Bab 439: Chapter 440: Battle of Attrition
When Samwell saw the enemy forces begin their movements, he was momentarily surprised but quickly regained his composure.
He hadn't expected Tywin to simply stand by and let the Southern army cross the river and do nothing.
A man like Tywin Lannister would never rely entirely on the Braavosi fleet, nor would he stubbornly adhere to a failing plan while waiting for reinforcements that weren't coming.
However, Tywin's decision to attack now came too late.
The Southern army had already gathered a substantial force on the northern bank of the river. Though still outnumbered by the Northern coalition, their numbers were sufficient to mount a solid defense.
Seeing the enemy's preparations for an assault, Samwell immediately ordered his troops to ready themselves for battle.
The Southern army's position on the northern bank was a hastily constructed camp. With limited time and the enemy watching closely, Samwell had instructed his men not to overexert themselves, resulting in a simple and crude setup.
There were no proper walls, only a few trenches dug around the camp, lined with rows of sharpened stakes. These defenses weren't designed to inflict significant casualties but to slow the Northern coalition's advance.
Samwell had decided from the start that this battle on the riverbank would be defensive.
Given their numerical disadvantage, defense was the safer option. As time passed and more troops crossed the river, the Southern army's strength would only grow.
The sun shone warmly that day, though a hint of autumn's chill still lingered.
Banners flapped in the wind as soldiers made their final preparations, stretching their limbs and steadying their nerves for the impending clash.
The tension north of the river grew heavier by the moment. The air was thick with the scent of blood, making it hard to breathe.
The standoff didn't last long. Tywin Lannister, ever decisive, gave the order to attack without hesitation.
A deep blast of horns echoed across the battlefield, signaling the beginning of the riverbank battle.
The Northern coalition moved first. Hundreds of soldiers carrying wooden planks and sacks of earth rushed forward to fill the Southern trenches.
Before they could reach the trenches, a volley of arrows arced through the sky.
The ominous whistling of the arrows was followed by screams of pain as unlucky soldiers fell to the ground.
Yet the Northern soldiers pressed on, determined and unyielding. It took them nearly an hour to fill the trenches, but they eventually succeeded.
The Southern forces adjusted their formation in response, pulling back their archers and moving their swordsmen and spearmen to the front lines in preparation for close combat.
With their numerical superiority, the Northern army advanced in force.
The horn blew again, followed by the rumble of war drums. The earlier skirmishes were over—this was the true start of the battle.
A mass of Northern soldiers armed with swords and shields marched forward in unison, their movements synchronized with the drumbeats.
As the drumming quickened, so did their pace.
The distance between the two armies narrowed, allowing each side to see the faces of their opponents—the bloodshot eyes, the tense jaws, and the grim determination etched onto their expressions.
"Charge!"
The first deafening roar of battle erupted.
The sound of bowstrings snapping filled the air as another rain of arrows darkened the sky.
The arrows landed with sickening thuds, piercing flesh and armor alike. Soldiers screamed as they fell, but those behind them pressed forward.
In mere moments, the vanguard of the Northern army reached the Southern lines, where they were met by a wall of spears and swords—a forest of steel.
Blood sprayed like fountains as the two armies clashed.
Men fell in droves, but for every soldier who fell, another stepped forward to take his place.
Bodies began to pile up, and the metallic stench of blood filled the air. Yet neither side showed any sign of relenting, driven by a primal urge to kill or be killed.
Samwell did not personally join the fray. Seated atop the white dragon's head in the middle of the Southern formation, he oversaw the battlefield.
To the Southern troops, their king and his dragon had become a living symbol—a totem of strength and victory. Just their presence was enough to bolster morale.
For the Northern troops, the sight of the towering white dragon was equally impactful, though for the opposite reason. Even knowing that their army was equipped with anti-dragon ballistae, the sheer size and terror of the dragon eroded their courage.
Samwell observed the battlefield with a critical eye. While the Northern coalition had the advantage in numbers, the Southern army had superior discipline and combat effectiveness.
The soldiers from the Reach, Stormlands, and even Dorne (despite not directly contributing troops) were all fully under Samwell's command. The forces they provided were elite units, chosen to represent their lords with honor.
In contrast, while Tywin controlled four regions, his grip on them was less absolute. Only the lords of the Westerlands were fully committed, sending their best troops to fight for him. The other three regions had varying degrees of reluctance.
As a result, the Northern coalition's initial assault—consisting mainly of troops from the North, Riverlands, and Vale—felt more like a probing attack than a full-fledged offensive.
The uncommitted attitude of these troops showed in their performance. Despite their overwhelming numbers, they failed to disrupt the Southern formation.
Seeing the attack falter, Tywin ordered the drums to cease, signaling the first wave of soldiers to retreat.
Both armies had tested each other's strength in a brutal exchange, leaving the riverbank stained red with blood. But the true battle was only beginning.
Since Robert Baratheon's death, Westeros had been embroiled in endless wars, both large and small. The years of bloodshed had numbed the combatants. Even the brightest red could no longer stir their hearts.
For Tywin Lannister, such losses were inconsequential. After allowing his troops a brief rest, he ordered the second wave to attack.
Once again, the battlefield erupted with shouts of war.
The Northern soldiers charged with renewed vigor, their eyes red with rage as they threw themselves at the Southern defenses.
The already blood-soaked ground grew muddier with each passing moment, the dirt saturated with blood and gore.
Corpses piled up higher and higher, and the casualty count climbed on both sides.
Yet no matter how many waves the Northern coalition sent, the Southern army's lines remained unbroken. If anything, their defenses only grew stronger with each clash.
The disciplined and battle-hardened soldiers from the Stormlands and Reach, alongside the tireless Unsullied from Slaver's Bay, demonstrated a clear superiority over their Northern counterparts.
Their morale, physical strength, coordination, and discipline gave the Southern army a decisive edge.
(End of Chapter)
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