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32.21% Game of Thrones: Lord of the Flames / Chapter 173: Chapter 174: The Riverlands Woman in the Desert

Chapitre 173: Chapter 174: The Riverlands Woman in the Desert

The death of the Dornish woman barely caused a ripple. In wartime, life is rarely valued, and especially here, where Samwell's soldiers hailed from the Reach and the Vale, two regions with deep-seated hatred for the Dornish. Asking them to pity a Dornish camp woman was as likely as asking water to spring up in the Dornish sands.

After capturing the watchtower, Samwell didn't advance further; instead, he had his troops rest and fortify. For this mission of disrupting the Dornish rear, his strategy was simple: one word—caution.

Penetrating deep into Dornish territory wasn't a task to take lightly. The Dornish army might not be large—limited by their barren lands and food supplies—but Dornish society was known for its fierce, insular nature. Faced with foreign invaders, they became almost an entire people at arms, a fierce opposition on every front. The camp woman's attempt on Samwell's life had been a stark reminder.

Under such circumstances, Samwell's small unit could easily be swallowed up in a wave of "people's warfare," so caution was vital. He decided to wait for the other nine cavalry squads to draw the enemy's attention and scatter the Dornish forces before he'd launch an attack.

But on the ninth day, Samwell realized he could no longer stay in hiding. A Dornish scout had come to inspect the watchtower. Though his men quickly intercepted and killed the scout, it wouldn't be long before the Qorglye family noticed his absence and suspected something was amiss.

They'd done their best to stay hidden, but the watchtower had now become a liability. The other units had likely drawn away some of the enemy's attention, so it was time to act. Samwell ordered his two hundred horsemen forward, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them as they left the watchtower and plunged into the vast Dornish desert.

For those seeing it for the first time, the Dornish sands held a rugged beauty—endless sky, vast stretches of yellow sand, with no other sights to break the monotony. But stay long enough, and it would become a prison, a place no one would willingly return to. The beauty was hollow, a barren, endless expanse of nothing but sand.

The desert winds whipped relentlessly, often kicking up clouds of sand. In a sandstorm, the effect was even more terrifying, blotting out the sun and turning the world dark, as if at the world's end. But it was water, not sand, that posed the real threat to life here.

Luckily, Samwell had Lucas Dayne, a born and raised Dornishman who knew the region intimately and could lead them to each nearby water source. Even so, each watering hole posed its own challenges, as every one was guarded by Dornish soldiers.

After three days of riding, they finally came upon a water source. Samwell's hawk scouted it from above, revealing a small village near the water, with around three to four dozen Dornish soldiers.

It wasn't enough of a force to worry about.

Samwell immediately ordered the attack.

The knights mounted their horses, forming neat rows before gradually loosening the reins and spurring their mounts forward. The steady sound of hooves soon coalesced into a thunderous roar, shaking the ground and striking fear into the hearts of any onlookers.

Samwell led the charge from the front, his hammer raised. Randyll Tarly's first lesson in cavalry warfare had been simple: lead from the front. Only when the commander charged ahead would his soldiers find the courage to follow. With his unmatched personal strength, Samwell could hold his own in front lines. This time, he didn't even bother to draw Dawn, his massive sword, instead relying on his warhammer as he crashed into the village.

Dickon Tarly rode close behind, hooting with excitement, thrilled to finally be in the thick of battle.

Chaos erupted in the Dornish village.

With no castle walls to defend them, the soldiers fled in all directions. A few tried to stand their ground, waving curved swords and shouting, but most civilians sought shelter in their homes or tried to escape on horseback.

Samwell had sent a few men to block escape routes, but out here in the vast desert, a complete victory was impossible. With only two hundred riders, he couldn't cover every avenue of escape. Despite a few who slipped through, the cavalry quickly subdued the village, cutting down any soldiers who dared to fight.

Samwell's men had been instructed to kill all Dornish soldiers but spare civilians who didn't resist. Samwell drank from the village well, relishing the cool water, when a rider returned with news that two Dornish soldiers had managed to escape.

He wasn't overly concerned. Their presence had already been discovered; there was no need to remain hidden. The only way to ensure total secrecy would be to slaughter every civilian in the village—a ruthless measure he wasn't willing to take.

Once his soldiers had filled their water skins, they prepared to move out, but his squire, Katu, approached, leading a woman with disheveled clothing.

"My lord, we found a woman from the Riverlands."

"A woman from the Riverlands?" Samwell asked, surprised.

"Yes, my lord. She says her name is Sarya and she's a fighter from the Stormcrows mercenary company," Katu explained.

Sarya looked to be in her mid-twenties, tall and muscular, with long, strong legs. Her close-set eyes gave her a determined look, and her brown hair hung in disarray over her shoulders.

"The Stormcrows? The mercenary group from Oldtown?" Samwell asked, vaguely recalling the name.

"Yes, my lord," Sarya replied. "I'm from Oldtown myself. I was hired by a Dornish merchant to escort goods from Oldtown to Sandstone. But when the war broke out, the Dornish wouldn't let us leave. We tried to escape, but my companions were killed, and I was… well…"

One glance at her torn clothes and the bruises on her exposed skin told Samwell why the Dornish had spared her.

"My lord, please—take me with you. I'll fight for you," Sarya pleaded.

Samwell hesitated. "We're on a mission, a dangerous one."

"I'm not afraid!" Sarya's voice shook with anger. "I want revenge for what they did to my companions!"

Samwell shook his head. "I can give you food, water, even a horse, but you should head west to Starfall. The lord there is neutral in this war and won't harm you."

"You think I can't fight because I'm a woman, don't you?" Sarya demanded, her eyes flashing with defiance.

Samwell was silent.

His silence was all the confirmation she needed.

Sarya sneered. "Let me tell you something, my lord. My father was a mercenary, and my mother a camp woman. They weren't married, so I was a bastard. On my coming-of-age, my father came for me, asking me to leave with him. My mother refused, so he slapped her and threw a sword at my feet, asking me to choose his sword or her tears."

She lifted her chin proudly. "I chose the sword."

She held Samwell's gaze, determination etched on her face. "My lord, I am not a woman who cries. Give me a sword, and I will fight for you!"

Dickon spoke up, urging his brother, "Let her join us, Brother. She wouldn't survive out here alone."

After a long look at the woman, Samwell nodded. "Fine. But if you die, don't expect us to carry your remains back to Oldtown."

Sarya smiled, undaunted. "If I can kill even a few more Dornish before I go, I'll consider it a worthy death."

"Good." Samwell turned to his brother. "Dickon, find a horse for her."

"Yes, brother." Dickon eagerly led Sarya to the horses, and they quickly readied themselves to leave the village.

In the following days, Samwell's band raided another small Dornish village, replenishing their supplies along the way. But one thing eluded him: he still hadn't found a Dornish supply convoy.

With two Iron Throne armies advancing from the Prince's Pass and Boneway, Samwell was sure the Dornish must be transporting food and supplies to heavy defensive points like Skyreach and Ironwood. Finding those supply routes had been a key part of their mission.

However, despite his hawk's high vantage, Samwell found that keeping a constant eye on the vast desert was impossible. The desert climate quickly wore out the bird, which would retreat to the shade of his cloak after only a short flight.

Accepting this, Samwell released the hawk only when needed, relying mostly on scouts to report any signs of activity.

Over the next few days, the cavalry roamed around Sandstone, swift and elusive, never staying in one place too long. Still, Dornish forces eventually picked up their trail.

"They're likely a cavalry," Lucas deduced. "Only cavalry could keep up with us."

"I'm more curious as to how they're tracking us," Samwell murmured, troubled.

He'd sent his hawk aloft several times without spotting them directly, though he'd found hints of their passage.

Lucas thought for a moment before responding. "It's not so surprising. The desert might be vast, but water sources are few and fixed. The Dornish only need to follow those and they can guess our position and likely path."

Samwell frowned, deep in thought.

(End of Chapter)


Chapitre 174: Chapter 175: The Ambush

As they set off again, Samwell decisively removed his own double-headed eagle banner. He also ordered the knights from Horn Hill and the Vale to take down their flags, replacing them with those of the Qorgyle family—three black scorpions on a red field.

The disguise was rudimentary. A close look would reveal they were outsiders, given their different appearances, weaponry, and armor. But from a distance, they'd be hard to distinguish from real Qorgyle soldiers.

This simple disguise led to an amusing, if unexpected, mishap.

One of Samwell's scouting teams, venturing too far, got slightly lost and happened upon another group bearing the red scorpion banner. Mistaking them for allies, they rode over to meet them—only to realize, too late, that the other party was a real Qorgyle patrol.

The two scouts panicked, recognizing their blunder only after noticing that the enemy cavalry numbered far more than their own force. In their fright, they made a hasty decision: they turned and bolted.

Had they kept their distance and stayed calm, the Dornish riders might not have noticed the difference and could have thought the scouts were merely fellow patrols. But a sudden retreat drew immediate suspicion, and a dozen Dornish horsemen quickly pursued.

Samwell was livid when he saw his scouts returning with a full Dornish patrol on their heels.

"Lord! Dornish cavalry—four hundred riders!" the two frantic scouts shouted as they galloped toward him.

Samwell's command was immediate: "Retreat!"

In war, the unexpected can turn the tide, and today, it seemed the gods had not finished toying with them.

Just as the Dornish and Samwell's riders had spotted each other and were engaged in a full chase, the skies darkened and fierce winds arose. A sandstorm had rolled in—a massive wall of sand sweeping across the horizon with astonishing speed.

In an instant, the two groups of riders were swallowed by the advancing sandstorm, reduced to mere ants in the vast sea of sand.

Samwell quickly wrapped a cloth around his face, shielding his mouth and nose. His visibility reduced to nearly zero, he called for his soldiers to cluster together, arranging their horses in a tight circle to provide shelter against the storm.

In the face of this natural calamity, the rivalry between the two sides became irrelevant. Survival was the only goal.

Hand in hand, the men gathered closely, heads down, waiting out the brutal onslaught of sand. The storm raged for nearly two hours.

When the winds finally calmed, Samwell opened his eyes to a transformed landscape. The surrounding dunes were all reshaped, the familiar contours of the desert utterly altered. Had he not known they hadn't moved, he'd have thought they'd been blown to an entirely new location.

The storm, though chaotic, had worked in their favor. All traces of their movement were now buried under sand.

As his brother Dickon took count of their forces, Samwell sent his hawk aloft to scout from above. Soon after, Dickon reported back—all their men were safe, though they'd lost two horses to quicksand, swallowed up as they floundered in the shifting sands.

It was a better outcome than Samwell had anticipated. The men were safe, and as each soldier had two mounts, they could absorb the loss without much consequence.

After a brief rest, Samwell dispatched new scouts with strict orders not to wander too far. This time, he also sent out his hawk to verify the Dornishmen's position and avoid another mishap.

His hawk quickly spotted the Dornish patrol. Strangely, they'd somehow ended up ahead of Samwell's force. At some point during the sandstorm, they must have passed each other by mere inches, both oblivious to the other's presence. And to Samwell's surprise, the Dornish commander had neglected to leave scouts behind, as if confident that nothing could be hiding behind them.

Typically, one would not station scouts behind their own lines—after all, they'd just crossed that ground. But this oversight left Samwell breathless with excitement.

A golden opportunity had presented itself.

"Lucas!" Samwell called to his knight. "Order all scouts to return immediately."

Lucas, slightly puzzled, asked, "But, Lord, without scouts, how will we advance?"

"Just follow me!" Samwell commanded, not explaining further.

Lucas, though unsure of his lord's intentions, obeyed without question. Once all scouts were recalled, Samwell took the lead, guided by his hawk, heading slowly south.

Soon enough, they came upon the tracks left by the Dornish force.

The atmosphere within Samwell's ranks shifted, everyone's breath quickening with anticipation. Without needing further orders, the soldiers moved in complete silence, careful to reduce any noise that might betray their approach. The tension grew, killing intent simmering beneath the quiet as they closed the gap.

Samwell's plan was risky. He was betting that the Dornish force had no idea their target was right on their tail. He gambled that the enemy commander would not send scouts back to recheck his path. He wagered that he could get close enough to strike before being discovered. Though the Dornish cavalry outnumbered his own two-to-one, a well-executed surprise attack would tip the scales in his favor.

Originally, Samwell had intended to be cautious and avoid such risks. But when the goddess of victory handed him an opportunity like this, ignoring it would be criminal. Moreover, he estimated that this group represented all the mounted forces the Qorgyle family could muster. Sandstone was not a wealthy region; supporting four hundred cavalry was likely their limit.

If he destroyed this force, he'd be free to roam the desert near Sandstone, while any remaining infantry would be too slow to catch him. After this, he could continue his raids without significant opposition. Taking a risk now seemed entirely worth it.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting the desert in a warm golden hue, Samwell came to a halt, and his troops followed, sensing his intentions.

In the fading light, the Dornish force also stopped to rest.

"Dismount, rest, and eat," Samwell ordered in a low voice. "No fires."

The men silently obeyed, chewing on their rations and drinking water in preparation for the upcoming attack.

Time dragged in the tense silence as they waited. When the sun finally disappeared and the stars began to appear faintly in the sky, Samwell was the first to mount his horse again. The others followed without a word, moving with ghostly stealth in the gathering darkness.

They left behind spare horses and heavy baggage, donned their armor, and advanced, guided by the tracks left by the unsuspecting Dornish.

In the dusky twilight, the Dornish soldiers were oblivious to the danger creeping up from behind. They'd posted no fires, confident that they were alone in the desert, unaware that death stalked them in the shadows.

Closer and closer.

Samwell could smell the scent of horses and the faint aroma of Dornish spices wafting on the breeze. Even the wind seemed to favor him tonight, blowing in his direction, masking his approach.

Dickon, barely containing his eagerness, gave his brother a look, asking silently if they should charge.

Samwell shook his head.

They moved even closer.

Now they were so near that a Dornishman would only need to turn his head to see them. It was risky—too risky. But Samwell was eerily calm. His heart beat steadily, his hands steady on the reins.

For Dickon, however, it was nearly unbearable. Even Lucas Dayne, usually level-headed, was visibly anxious, worried they were pushing their luck too far.

Finally, Samwell gave the signal, gently spurring his horse forward.

The desert wind picked up, and as if on cue, two hundred riders broke into a full gallop. The sound of hooves echoed across the sand, impossible to conceal any longer.

The Dornishmen were caught completely off guard.

They'd just finished their evening meal, many beginning to settle for sleep, when they felt the earth tremble.

Barking sounded from their camp, the dogs alerting them just moments before the first shouts rang out: "Enemy attack! Enemy attack!"

Confusion filled their ranks. Soldiers scrambled in a panic, some already having removed their armor for the night. With the enemy so close, there was no time to properly equip themselves; they grabbed what weapons they could and frantically mounted their horses.

Some fled in terror, others tried to organize a defense, but chaos had already spread. The officers attempted to restore order, but fear and confusion were overpowering.

Into this mayhem charged Samwell's force.

His two hundred riders formed a sharp wedge, cutting through the disorganized Dornish ranks with terrifying momentum. At the head of this charge, a blazing red light erupted from Samwell's sword, Dawn, like the first glimmer of dawn piercing the night.

But the dawn he brought was one of death.

(End of Chapter)


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