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Cole looked down at Duran, who had fallen to the ground, his mind filled with thoughts.
He remembered the chubby boy who once followed him with admiration in his eyes, believing the battlefield was as romantic as the tales of knights and chivalry. No one had told him the truth—that knights bled, screamed, and even knelt to beg for mercy. Just as a princess was not exempt from the most basic of human needs.
I warned him. I told him the battlefield was dangerous, that it was nothing like a hunt.
Cole did not turn back. His gaze remained fixed ahead. With his sword in hand, he charged forward, cutting down two men as he forced his way through. Only six or seven followed in his wake.
Twisting and turning through the dense forest, the group continued their retreat. By the time they stopped, only four remained.
They stood in silence, listening for any sounds of pursuit. Only when the hoofbeats and shouts had faded into the distance did they dare to breathe.
"Head back to the Dornish Mountains," Cole said, his voice steady.
He glanced over his shoulder at the dark forest, exhaling a slow breath. One day, he thought, he too might be abandoned on the battlefield like this.
The late third century of Aegon's reign was a time of chaos. There were no peaceful havens, no safe retreats. The storm raged everywhere.
A sudden gust of wind cut through the trees, sharp as a blade scraping across the Wall. Cole instinctively hunched his shoulders against the chill. Though the cold had not yet fully settled in, he could feel it in the air—a familiar scent, a warning of what was to come.
Winter had arrived, even if the snow had yet to fall.
The south would take longer to see its first snowfall, but the cold had already begun its test. The children of summer would soon learn what it meant to endure the harshness of winter.
By morning, as the sun crested the mountains, the five survivors trudged into what remained of their camp. It was deserted—not destroyed, but abandoned, just as Cole had ordered before they left.
He had planned for this. If any of them were captured, they would not be able to betray the camp's location. Now, only he knew where their forces had relocated.
Cole sent his white dragon to patrol the skies. If any of their own approached, the dragon would spot them and guide them in.
Later that morning, the dragon sighted a small group of riders approaching from a distance. It was Camillo's unit. Cole led his men to meet them. Camillo had become a capable commander—some men only needed the right opportunity to prove themselves.
Three groups had returned, all bearing losses. They had set out with a hundred men. Only fifty-three had come back. And the fate of the last unit remained unknown.
Cole led the survivors to the new camp. He left his dragon behind to stand guard and instructed his men to keep watch for the final unit. Whether they would return at all remained uncertain.
Days passed, but the missing unit never arrived. Instead, a much larger force appeared on the horizon—a thousand cavalrymen, banners high, golden roses waving above fields of green.
They came swiftly, charging straight for the abandoned camp.
At their head rode Garlan Tyrell, flanked by Edmure Tully and a host of Highgarden knights.
A knight surveyed the empty ground and turned to his lord. "Lord Tyrell, it seems they have fled."
A soldier dragged forward a bound prisoner. Garlan eyed him coldly. "Is this the camp you spoke of?"
The captive, a former cavalryman under Cole, hesitated only a moment before nodding.
Betrayal. Cole had expected it. He did not blame the man—everyone feared death. He was no exception.
But fear would not decide this battle.
Gathering the remaining dozen riders, Cole laid out their situation. They had over seven hundred men fit to fight. With a handful wounded, their numbers were still close to the enemy's. If it came to a direct clash, victory was not impossible.
But they had an advantage—the enemy was blind.
Cole called his knights together, spreading a map before them. It depicted the rugged terrain of the Dornish Mountains—sharp ridges, winding paths, and untamed wilderness. Many of these trails were impassable, unfit for cavalry.
That played in their favor.
Fortunately, Cole had brought a hundred mountain horses—smaller than warhorses, but far more agile and resilient on treacherous ground.
The battlefield was set. Now, they only had to choose how to fight.
Cole had learned this from the tribesmen of the Mingyue Mountains. They all rode these hardy mountain horses, swift and surefooted even on the roughest terrain. When they moved through the mountains, not even valley cavalry could keep up with them.
Pressing a stone onto a spot on the mountain, Cole spoke. "This is where the enemy is positioned—around a thousand men, all cavalry."
He had already assigned roles. Sir Geoffrey, Camillo, and were each placed in command of different squads, leading a dozen men each.
Jose and a few others remained as Cole's personal guards.
They all gathered around the map. Cole's drawing was precise, each mountain and forest represented with simple but clear markings. Even those who couldn't read maps well could understand it.
"A thousand cavalrymen… are we really going to fight them?" glancing at the others.
A silence settled over the group. No one answered immediately.
"A decisive battle would be ideal," Cole said quietly, "but it's too risky. The king's orders were to disrupt the enemy's rear as much as possible."
"Sir, just tell us what to do. We'll follow your command," Sir Geoffrey declared.
The others nodded in agreement.
Cole stared at the map, deep in thought. Should he use the terrain to ambush them? Build fortifications to hold them off? Or retreat entirely?
"Retreat," he finally decided, pointing to the mountains on the map. "We'll move through here, down the valley near Midsummer Hall, and head for Cape Wrath."
His eyes suddenly sharpened. He stood abruptly and gave the order.
"Gather the whole army!"
For a moment, the soldiers hesitated, confused by the command.
Then he added, "The enemy is coming."
What?!
How could they have arrived so quickly?
In front of the Highgarden army, dozens of hounds sniffed the ground, leading the way. Alongside them were mountain folk dressed in simple clothes. Yes—people lived in these mountains.
Cole had been careful to avoid contact with them, but they knew this land better than he ever could. And now, it seemed, they had guided the enemy straight to him.
The camp erupted into hurried movement. Orders were shouted, supplies hastily packed. The men formed up and began their retreat into the mountains.
Just as they disappeared into the trees, the Highgarden knights arrived at the camp.
Garlan Tyrell surveyed the site. The fires still smoldered.
"They're close," he murmured.
"Sir, there are fresh hoofprints here."
Garlan nodded. "The enemy is sharp. They've moved ahead of us."
Turning to one of his knights, he issued his next command. "Sir Eric, take a scouting party and track them. Do not engage—just find them and report back immediately."
"Yes, my lord." The knight saluted and led the scouts forward.
Above them, unseen, a white dragon circled the sky, watching their every move.
Meanwhile, Cole led his men deeper into the mountains. The non-combatants had already been dispersed.
He turned to Geoffrey. "Keep moving forward with the main force."
Then, handing Geoffrey a white bird flag through Jose, Cole gathered a dozen riders and fell back to the rear.