Not far from Crakehall Hall, the Riverlands army camp was holding a victory feast.
Lord Mathis Rowan and Lord Leyton Hightower sat at the head table. The roast suckling pig before them glistened with oil, and honeyed wine rippled in silver cups.
Mathis Rowan loudly mocked Daven Crakehall, the young second son of House Crakehall.
"He was persuaded so easily. That boy actually thought we would help him beco lord? What an idiot. Even if House Crakehall's rebellion succeeded, their own people wouldn't follow him. Who would trust soone who doesn't even care about his own brother's life?"
Leyton Hightower also laughed heartily. "Exactly, exactly. His brother is still in the false king's hands, yet he raised troops in rebellion without caring about his brother's survival. Even if he really succeeded, House Crakehall's people wouldn't follow him. What a foolish boy."
"Kin-slayers never et a good end."
A young minor lord stepped forward to offer a toast. "Indeed, my lords, your foresight and planning are truly admirable… It's just a pity we couldn't take Crakehall Hall in one go. Those Draco soldiers are truly stubborn. Five thousand n held the castle and still cost us two thousand."
Mathis Rowan snorted coldly. "Ten thousand n couldn't take five thousand? Now the defenders are down to four thousand. They have no supplies, no reinforcents. They can't hold. Tomorrow at first light, we press the full attack. Before nightfall, Crakehall Hall will be ours."
Before he finished speaking, the tent flap was violently thrown open.
A servant stumbled in, his face as white as paper.
"B-bad news! The enemy is attacking!"
"What?" Mathis shot to his feet. His wine cup overturned, spilling honeyed wine across the table.
"How many?"
The servant's lips quivered, his voice shaking like a sieve. "F-four thousand. But… but that false king… Luke Jaqenion… he ca personally! He's flying in the sky, surrounded by nine flying swords!"
Dead silence fell over the tent.
The lords who had been laughing monts ago now looked as if they had been slapped.
Leyton Hightower's wine cup froze halfway to his mouth, the liquid dripping down his chin unnoticed.
Mathis grabbed his sword and rushed out of the tent.
The afternoon sunlight made him squint.
In the distance, a black tide was surging toward the camp.
It was not routed soldiers or scattered n — it was a straight, sharp, unstoppable iron current.
At the front of the black tide, a black warhorse galloped with thundering hooves. The rider wore silver armor and carried a white lance. Nine cold gleams circled and danced around him like nine silver snakes in the air.
Behind him, four thousand n marched in perfect order, shields locked, spears level — like a moving iron wall.
"Form ranks! Form ranks!" Mathis roared hoarsely. "Archers! Archers to the front!"
The Reach soldiers scrambled out of their tents in panic. So couldn't find their shoes, so forgot their shields, so fumbled with their armor straps, hands shaking too badly to fasten them.
The archers had just ford up, arrows not yet nocked, when the black iron tide slamd into them.
Luke led from the very front.
His lance swept horizontally. Three blocking infantryn flew out like scarecrows, knocking over an entire row behind them.
His spear tip pierced a shield as easily as paper. The soldier behind it widened his eyes, looked down at the spearhead protruding from his chest, and blood frothed from his mouth.
Luke pulled out the spear, spun, and swept again. Another soldier was sent flying, crashing into his comrades. The two tumbled together.
Nine flying knives spun rapidly around him like nine silver lightning bolts.
They shot out, tracing strange arcs in the air, piercing armor, slicing throats, stabbing faces.
One knife drilled into a knight's eye socket and exited through the back of his skull, trailing a spray of blood mist.
Another knife swept across the throats of a line of archers. Five n clutched their necks and fell at the sa ti, blood gushing between their fingers.
The soldiers didn't even have ti to scream before falling in rows.
So turned to run. Flying knives chased them from behind, stabbing into their backs and erging from their chests before pulling out and flying to the next target.
Luke's warhorse charged into the crowd. Hooves crushed skulls and knocked bodies aside.
He thrust his lance and skewered an officer, then made a grasping motion with his right hand. Spiritual power seized a Reach knight who was about to cut down one of his soldiers, lifted him high into the air, and the nine flying knives pierced him simultaneously. The man was torn apart in mid-air, blood raining down.
"Long live His Grace!" The soldiers behind roared like thunder.
They followed closely behind that silver-white figure, spears thrusting, shields smashing, swords swinging.
One Draco soldier was slashed across the shoulder, bone exposed. He gritted his teeth and stabbed his sword into an enemy's belly, then pulled it out and staggered forward, continuing the charge.
Behind him, his comrades filled the gap.
The Reach army began to rout.
It wasn't that they lacked courage — they were facing sothing that wasn't human.
That silver-armored, white-lanced figure rampaged through the formation. The nine cold gleams harvested lives faster than reaping wheat.
So knelt and begged for rcy. A flying knife flew over their heads and buried itself in the throat of the man behind them who was trying to stab them in the back.
Luke skewered the banner in front of the central command tent. The blue-and-gold rose banner tumbled through the air and fell into the mud, trampled by hooves.
He reined in his horse. The warhorse reared, front hooves smashing down on a shield. The soldier beneath scread briefly, then fell silent.
Mathis Rowan was being dragged away by his guards.
His helt was gone, his hair disheveled, his face full of terror. He couldn't understand why four thousand n could pierce through ten thousand, why those nine knives never touched the ground, why that silver-armored, white-lanced man could fight for a day and night without tiring.
He looked back.
Luke Jaqenion was looking in his direction. Those eyes burned frighteningly bright amid the smoke, like two balls of fire.
Nine flying knives hovered around him, dripping blood and gleaming with an eerie red light in the sunlight.
"Retreat! Retreat now!" Mathis's voice cracked like a strangled chicken.
On the battlefield, Draco soldiers continued pursuing the fleeing enemy.
So knelt and begged for rcy, so lay pretending to be dead, so threw away their weapons and ran for their lives.
A young Draco soldier caught up to an old Reach veteran and raised his sword to strike. The veteran turned around, knelt on the ground, and wept bitterly.
"I surrender! I surrender! I have three children at ho."
The young soldier gritted his teeth, sword raised in the air, but could not bring it down.
He rembered his comrades lying on the ground, their faces that white cloths could not fully cover, the night before they set out when they had drunk and sang together.
"He surrendered." A hand pressed down on his sword hilt.
It was Luke. He had sohow arrived beside him. Blood stained his silver armor. He had changed to a new white lance, but those eyes still burned frighteningly bright.
"Those who surrender will not be killed."
The young soldier sheathed his sword, his eyes red. "Your Grace, they killed a thousand of our brothers…"
Luke patted his shoulder. "I know. So the ones still alive will work for the dead. Farming, building roads, mining… Westeros still has too much work that needs doing. Let them repay with their lives."
The sun sank in the west. The sounds of killing on the battlefield gradually died down.
Four thousand Draco soldiers, with fewer than eight hundred casualties, had routed a ten-thousand-strong Reach coalition army, killing three thousand and capturing over four thousand.
Mathis Rowan and Leyton Hightower fled south with fewer than two thousand broken remnants.
Luke stood in the center of the battlefield. The nine flying knives hovered behind him like nine tal wings.
He looked at the corpse-strewn land under the setting sun, slled the thick, cloying stench of blood in the air, and listened to the groans and cries of the wounded.
His armor was covered in blood — all of it the enemy's.
A soldier walked over and handed him a waterskin.
Luke took it and drank deeply. It was wine — strong enough to burn the throat.
He recognized the soldier — the young man who had marched with the most perfect steps during the parade. Now his face was covered in blood, his left arm in a sling, but his eyes shone like stars.
"Your Grace, we won."
Luke handed the waterskin back to him.
"We won one battle."
"Don't be afraid." The young soldier straightened his chest. "With Your Grace here, we fear nothing."
Luke looked at this young man, and at the soldiers behind him who were cleaning up the battlefield.
So limped as they gathered weapons. So knelt to close their comrades' eyes. So carried wounded brothers toward the dical tents.
No one was crying. No one was complaining. They simply worked in silence at the tasks before them.
The sun had fully set. The last glow of dusk disappeared below the horizon.
Torches were lit one by one across the battlefield, like stars fallen to the earth.
Luke turned and walked toward the central command tent. The nine flying knives followed him like nine loyal satellites.
"Pass the order. Reorganize the army tonight. Tomorrow at first light, we continue south."
He would beat these Reach nobles, who were still dreaming beautiful dreams, until they were terrified. Otherwise, these always indecisive fellows would keep thinking they were so powerful.
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