บท 444: Chapter 445: Retreat
Blackwater River, Ram's Gate Crossing.
The Southern Alliance, having crossed the river, was locked in a fierce battle with the Lannister-led Northern Coalition.
A week had passed since the South began crossing the river. The number of Southern soldiers on the north bank had grown steadily, but with each passing day, the Northern forces' attacks had also intensified.
As evening approached, the Northerners concluded yet another wave of attacks and withdrew. The Southern soldiers assumed the day's assaults were over. But unexpectedly, the enemy launched a sudden, frenzied assault.
Wave after wave of soldiers fell, only to be replaced by others rushing forward with relentless ferocity. The attacks surged like a tide, overwhelming and unrelenting.
Caught off guard, the Southern forces were pushed back in some areas. For the first time, breaches appeared in their steadfast lines.
Though the Northern troops who broke through were quickly killed, their success inspired their comrades, igniting a flicker of hope that victory was possible.
The Southern soldiers, however, quickly regrouped. At the sound of urgent war drums, they retaliated with equal ferocity. Many noble knights joined the front lines, rallying the troops with their valor.
Under the dying light of the setting sun, the two armies clashed with unrestrained ferocity. Spears surged like a forest, swords gleamed like crashing waves, and the air was filled with the deafening sounds of combat.
The battle reached its most brutal phase. The intensity of the fight burned away everything else. Both sides fought as if possessed, their eyes red with rage, unwilling to yield an inch.
Lord Tywin Lannister had abandoned any thoughts of preserving his forces. He sent the last of the Westerlands' elite troops to the front lines.
Tywin knew the Braavosi fleet was unlikely to come. If he could not secure the river crossing, time would shift the balance of power.
The Southern forces' numbers would continue to grow as more troops crossed the river. The Northern forces' numerical advantage would eventually vanish.
As Lannister knights personally led charges into the enemy ranks, their unyielding determination spurred the rest of the Northern troops. The battlefield turned into a crucible of blood and steel.
The Southern soldiers suffered mounting casualties, but their resilience was equally remarkable. Stormland and Reach troops, driven by a thirst for glory and a refusal to retreat, met the Northerners' madness with their own.
The Northern onslaught caused some disarray in the Southern lines, but the formations were quickly restored. Again and again, the Northerners broke through, only to be repelled.
This was a battle of pure endurance, with neither side willing to concede. Blood flowed like rivers, and the rising death toll only fueled the fighters' brutality.
Both sides seemed possessed, as if they no longer desired to see the next sunrise, determined instead to drag each other into the abyss.
Finally, as the last rays of sunlight disappeared beyond the western horizon, the Northerners reluctantly began to disengage and retreat.
After a day of brutal fighting, both armies withdrew to their respective camps to tend to their wounds.
As the enemy retreated, the Southern soldiers collapsed onto the ground, utterly exhausted. They gasped for air, their minds finally cooling from the feverish intensity of battle.
They began to count their blessings for surviving another day and mourned their fallen comrades.
They gathered their dead, reclaimed arrows scattered like weeds across the field, and tallied the day's grim toll.
Lady Brienne of Tarth sat heavily on the ground, gulping water that streamed down her chin, turning red as it mixed with the blood covering her.
A squire nervously examined the arrow lodged in her shoulder.
"Ser, the arrow is deep… We should summon a maester to treat it."
Brienne waved him off impatiently and yanked the arrow out herself with a grimace.
Her casual display of pain tolerance left the surrounding soldiers in awe.
By now, the Stormland knight's reputation had spread through the Southern army. Even the most arrogant men regarded her with newfound respect.
The mocking nickname "Beauty" was no longer spoken.
Southern nobles knew the Storm King, Samwell Caesar, highly valued this knight. With her bravery in battle and numerous accomplishments, her future was bound to be bright.
Some younger knights, sensing an opportunity, approached her with friendly overtures, hoping to win her favor.
Brienne, however, was wary of such advances and dismissed them coldly, leaving many embarrassed and retreating.
Only when the Storm King himself arrived to inspect the front lines did Brienne's demeanor soften. She immediately approached to pay her respects.
Samwell moved among the soldiers, offering words of encouragement and bearing his trademark warm smile. But his heart was heavy.
Reports of casualties weighed on him. Nearly three thousand soldiers had been killed in the day's fighting, with countless more wounded.
The staggering loss was impossible to ignore.
Thus, while he noticed the awkward exchanges around Brienne, he lacked the energy to address them. Instead, he contemplated whether he needed to adjust his strategy if the Northern attacks continued at this intensity.
On the other side of the battlefield, Tywin Lannister was in far worse shape.
The Southern army's losses had been severe, but the Northern forces had suffered even more.
Westerland knights, the pride of Tywin's forces, had been sent to the front lines. Now, listening to the endless roll call of fallen knights, even Tywin's usually unshakable composure faltered, his hands trembling uncontrollably.
The Westerlands' forces were all but gutted, yet the Southern defenses remained unbroken.
It was clear the Northern Coalition was in a precarious position.
To make matters worse, supplies were running low. Tywin had sent multiple envoys to King's Landing for provisions, only for his rebellious son, Tyrion, to send back a paltry amount—barely enough for two days.
When Tywin sent another envoy, he received only sacks of sand.
The messenger, visibly terrified, relayed Tyrion's justification:
"Lord Tyrion said he was merely imitating your own tactics, my lord…"
Hearing this, Tywin nearly abandoned the battlefield on the spot to return to King's Landing and personally execute his son.
Night fell, cold and unforgiving, as Tywin's mood darkened further.
Northern lords crowded into his command tent, clamoring about heavy casualties, dwindling supplies, and urging for a retreat.
Their arguments grew louder, all circling back to the same conclusion: retreat.
The Northern lords had been cowed by the Southern forces. They proposed falling back to King's Landing, using its formidable walls as a defensive stronghold.
Tywin wanted to tell them the truth: the walls of King's Landing would offer no safety.
If the Southerners crossed the river completely, the Northern forces would lose any room for maneuver. Strategically and tactically, they would be finished.
King's Landing, already on the brink of famine, was a ticking time bomb.
But Tywin dared not reveal this.
He understood the fragility of alliances. If the lords lost confidence in the Lannisters, many would flee under cover of darkness to swear fealty to Caesar.
Having decided his next move, Tywin's eyes flashed coldly as he addressed the assembly:
"If retreat is what everyone desires, we shall return to King's Landing."
His tone was calm, as if still in control.
The lords readily agreed, showing no hesitation in accepting the command.
Under the cover of night, the Northern forces began their retreat toward King's Landing.
(End of Chapter)
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