Sir Daeron Grafson was beginning to regret his choices.
If he hadn't hesitated, if he hadn't been so stingy with his cargo and had rationally issued a retreat order at the first sign of ambush, he would have only needed to sacrifice three to five men to cover the withdrawal of his main force. The treacherous terrain here would have limited the pursuers just as much as it limited them.
But those few minutes of hesitation had cost him the power to choose. More than half of his men were now mired in the struggle. To retreat now would mean abandoning them.
It wasn't that Daeron was unwilling to abandon his companions. The key was a detail their undercover agent, Sir Symond, had mentioned in a letter: Wylis had summoned a large number of mercenary cavalry.
None of Wylis's cavalry had appeared in the initial assault, which meant they had to be deployed somewhere outside the fishing village, waiting to emerge and hunt down the survivors after his force was broken and routed.
Rather than withdrawing with less than half his men only to be run down by elite horsemen, Daeron would rather fight to the death here against the ragtag infantry in front of him.
"Spread out! To the sides! Go through the reeds and flank their rear!" Ser Daeron ordered the remaining men around him who had yet to be drawn into the fray.
An inch longer is an inch stronger. Facing enemies with spears, a head-on battle on the narrow path was a losing proposition. The enemy's leader had just cut down Sir Lyonel Shett, and Daeron knew he needed to shatter their shield wall before the blow to his own men's morale became irreparable. He had to drag them into a true melee.
Once that rabble's formation was broken, the situation would quickly turn into a one-sided massacre.
Under Sir Daeron's command, more than a dozen dismounted knights quickly dispersed into the reeds on both sides of the path. They moved forward swiftly, then burst out from the sides and rear of the levy line.
A single, coordinated attack was all it took. The formation of the Wylis alliance conscripts collapsed on the spot.
The two sides clashed in a chaotic melee, which forced the archers in the fishing village to cease their fire.
"As expected of cavalrymen. Even on foot, they use outflanking tactics with such skill," Ian commented, watching from his high perch in the village.
"I thought they would retreat," Wylis said, his mood much heavier than Ian's. "Our cavalry would have caught them on the track outside, divided them, and annihilated them."
"I can only say that Sir Daeron is no fool," Ian shrugged. "He didn't fall for your trick. He chose to fight to the death with your infantry. It was his best option."
"You must quickly order your cavalry on the periphery to dismount and enter the path. Attack the enemy's rear, otherwise your army will break," Ian advised, pointing at the levy soldiers who were already showing signs of routing.
Wylis nodded grimly and glanced at an attendant, who immediately understood and ran off to deliver the order.
"It is time to attack," Sir Wylis said, pulling on his helmet. He looked at Ian. "Will you come?"
"Ordinarily, I prefer not to involve myself in such dangerous situations," Ian replied with a smile, shaking his head.
Sir Wylis was not angered by the refusal. He gave a nod to the guards who remained with him, drew his own sword, and rushed out of the village into the heart of the battle.
On the battlefield, Wylis's forces had fallen into a huge disadvantage. After Daeron's flankers successfully shattered the shield wall, several of his elite men charged into the levy ranks like wolves among sheep.
The old knight, Sir Shalit, was a whirlwind of death. He first faced Wylis's son, Roger, in single combat and seriously injured him, forcing the younger knight to be carried from the field. He then cut down six spearmen in succession. The soldiers on Wylis's side began to shrink away from him in terror.
Just as Sir Shalit swung his blade to finish off his seventh kill of the day, a bastard sword blocked his attack, saving the soldier's life.
Shalit looked up and saw a man who looked even older than himself.
A cheer erupted from Wylis's levies. The arrival of Sir Wylis and his personal guard was like a shot of courage injected directly into their hearts.
"Step back, old man. The battlefield is no place for you," Sir Shalit said to Wylis. He let out a laugh as unpleasant as a crow's caw. "That is what your son said to me, just before his own incompetence forced his elderly father to take the field himself."
"You will pay the price for that!" Sir Wylis replied, his face dark with rage. His son's life hung in the balance, and this man dared to rub salt in the wound.
"Come then, Wylis! I have long wanted to test myself against the man who could take one of Arys's arms, even while he wore Jonothor's armor!" Shalit roared, advancing on Wylis.
But Wylis's speed with a blade was far beyond Shalit's expectation. Before the old knight could even begin his attack, the tip of his opponent's sword was already lunging for his face.
Shalit could only retreat, but Wylis's stabs followed one after another, a relentless assault that forced Shalit back toward his own wagons.
Fortunately for him, another of Daeron's men attacked Wylis from the side, forcing him back and giving Shalit a brief respite.
However, just as Shalit was about to abandon the duel and call his companions to besiege Wylis, he suddenly heard Daeron cry for help from behind him.
Wylis's dismounted cavalry had entered the path. They were flanking them from the rear.
Ser Daeron, who had remained in the middle of the caravan and had not joined the battle himself, was about to face the brunt of the enemy's charge.
Shalit looked around desperately, hoping to find men to send back to rescue his young master, but he was quickly disappointed. All their men were caught in the melee, unable to break free.
Seeing the enemy less than thirty yards away, Sir Daeron fell into despair.
He had never been a true warrior. Though he was the leader of this company, he did not possess the prowess of men like Sir Arys. His passions were for commerce and sailing. It was at a Chamber of Commerce dinner hosted by Magister Illyrio in Pentos that he had accidentally overheard talk of the marriage contract between the Targaryen princess and the legendary Horse King. In that moment, an idea had sparked—a chance to revitalize his family's fortunes.
He had found his best friend, Arys Rivers, who had grown up a servant in the Grafson household, and together they had decided to raise an army with plunder from the Riverlands and pledge it to Viserys.
He never expected it would all end here.
"Ser Daeron!"
Suddenly, a shout came from the reeds nearby.
"Who is it?"
"Ser Daeron, this way! Quickly! My master sent me to save you!" the voice called out again, igniting a glimmer of hope in Daeron's heart.
"Who is your master?" Daeron asked eagerly. "Is it Arys?"
"He is Ser Arys's brother," the voice replied.
Sir Symond? Daeron didn't hesitate another moment. He dove headfirst into the reeds.
---
$5 Tier – Early Access!
Read 30 chapters ahead of public platforms like RoyalRoad and Scribble Hub — with plans to increase to 40 chapters ahead once I reach 10 members!
Chapters are posted as soon as they're completed, so you'll always stay ahead of the curve.
Support the story and unlock early access:
Patreon is linked in My Profile or About.
Please select your membership carefully, as I have multiple novels ongoing. If you're on Apple, consider subscribing through your browser instead — it will be cheaper for you, and I won't have to wait 2 months for payments. Thank you!