The battle reports of the Ash Company lay on the oak desk in the Red Keep's study, the ink still fresh.
Aegon's gaze rose from the spread-out strategic map of The Crownlands. On it, the marker representing Stokeworth was tightly encircled by black lines symbolizing a siege.
"Ten days now." His voice was calm, betraying no emotion, as his violet eyes turned toward the messenger guard who had come to report.
The guard lowered his head, speaking clearly: "Yes, Your Highness. The Ash Company has had Stokeworth surrounded for ten days."
"Commander-in-Chief Luke ordered day and night construction; siege towers, rams, and catapults are all in place."
"Four major assaults were organized during this period, but Stokeworth's walls are high and thick, and the defenders' resistance is stubborn. In particular, a warrior wearing a hound-shaped helm leading Lannister red-cloaked elites has counterattacked at every critical moment. Our forces... have suffered significant casualties, and all attempts to scale the walls were repelled."
"The defenders' provisions seem ample, and their morale shows no signs of flagging."
The study fell silent for a moment, save for the faint sound of fireplace flames licking the firewood.
Aegon's fingertip lightly tapped the location of Stokeworth on the map, then slowly traced the black lines representing the Ash Company's encirclement. He did not speak immediately.
If he had to personally ride Ghidorah to burn cities and crush enemies every time a castle resisted stubbornly while he maintained a massive army and spent a fortune on provisions, then what use did he have for this army?
Dragons were a deterrent, a trump card, the ultimate power to break a balance—not a cheap tool to replace the army in completing every difficult siege.
An army needed to be tempered in blood and fire, and generals needed to sharpen their decisiveness in hardship. The fruits of victory could only be truly savored if seized personally, and only then could true loyalty and strength be forged.
"Tell Luke," Aegon spoke, his voice not loud but carrying an unquestionable penetration, "Stokeworth must be taken."
The guard's posture straightened even further.
"But for a castle with high walls and ample provisions, there is no need for blind frontal assaults that waste the lives of Soldiers for nothing."
Aegon's gaze fell back onto the map as if examining every contour of the fortress. "Pass on my orders: feign attacks and night raids, non-stop, day and night. Advance with both true and false maneuvers."
He looked up at the guard. "Start tonight. For the first two nights, use small squads for frequent harassment and clamor to ensure the defenders cannot sleep and remain mentally strained. On the third night..."
He paused slightly.
"When they are utterly exhausted and believe it is merely bluster, concentrate all forces for a genuine assault. Luke himself will decide the primary direction of the attack."
"What I want is to exhaust their army, crush their will, and then break the city in a single strike."
"As you command, Your Highness!" The guard responded solemnly, etching every word into his mind. He bowed and quickly exited the study.
The door closed softly.
Aegon did not immediately look away. His fingertip remained on the location of Stokeworth, then slowly moved westward, landing on the vast and chaotic Riverlands.
His gaze narrowed slightly, then shifted back east, scanning the eastern part of The Crownlands.
If... Jon Connington's analysis was correct, and those hidden within Stokeworth were truly Tommen or Myrcella, the last nominal heirs to the throne of House Lannister...
Then would Tywin Lannister, that old lion, truly watch as this last bloodline and hope for a reversal were besieged to death in an isolated castle?
He would not.
So, what would he do? Whom would he send? And from which direction would they come?
The main forces of the Westerlands had just retreated and their morale was damaged; they needed to stabilize their defensive lines.
Tywin himself would not move easily.
What other generals did he have available?
Reliable elites? Advancing directly east from the Westerlands through The Riverlands?
The Riverlands now had the Starks to the north and his Ash Company to the east. How would Tywin's reinforcements cross this chaotic land without being noticed or intercepted?
Or... was there another way?
Deep within Aegon's violet eyes, a flash of cold contemplation appeared. The pieces on the chessboard were not static.
He was besieging a city, but perhaps someone was also looking to besiege him.
Outside Stokeworth, the Ash Company's camp was thick with the scent of blood and smoke.
Another brutal half-day assault had just ended. The bugle for retreat still echoed in their ears, and the intermittent groans of wounded Soldiers being carried away on stretchers could be heard.
Atop the camp's watchtower, Luke pulled off his dust- and blood-stained gloves and looked up, revealing a face deeply lined by smoke and exhaustion.
His brow was furrowed as his gaze crossed the empty zone of casualties, staring intently at the distant castle that crouched like a giant beast, its walls gleaming with a cold, hard luster in the sunset.
Once again.
Another layer of corpses had accumulated at the foot of the walls.
That red banner embroidered with a golden lion still fluttered atop the highest tower, painfully eyesore.
And what weighed most heavily on his heart was that figure on the battlements...
That figure wearing a hideous Hound Helm and heavy plate armor, pinned to the breach in the wall like a rock, repeatedly smashing back the climbs and charges of the Ash Company's warriors.
By his side, there was always a small squad of exceptionally fierce, armored elites in Lannister red cloaks, whose combat strength was entirely different from the ordinary defenders.
"My Lord," the adjutant said hoarsely, his voice full of frustration, "that one in the dog head and those red cloaks are definitely elite veterans. With them there, the casualties from a direct assault are just too high."
Luke knew this all too well.
Just as he was about to speak, the messenger guard hurried up the watchtower and clearly repeated Aegon's orders.
After listening, Luke's furrowed brow did not relax, but a glint of light flickered in his eyes.
Feign attacks, exhaust the enemy, combine the false and the real... He looked at the distant walls, which had returned to peace but where the defenders' figures were visibly sparser than a few days ago, and slowly exhaled a breath of turbid air.
"The Prince is wise," he said deeply, turning to face the officers awaiting orders, his fatigue somewhat dissipated by a new sharp energy. "Pass the word: the frontline rotation units will be divided into three waves. After nightfall, the first wave will follow the designated route, approaching with clamor and arrow cover, making a show of a major assault, then retreating before the trench."
"Half an hour later, the second wave will do the same, focusing their feint on the West Gate. Around midnight, the third wave will rotate in and continue the harassment. The noise can be slightly reduced, but it must be constant."
"Archers and crossbowmen coordinate; do not be stingy with fire arrows and whistling arrows. I want the people in that city to have no peace all night!"
His gaze swept over everyone. "Do you understand? I want them to keep their eyes open until dawn! For two consecutive nights! On the third night... that is when we truly scale the walls! Everyone, go prepare!"
"Yes, My Lord!"
The orders were passed down through the ranks. The Ash Company camp, which had been somewhat demoralized by the failed assaults, was injected with a new, cold, and orderly vitality as it began to operate around the new tactics.
Atop the walls of Stokeworth, the setting sun was like blood, casting long shadows of the walls and the exhausted defenders upon them.
...
Sandor Clegane leaned his back against the cold battlement and slowly sat down on the ground. He took off his heavy Hound Helm and tossed it casually by his feet.
It revealed a face that had been completely consumed by old fires, leaving behind twisted and hideous scars.
Sweat mixed with blood and dust, flowing through the terrible ravines of the scars.
He gasped for air, every breath pulling at overused muscles and bringing a needle-like ache.
The web of his right hand, which held his sword, had long since split open. It was messily wrapped with a dirty strip of cloth, and the blood seeping out had turned dark brown.
Ten days.
For ten consecutive days, they had repelled fierce assaults on the walls several times.
Even for a body like his—naturally massive, having survived countless slaughters, and seemingly crawled out of the fires of hell—he felt a deep exhaustion seeping into his very marrow.
Every time he swung his greatsword to parry a thrusting spear, every time he used his spaulder to knock back an enemy climbing the battlements, it consumed his dwindling energy.
The number of defenders was limited to begin with, and elites were even fewer. Most of the pressure was borne by him and the few dozen red-cloaked veterans beside him.
He felt that the tightened string was nearing its limit.
The sound of armor rubbing together approached.
Bronn walked over carrying a waterskin and a bag of bread hard enough to kill someone, sitting down beside him. The usual cynicism on his face was replaced by heavy concern.
This former Mercenary was agile and his swordsmanship was cunning; he had played a significant role in the defense of the city, but he too looked weary.
"A drink?" Bronn tossed the waterskin over.
Sandor caught it, tilted his head back, and took several large gulps. Water flowed down the scars on his jaw, soaking his filthy collar.
He didn't speak, simply tossing the waterskin back.
Bronn took a few gulps himself, chewed on the hard bread, and watched the fires of the Ash Company camp lighting up in the distance below the walls. His voice was low:
"This can't go on. Our numbers are getting smaller. We lost quite a few good hands today, and the wounded are crowding the cellars."
Sandor let out a muffled sound from his throat, akin to a beast's low growl, as an answer.
He knew this all too well.
"Didn't you say," Sandor turned his head, his fierce but bloodshot eyes staring at Bronn, his voice hoarse like grinding sand, "that you sent people to the Westerlands with a message long before we were surrounded?"
Bronn's brow twisted into a knot as he took a hard bite of bread, saying indistinctly, "I did. Three clever lads, slipped out under cover of night. But..."
He swallowed the food and his tone sank. "But now this castle is surrounded like an iron barrel. Any raven that dares to fly out of this range is shot down for a snack."
"What the situation is outside, where the reinforcements are, whether they're dead or alive... only the gods know."
He paused and looked at Sandor, a look of near-helplessness appearing on his face for the first time. "Hound, I'll tell you the truth. If The Imp hadn't paid half the deposit in advance, and then kept talking about 'a Lannister always pays his debts' and the gold of Casterly Rock, I would have fucking..."
He didn't finish, but the meaning was clear. A Mercenary sold his life for money, but valued his life more.
In the current situation, no matter how good the money was, one had to be alive to spend it.
"Besides," Bronn licked his dry lips, his voice dropping even lower, "even if we wanted to run now, we fucking can't."
"There are people on all sides. Looking at this setup, they won't stop until they take this castle."
Sandor remained silent, his gaze returning to the continuous fires of the enemy camp outside the city.
No matter how strong the walls or how ample the provisions, it couldn't withstand the defenders growing fewer with every fight and more exhausted with every watch.
Despair and numbness were written on everyone's faces.
Could they hold out during the next attack?
He didn't know.
He and Bronn—one a beast bound by orders, the other a Mercenary bound by gold coins and the reality of having nowhere to run.
Sitting side by side on the cold battlements, watching the enemy's campfires in the distance, only furrowed brows and a silence heavy as iron remained.
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