just as Prince Aegon predicted.
The Golden Company had been ordered by Aegon at the Grand Council in King's Landing to participate in the campaign to reclaim The Crownlands. Nominally, they were working in coordination with the Ash Company, but they had rarely appeared in the subsequent sieges and conquests.
This was because they bore another, more covert mission: to secretly station troops at Ravens Perch to serve as the "drawstring" of the pocket trap.
Should any army from the Westerlands or other hostile forces dare to intrude into The Crownlands, their task was to seal off their retreat and bury them completely in this land.
Aegon never believed that the old lion, Tywin, would remain a bystander forever.
Even if he were cold enough to ignore Cersei and the deceased Joffrey, the moment Joffrey died, all of the Lannisters' ambitions for the iron throne became tied to Tommen Baratheon.
He was the only remaining claimant to the throne with Lannister blood. And seeing House Lannister reach the pinnacle was Tywin's lifelong obsession.
Therefore, Tommen was a chess piece he had to save.
Even if he knew it was very likely a trap.
Laswell Peake straightened up, his face showing no extra emotion, nor the slightest hesitation.
He raised his hand and gave a sharp command to the officers in the hall, his voice echoing against the stone walls:
"Pass the order! The entire Golden Company is to assemble and march immediately! According to the predetermined plan, cut off all retreat routes for the Westerlands army and coordinate with the Ash Company on the front line to complete the encirclement!"
"Yes!" The officers accepted the command in unison, turned, and quickly exited the main hall.
The entire Ravens Perch came alive instantly, or rather, it bared its ferocious fangs as a military fortress.
The clashing of armor, the shouts of officers, the sound of hooves striking stone, and the heavy thud of footsteps mingled together. A low and urgent horn blast then pierced the night sky, carrying far into the distance.
The pocket trap laid by Aegon began to tighten from this moment—slowly, but unswervingly.
...
The light of dawn gradually brightened, but Starkworth Castle had completely turned into a hell of blood and fire.
The outer city had long since fallen, and the ground and middle floors of the main keep had been breached one after another by the Soldiers of the Ash Company.
All remaining resistance within the castle had been compressed into the attic platform at the very top of the keep, with nowhere left to retreat.
The only staircase leading to the top floor had been blocked by them with everything they could find—tables, chairs, wooden crates, stone blocks, and even broken armor—piled into a precarious barrier of debris.
This was their final line of defense.
From below came the constant, booming sounds of the enemy hacking, pushing, and smashing. Wood splinters flew and stones rolled; the temporary barrier was already riddled with cracks and looked as if it would be completely destroyed at any moment. Once the passage was opened, the enemy would surge up like a tide.
All the remaining Soldiers were crowded into this cramped top-floor space, everyone wounded and exhausted.
The archers' quivers had long been empty, and their useless bows were discarded at their feet.
The Soldiers could only tightly clutch their nicked and chipped blades, staring in terror at the barrier that was constantly vibrating and letting out groans of being overwhelmed. Every impact made their hearts sink further.
The Hound, Sandor Clegane, stood guard by the pile of debris.
He was covered in blood; dark red, blackened scabs smeared his face and armor, making it impossible to tell what was the enemy's and what was his own.
He leaned on his massive greatsword with both hands, the tip dug deep into the floor, barely supporting his swaying body.
Days of bloody battle had already drained the last of his strength. His heavy gasps sounded like a worn-out bellows, each one carrying a thick scent of blood.
He barely had the strength left to swing his sword, yet he used his bloodshot eyes to glare fixedly at the pile of debris that was about to collapse, his gaze holding only beast-like ferocity and bottomless despair.
Bronn leaned against the cold stone wall of the top floor, his leather armor shredded and his shortsword chipped in several places.
He glanced at the surrounding Soldiers, whose faces were as gray as death and who had almost lost the will to resist, then looked at Sandor, who could only stand steady by leaning on his greatsword. His heart felt cold.
He was already prepared to die here.
Surrender?
It wasn't that he hadn't thought about it.
But the fate of those Starkworth Soldiers who had surrendered—only to have their heads cut off to be traded for military merit—was the best cautionary tale.
This army, whose style was closer to pirates and bandits... wanted no prisoners, only merit.
Young Tommen Baratheon huddled in a corner, his small face deathly pale without a trace of color. His eyes were filled with immense terror, and his small hands tightly gripped a corner of his robes, not even daring to make a sound as he wept.
The terrifying sounds of smashing and shouting from below, along with the faint sounds of slaughter and screams in the distance, made his small body tremble uncontrollably.
Beside him, Lady Starkworth's face was equally as pale as paper, her hands icy cold.
She was filled with regret.
She had merely agreed to Queen Regent Cersei's request to let Tommen stay here temporarily; how could she have imagined it would bring such a devastating disaster upon her entire house?
Back when Cersei and Tyrion were preparing to go to Duskendale to negotiate with that Aegon Targaryen, Tyrion had originally wanted to send Tommen directly back to the Westerlands, away from the turmoil of King's Landing—that would have been the safest arrangement.
But Myrcella had just been sent away then, and Cersei was mentally exhausted, refusing to let her youngest son leave her side under any circumstances.
After their argument, Tyrion finally compromised, which was why Tommen was placed at Starkworth Castle—relatively close to King's Landing and held by a loyal supporter of Cersei—to be looked after by her.
To protect Tommen, Tyrion had not hesitated to promise a massive sum of gold to Bronn to guard him to the death.
Cersei had also personally ordered Sandor the Hound to lead a group of Lannister elite Red Cloaks to stay behind.
It was precisely these two forces that had allowed the castle to hold out until this moment.
But the enemy's assault was too fierce.
Nearly two thousand defenders were almost all dead or wounded, and this final barrier of the keep was about to shatter.
The fall of the castle was only a breath away.
In the entire top floor, only the booming sounds of the enemy below frantically destroying the barrier remained, getting louder and closer.
The shadow of death was like a physical fog, shrouding everyone and choking their breath.
Just as the pile of debris barrier burst open with a massive gap, and the excited roars of the enemy could be clearly heard from the stairwell...
A Soldier standing at the edge of the top-floor platform, subconsciously looking out the window in despair, suddenly stiffened.
Immediately following that, a cry suppressed to the limit, trembling with extreme shock and disbelief, squeezed out of his throat:
"Look... look over there!"
Everyone, including the exhausted Sandor, the desperate Bronn, the trembling Tommen, and the Lady of the castle, involuntarily followed the direction of the Soldier's finger and looked out the window.
Standing at this height of desperation, they clearly saw that on the originally calm horizon in the distance, a massive cloud of dust had suddenly risen!
Then, a sound like muffled thunder—yet far denser than thunder and more earth-shaking—pierced through the slaughter and shouting around the castle. It drifted over faintly and grew clear and deafening at an alarming speed!
At the very front of that billowing dust, banners unfurled fiercely in the wind. Under the golden light of the rising sun, the roaring lion sigil stung the eyes of everyone in that desperate situation.
Lannister cavalry!
The red and gold lion banners were tearing through the dust, galloping wildly toward Starkworth Castle!
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