The heavy shroud of night completely enveloped The Crownlands, and Starkworth Castle sat like a blood-soaked beast, entrenched amidst blood and fire.
The walls of this hereditary noble castle were towering; stone walls several feet thick should have been a natural barrier sufficient to withstand ten thousand horses and a thousand armies, but now they were gnawed and scarred by the flames of war.
Most of the battlements atop the walls had crumbled, the wooden beams of the arrow towers were blackened by fire arrows, and corpses were piled layer upon layer at the base of the walls, stretching from the foot of the fortifications all the way to the distant woods.
New and old blood soaked the soil, making it sticky and slippery underfoot; mixed with broken spears, shattered shields, and snapped siege ladders, it formed a shocking tableau of purgatory.
The slaughter never ceased.
One siege ladder after another was carried to the base of the wall by Ash Company Soldiers; as soon as they were propped against the battlements, the defenders would shove them back with long poles. The crisp sound of wooden frames snapping and the screams of Soldiers falling to the ground intertwined, sounding particularly piercing in the night.
Yet as soon as one ladder was smashed to pieces, the next group of desperate men would charge forward, treading over their companions' corpses to set up the ladders and climb once more, their movements brutal yet orderly.
It was as if this endless tug-of-war would never reach a conclusion.
In the distance, siege towers advanced slowly under the light of torches, their crude wooden wheels crushing the bones covering the ground with a dull, ear-piercing creak.
The battering ram struck the castle gates again and again; each heavy blow made the entire castle tremble slightly, causing stone chips to flake off.
This was the twelfth day of the siege.
The Ash Company under Aegon's command had been ordered to storm the castle day and night. During the day, the main force would pounce fiercely, and late at night, small units would launch feint attacks to harass the defenders, using the cruelest exhaustion tactics to grind down their will.
Sandor Clegane leaned on a two-handed greatsword that was nearly notched to the hilt, standing at the most dilapidated gap in the wall. His entire suit of armor was encrusted with thick scabs of blood, and the eyes beneath his hound helmet were bloodshot; he had long since fought to the point of collapse.
A blood-soaked Ash Company Soldier climbed over the battlements, roaring as he lunged with a blade, only to be cut down by Sandor's sword. But before he could even catch his breath, another dark shadow crawled up the ladder.
"These bastards!" Sandor's hoarse roar crashed into the night, filled with violence and exhaustion. "There's no end to the killing, no end to the chasing; they're all lunatics who aren't even afraid of death!"
It was already the twelfth day of the siege.
For the first ten days, the Targaryen army had not yet prepared all their siege engines and relied only on light troops for uphill assaults; Sandor and Bronn were still able to lead the defenders in a resolute defense based on the strong fortress.
But in the last two days, the enemy had cut down all the timber around the castle and worked through the night to produce siege towers, battering rams, and other equipment, completely shifting their tactics...
Constant day and night assaults, feints to exhaust the enemy—sometimes a real attack, sometimes a fake one—leaving them without a single moment to breathe.
The defenders were so tormented by the war drums and shouting throughout the night that they couldn't close their eyes. Just as they began to doze off, a real attack would come.
After two days of this repeated torment, everyone was drained dry.
Sandor felt as if his legs were filled with lead; every swing of his sword required his full strength. If he relaxed even slightly, he would immediately collapse and fall asleep.
But he didn't dare.
He looked up at the approaching siege tower, his fingers gripping the hilt of his sword so hard they turned white.
The slaughter on the walls grew even more frenzied.
Sandor used all his strength to push a ladder down; the sound of breaking bones and screams rose from below.
Yet in the blink of an eye, another group of black-robed men charged up recklessly, setting up ladders and leaping upward by stepping on the bodies of their comrades that hadn't even grown cold yet.
These men were seeing red; there was no such thing as fear of death in their eyes.
Even if the comrade beside them was cut in two on the spot, or even if their own arms or legs were broken, they still roared and lunged forward, determined to take an enemy's head with their final breath.
This madness wasn't innate.
It was fueled by the promise of military rewards.
Aegon's promised rewards were clearly priced: one enemy head for one gold coin; those with outstanding military merit could obtain land, knighthoods, and even castles and hereditary noble status.
Previously, when the Golden Company had pacified the empty Stormlands, countless common Soldiers like them had leaped to become knights, possessing castles and lands, transforming into noble lords overnight.
Their lives would be free of worry for the rest of their days, filled with wealth and honor, and their descendants would be born superior to others.
All of this was seen by the Soldiers of the Ash Company, driving them mad with envy.
They were originally pirates and outlaws from the Stepstones, naturally undisciplined to the core.
Before, they risked their lives just to survive; now, with an opportunity for a meteoric rise right in front of them, they were naturally willing to do anything.
This army never had the rules of the Bloodsworn or the Golden Company. Their pirate nature of looting and indiscriminate killing was etched into their bones.
All the way here, any castle in The Crownlands that did not surrender was taken, and the original defenders and nobles were all beheaded for military merit, leaving no one alive.
One castle after another was emptied this way, leaving only blood on the ground.
Although the "Skull Squad" had been renamed the Ash Company to sound more respectable, their bloodthirsty cruelty remained unchanged, and they fought with a ferocity that defied death.
"We can't hold them off—!"
A red-robed Lannister veteran roared hoarsely before falling into a pool of blood.
This elite force, which Tywin had transferred from the Westerlands and which had once protected Joffrey, had fought for twelve days; with the dead and the wounded, there were not many left.
Those still standing on the walls were primarily the original defenders of Starkworth Castle.
These men were usually lazy and had never seen such a scene; they were already scared out of their wits. If not for the remaining red-robed Lannister elites enforcing orders, they would have fled long ago.
Sandor was putting all his effort into defending the front, completely failing to notice that a fatal gap had been torn open in the battlements to his side.
Several defenders fell in pools of blood, and several Ash Company Soldiers, wielding swords and shields, lunged toward his back.
At the critical moment, Bronn arrived with a few Lannister remnants, his shortsword cutting cleanly to slay the approaching enemies, and together they pushed back the side siege ladder, just barely plugging the gap.
The two shared a brief look; Sandor's eyes were filled with violent exhaustion, and Bronn's face was grim—both saw bone-deep despair in the other's eyes.
Bronn wiped the blood from his face, his tone carrying his usual unrestrained self-mockery, yet unable to hide the weight in his heart:
"If I'd known this shitty job was so deadly, I wouldn't have taken it for any amount of gold dragons. Now look at us—I'm afraid we'll have the life to earn the money, but no life to spend it."
He looked up at the approaching siege tower; every strike of the battering ram below made the entire wall tremble slightly, sending stone chips fluttering down.
The stones, arrows, and all other siege defense equipment on the walls had long since been exhausted during the twelve days of fierce battle; the defenders could only use their swords and blades to stubbornly block the enemy's assault.
Inside the castle, there were the original Soldiers of House Starkworth plus the red-robed Lannister elites who had accompanied them, totaling nearly two thousand defenders.
But now casualties were heavy, with more than two-thirds of the troops lost. Morale had long since collapsed, and they only held together because of the Disciplinary Squads—or perhaps because they were trapped in this cage with nowhere to run.
This sturdy Starkworth Castle, under the relentless and insane assault of the Ash Company, was already teetering and could collapse at any moment.
Sandor followed Bronn's gaze, looking at the continuous tide of the Targaryen army below the walls and the siege tower about to reach the battlements, and let out a low, muffled roar from his throat.
No words were needed; both of them knew it in their hearts.
If reinforcements did not arrive—even if they were only a day late—this castle would surely fall, and everyone would become military merit under the feet of the Targaryen army.
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