Everyone's eyes were fixed intently on the distant skyline.
The morning light finally tore through the clouds, spilling its golden radiance down.
Against the backdrop of this light, a red and gold torrent suddenly surged forth from the horizon!
That was the roaring lion banner of the Lannister, the golden lion embroidered on a crimson background, snapping wildly in the morning breeze.
Beneath the banners, the iron cavalry of the Westerlands rolled in like a tide.
The dust kicked up by eight thousand warhorses shot straight into the sky, billowing like clouds.
The torrent of steel, like a massive blade heated red and quenched in blood, bore down with the momentum to tear through everything, stabbing fiercely at the seemingly tight siege camp of the Targaryen outside Starkworth Castle.
There was no probing, no hesitation, only the fiercest of charges.
The seemingly solid siege line was torn open in an instant, like butter cut by a hot knife, creating a massive, bloody gash.
The Targaryen Soldiers, those dressed in black robes, appeared utterly vulnerable before the destructive charge of the Westerlands iron cavalry.
Formations were scattered, Soldiers were sent flying by hooves, pierced by lances, and cut down by longswords; the wails and screams had barely begun before they were completely crushed and drowned out by the even grander, more deafening sound of iron hooves.
Jaime Lannister charged at the very front.
His golden hair danced wildly in the gale, and every swing of the longsword in his hand brought up a spray of blood, clearing the obstacles ahead with precision and efficiency.
He had eyes only for the smoke-shrouded castle drawing ever closer, and in his heart, there was only one thought: "Charge in!"
The Westerlands iron cavalry were unstoppable, crushing all resistance, rolling straight toward the scarred walls of Starkworth Castle.
On the top floor of the main keep of Starkworth Castle, that suffocating silence was finally broken.
Bronn's back, which had been so tense it felt like it might snap, suddenly relaxed, and his hand, which had been gripping his dagger so tightly that his knuckles were white, finally slowly let go.
The ashen despair in his eyes peeled away like a shattered eggshell, bursting into a ball of scorching, almost stinging light...
It was the ecstasy of finding survival in a desperate situation.
Sandor leaned on his greatsword, his eyes, soaked in blood and fatigue and filled with violence, staring fixedly at the roaring lion banner in the distance that was becoming clearer by the moment.
His fingers, hanging at his side and nearly numb, twitched almost imperceptibly.
The thick, unyielding despair between his brows seemed to be diluted slightly by this sudden light, even though there was still no expression on his face; he simply watched, silent and intense.
The surviving Lannister red-cloak elites, after a brief, incredulous stupor, erupted into hoarse cheers tinged with tears.
The fear, fatigue, and pain accumulated from days of bloody battle seemed, in this moment, to be washed away without a trace by the flood of hope brought by that banner.
Tommen widened his eyes, the pale bewilderment on his small face quickly filled with a near-scorching hope.
He still held his knees tightly, but his small, trembling body strangely calmed down at this moment.
"We are saved."
This thought, like the warmest spring water, instantly flowed through the hearts of every dying person on the top floor.
The siege camp of the Ash Company, the central command tent.
The adjutant stumbled into the command tent, his voice tight as he knelt on one knee before Luke: "My lord! The rear guard has been ambushed by Lannister cavalry! The line... the line has been scattered! If we don't go to reinforce them, they will be completely broken through and reach the castle!"
Luke sat upright in the main seat, his pitch-black armor making his expression appear even colder and harder.
He didn't even frown, his gaze sweeping calmly over the tactical map spread out before him, his fingertips tracing slowly over it before finally landing on the location of Ravens Perch.
He glanced indifferently at the sweating adjutant, his voice calm without a ripple, even carrying a hint of nonchalance:
"What is there to panic about?"
"According to the original plan, let them get closer."
The so-called rout was merely a play that had been arranged long ago.
To lure the enemy into the trap requires sufficient bait and a perfectly timed "rout."
In the center of the battlefield.
Jaime took the lead, charging at the very forefront.
The towering stone walls of the castle were already within reach; he could even see the smoke-blackened traces on the wall bricks and vaguely discern figures moving on the ramparts.
Yet deep down, rather than feeling any joy at the imminent victory, he felt as if doused by a basin of ice water, a bone-chilling cold rising within him.
It was too smooth.
Smooth to the point of being abnormal, smooth to the point of being eerie.
How could the army under the command of Aegon Targaryen be so fragile?
Even if ambushed from behind by cavalry while completely unprepared, they shouldn't have routed so quickly, so thoroughly.
If the Targaryen army was only at this level, how could they have breached Duskendale, how could they have taken King's Landing, and how could they have wiped out Stannis's Stormlands army in a single battle?
Something was wrong.
This thought, like a venomous snake, suddenly slithered into his mind.
Before he could think it through, from behind and from the flanks, the sound of horns suddenly blared!
Not one, but many, low, heavy, and continuous, like muffled thunder from the depths of the earth, carrying the terrifying pressure that only the advance of thousands of troops could produce, piercing through all the slaughter, screams, and hoofbeats on the battlefield, clearly striking everyone's eardrums!
Immediately after, the ground beneath their feet began to tremble.
That was the terrifying commotion that only thousands of troops marching simultaneously could trigger!
Jaime pulled hard on his reins, forcing himself to look back while at full gallop.
But his vision was blocked by his own dense cavalry formation still charging and unable to turn, as well as the littered corpses and tattered banners everywhere; he could see nothing.
But his intuition, the sense for danger honed through countless life-and-death struggles, already made his hair stand on end, his back turn cold, as if he had fallen into an ice cave.
"It's a trap!"
This was a trap! A carefully laid pocket, waiting for him to jump in!
He cast his gaze once more toward the castle, now within reach.
Cersei... Myrcella... They were inside, perhaps standing on the ramparts watching him.
Charge in, it was only a few hundred meters away; charge in and he could see them, perhaps he could take them away...
But the iron rule of cavalry, like cold shackles, gripped his impulsive throat at that moment.
The advantage of cavalry lies in mobility, in the charge, in coming and going like the wind.
Once speed is lost and they are trapped in a narrow area, a knight on horseback becomes the most obvious target, destined to be worn down, dragged down, and surrounded to death by infantry from all sides!
To continue forward, charging toward the castle, might allow them to reach that wall, but the momentum of the eight thousand cavalry would be completely lost, and they would be trapped in the narrow area before the castle, becoming turtles in a jar.
To turn around immediately, charge toward the flanks, regain mobility, and maneuver against the enemy in the open field, perhaps... perhaps there was still a sliver of hope for victory.
Reason and emotion tore at each other in his mind. Cersei's face, Myrcella's terrified eyes, clashed violently with the laws of iron and blood on the battlefield.
"Aaaah!"
Jaime let out a low, beast-like roar, forcibly suppressing the heart-wrenching reluctance and struggle that threatened to burst from his chest, his eyes bloodshot, roaring with all his might:
"All troops, listen! Turn around! To the southeast, charge toward the open ground! Break out!"
The order was relayed by the officers beside him at the top of their lungs, and the torrent of Westerlands iron cavalry began to struggle to turn around.
However, in that very instant, the situation on the battlefield changed abruptly!
Those black-robed Targaryen Soldiers who had appeared ready to rout at a single touch and were fleeing in all directions seemed to have suddenly been injected with berserk courage and discipline.
They no longer retreated; instead, they let out inhuman howls and swarmed from all directions in a near-suicidal manner!
Some swung swords wildly at the horses' front legs, even if they were pierced by the cavalry's lances the very next second; some threw themselves forward, wrapping their bodies tightly around the horses' legs, even at the cost of having their chests crushed by heavy hooves; others threw ropes and hooked scythes from the flanks, attempting to trip the galloping warhorses...
The black tide that had originally been "routing" instantly transformed into a dense, inescapable net filled with stickiness and the scent of death, tightly entangling Jaime's eight thousand cavalry.
The momentum of the charge was forcefully halted, the cavalry's speed plummeted, and the formation began to become chaotic and crowded.
The terrified neighing of warhorses, the angry roars of Soldiers, and the screeching noise of clashing blades mixed together.
The Westerlands iron cavalry, this sharp blade, was tightly entangled by countless "threads" who feared no death, trapped in the tiny space before Starkworth Castle, unable to move an inch!
On the main keep of Starkworth Castle.
The people who had just been filled with ecstasy and hope saw the smiles on their faces freeze before they could even fully bloom, then shatter and peel away.
They watched helplessly as the unstoppable Westerlands iron cavalry seemed to crash into an invisible, elastic wall, their charging momentum forcefully curbed.
The black tide surged up from all directions, wrapping and dragging, causing the speed of that torrent to become slower and slower, until it finally came to a near standstill on the open ground not far in front of the castle.
The fire of hope that had just risen in their hearts was like being doused with ice water, hissing and popping, emitting the cold smoke of despair.
And the next second, a deeper chill froze them completely.
The distant horizon was completely covered and dyed by a dazzling, boundless expanse of gold.
That was the reflection of armor.
An army clad in golden plate armor, with ranks as orderly as a moving wall, approached slowly and steadily from the southeastern horizon.
The morning light shone upon that expanse of gold, reflecting a cold and blinding light, as if dyeing half the sky the color of metal.
Their formation was so vast, so orderly, silently exuding a suffocating sense of oppression, like a golden tsunami slowly bearing down on this small battlefield.
In the wind, banners unfurled and snapped at the very front of the golden tide.
A black background, embroidered with a crimson three-headed dragon.
The Targaryen sigil.
The trump card that Aegon had buried, that massive, deadly net, finally closed its pocket at this moment.
The golden Golden Company army and the black Ash Company below the castle, one in front and one behind, one gold and one black, tightly surrounded Jaime's eight thousand Westerlands iron cavalry in the narrow area before Starkworth Castle.
The ecstasy that had just swept through the top floor was like fragile glass, easily crushed into powder by this cruel reality, replaced by a bone-deep despair that froze one to the marrow.
Bronn's face instantly turned as pale as paper, the last trace of color drained away completely.
The dagger in his hand fell to the ground with a "clang," making a crisp and hollow sound.
Sandor gripped his greatsword tightly, his knuckles cracking from excessive force, turning deathly white.
The faint glimmer that had just risen in his eyes, like a candle in the wind, was completely extinguished, leaving only boundless silence and bottomless darkness.
The surviving Lannister red-cloak elites' cheers came to an abrupt halt, as if their throats had been gripped by an invisible hand.
They opened their mouths but could make no sound, only the despair of ashen faces remained.
In the corner, the hope in Tommen's eyes popped like a bubble under the sun.
He curled his body even tighter, burying his face deep into his knees, his small shoulders trembling violently.
Tears rolled down in large drops, soaking his tattered robes, but he bit his lip tightly, not daring to let out even a whimper.
Golden armor was like a silent ocean, the black-background red dragon banners blotting out the sky.
The roaring lion of the Westerlands, trapped in the center of the cage, let out an unwilling roar, but it seemed there was no turning back the tide.
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