A Golden Path: Design 3.21 (ch. 44) (Patreon)

“This is it,” Paul said, standing next to Ned as they both gazed out at the battlefield. It was as ideal as they could reasonably hope for. The same river that drowned more than ten thousand of the Myrish would protect one flank, while a sloped hill would give them an advantage on the defensive. Beyond the slope was a stretch of flatland, which was ideal for horsemen. 

Ned's gaze swept over the battlefield, attempting to imagine what it would look like in a day's time. What would a hundred thousand men look like across the field? How wide would their line be? Enough to stretch over the horizon? With how many rows deep? 

“Were it so easy,” Ned muttered. Yusuf, the now default leader of the Myrish army, with Titus acting as the head of the mercenaries, were pressing the attack. An aggressive push to defeat them in the field before swinging back to repel Brandon's force attempting to take Myr. 

Such a battle was not one taken lightly. Blooding their nose first, starving them of resources with a day's march to a battlefield of their choosing increased their odds. However, that was necessary to convince Prince Oberyn and Lord Tyrell to accept the battle in the first place. Now that the hour approached to fight it, there were… considerations. 

“Common cause doesn't remove bad blood. It just gives it a reason to be ignored, but only in degrees.” Paul replied, offering a shrug. Mostly because he didn't have to deal with the inane bickering. 

The core issue was history. The Reach and Dorne… the only ones who disliked the Dornish more were the Stormlands. Barely. And that was with Robert's marriage to Princess Elia. Since there was a Reach and Dorne, the kingdoms raided each other endlessly along the borders. After the Targaryen's brought the King's Peace to Westeros, the frequency cooled. Somewhat. 

However, the fact remained that relationships were sour between the two kingdoms. Ned had hoped that the battle against the Dothraki would smooth things over, as they had shared a battlefield before. That turned out to be wishful thinking because this battle required a level of cooperation that wasn't needed against the Dothraki. On that shore, the Reach, Dorne, and the North fought as three distinct entities. 

Now they had to fight as one whole.

A difficult thing when every other lord thought they were entitled to an honor or another. Who should be under whose command. It was pointless arguing for the sake of arguing in almost every single case, but there were a few times that the argument had merit. 

Lord Tyrrell desired the position of being head of the right wing as it was seen as more prestigious. However, some argued that honor should go to Prince Oberyn, as he was a Prince, thus higher nobility. All of that, of course, ignored that Prince Oberyn and the Dornish were better suited for the left wing given that they were renowned spearmen and that's where they would be most vulnerable.

It would all get sorted. Prince Oberyn was a surprisingly reasonable man. Far more so than Ned expected from a man with his reputation. For all Mace Tyrell puffed himself up like a bird, he wasn't devoid of wits. He understood that the wrong people in the wrong position would cost them the battle. 

Ned could only grunt in response, lifting his gaze to the Myrish camp in the far distance. He couldn't see much of it from this distance. Mostly just smoke drifting up from campfires that shined in the dimming light. They had a rough night ahead of them. More than half their army didn't have tents, their supplies were stretched thin so most would have a half ration after a long day of marching. 

“It is almost time for me to depart,” Paul observed. He and his men would carry out a smaller night raid. Burning supplies, freeing horses, and generally causing a ruckus so no one rested their heads easily. 

“Do you think we'll win?” Ned asked him, not really sure why he was asking. 

Paul let out something resembling a laugh. “If we couldn't win, then I would be advising you to hop in a ship and sail back to Westeros.” 

A grim smile tugged at his lips at the honest answer. “Not the battle. The war.” 

They were winning, despite all of his complaints. Yet, they seemed to be winning in spite of themselves. Fractured and quarreling leadership, hesitant commanders… even his brother wasn't immune to it. If anything, he took it a step further by using them as bait. Himself included. 

In the days since that revelation, Ned found he still didn't know how he felt about it. 

“I meant the war,” Paul replied, continuing on his way as he and his men readied themselves for a night raid. Ned watched him go, feeling a touch lighter at the reassurance. He knew Prince Rhaegar had a plan, but Ned didn't even know if Prince Rhaegar had won his battle against the third khalasar. 

It felt like they were fast approaching something. He felt the same way back before they assaulted Lys -- like they were setting something in motion that couldn't be stopped. The moment Myr fell, and the Disputed Lands were unambiguously theirs… when King Aerys gave a name to what they accomplished… 

That would change things. How, Ned didn't know. Just that they would. 

…

The morning came sooner than Ned would have liked with the sound of a horn blaring announcing the day. He peeled his eyes open, and for just a moment, he languished in his bed, staring up at the ceiling of his tent. Around him, he could hear the camp coming alive, readying themselves for the trial to come. 

It felt like a feat to push back the covers and to swing out of his bed. Rolling his shoulders, he was relieved to see a simple breakfast. He didn't have an appetite, but he knew he would need his strength. Bread and meat went down easily with watered wine. 

A servant entered his tent, helping him put on his armor after washing his face. The rest of the camp woke as groggily as he did, but by the time Ned emerged from his tent, he could see the men working with purpose at the early hour. Calls rang out, men were organized and armed. They were well rested- well, as much as they could be. Like him, even if they didn't have the stomach for it, they swallowed down some porridge. 

He wasn't blind to his presence on the men, seated on his horse, joining the organizational efforts. Men stood straighter, watching him from the corners of his eyes. Whispers followed him wherever he went. The Quiet Wolf. It wasn't the name he would have picked for himself. It half felt like he was failing to live up to his reputation every time he so much as said a word. 

By now, Ned knew the name was set in stone as was his reputation itself. A reputation for courage. Bravery. Ruthless to slavers and those who would abuse the innocent. They knew that they fought this battle at his will. Because he believed that they could win, and they believed they could because of his confidence. 

He would give them no cause for doubt. He sat straight in the saddle, speaking clearly when he did speak. The men responded to it, obeying his orders swiftly. They followed him out of the camp to where their armies were assembling. 

It had only been half a day, but the battlefield had been transformed. Across the field, the Myrish gathered, having walked through a portion of the night to arrive so early. Likely in the hopes of catching them unaware. A hundred thousand men didn't look like what he thought it would. It was a great army, that remained true -- no matter how weakened they might be, it was still powerful. Still a threat. However, it just didn't fill his heart with trepidation like he thought it would. 

“A fine day,” Mace Tyrell greeted him, approaching with his retinue while both arms readied themselves for the day ahead. “A fine day indeed!” 

“As you say, Lord Tyrell,” Ned agreed, not entirely sure what he meant. Or how to take the sudden cuff on the shoulder. 

“Just call me Mace. We'll be shedding blood together on this day!” Mace said with a boisterous laugh that was only somewhat forced. 

‘Something changed.’ Ned didn't know what. Or why. Only that it was likely that the cause was a few muttered words in a private setting. A shift in calculus that made Mace reconsider his previous standoffness and to try to build a rapport with him. It felt incredibly disingenuous. 

“Ned, then,” Ned offered. There could be no cause for strife. Not with the Lord Paramount of the Reach. 

Mace smiled broadly, as if he had won a victory in a game only he seemed to be playing. His smile seemed to flee his face and make its way over to Prince Oberyn when the Dornish Prince approached. 

“I come bearing news,” He began without any preamble. “Lord Brandon has begun his assault on Myr. They arrived by sea in the dead of night with the chains around the harbor dropped from within.” 

‘Paul's men,’ Ned knew in an instant. 

Mace frowned deeply, “Then Lord Brandon has taken Myr, then?” He asked sharply, as if that were something to avoid. Though, Ned could guess his reasoning. Myr was a rich city, and without participating in the assault, neither the Dornish nor the Reachmen had any claim to any spoils taken. War was an expensive business, after all. Lord Tyrell sought to recoup some of his investment. 

“That, I did not hear. Only the assault has begun and there is fighting in the streets,” Oberyn replied with an almost disinterested shrug. “It would seem that Myr will not be as easy to take as Tyrosh. Even with the unexpected help getting his foot in the door.” 

It was good news. Brandon still possessed the majority of the Northmen, and at thirty five thousand strong, they could storm the undefended city. In particular if they worked with the slaves within the city. Myr would fall, even if it would take some time to quell all resistance within it. It was also news that would affect their battle. 

“If you have heard this news, I imagine Yusuf has as well,” Ned reasoned, looking across the field. If there was any sign that the army was worried their home was being attacked, they showed no signs of it. 

“If he is smart, then he would contain the information for as long as possible. Which wouldn't be long,” Prince Oberyn seemed to detect his thinking. “His mercenaries will learn that he won't be able to pay them. Men will fear for their wives and daughters. Slaves that only fight for the promise of their freedom will abandon the fight when their freedom is no longer their master's to grant.” 

“Time is his most precious luxury now.” Ned agreed. More than men. More than supplies. Or even sleep. Yusuf needed to win this battle as fast as he could before turning around to relieve Myr. “He has no choice. He intends to overwhelm us with pure numbers.” 

An all out assault. No reserves kept in check. No clever strategies or feints. Just pure force of numbers to end the battle as fast as he possibly could because he could afford nothing else. If this battle dragged on for days, then Myr would be taken. 

“He is a gambling man,” Prince Oberyn agreed. “All or nothing. He either wins and becomes a hero, or he dies so he doesn't have to live with the shame.” 

“What does that mean for us?” Mace asked, a horn cutting through the air. Yusuf was getting ready for his charge. 

“If we survive the day… then we've won,” Ned answered. He could only pray that it was as easy as it sounded. 

With the horn blaring, their time was short, leaving Ned and the others to rush to their positions. All the while, he shouted out orders for the archers to notch the first volley of arrows. The air across the battlefield became electrified, like touching a raw nerve. Where there had once been a drowsy tiredness, now there was an overwhelming sense of urgency. 

The Myrish were barely in formation before their vanguard began to march forward. Ned's stomach twisted when he saw them. 

They were lacking armor. They didn't even have weapons. By the looks of some of them, they hadn't eaten in days with the days of hard marching stripping away whatever fat they had. 

He had braced himself against such things. Or, he tried to. When supplies became limited to the point that even rationing wasn't an option, it became a question of who would be fed and who wouldn't. Yusuf had made his choice, evidently, starving the lowest dregs of his army, stripping them of all defense and means to protect themselves… they didn't even have the strength to run away. They half limped across the battlefield, charging towards them as much as they fled their masters. 

It wasn't a charge that would work. Yusuf would know that. Instead, it was cruelty for a very specific purpose. 

He wanted them to waste their arrows. That was it. For that reason, he consigned thousands to a humiliating and pointless death. Ned's mouth felt dry as he looked across the field, the first of the vanguard marching past their rangefinder stones. A horrible understanding filled him, but he was forced to swallow his revulsion down. 

“Loose!” Ned commanded, his voice ringing out. 

It was one thing to see thousands of arrows being unleashed in his direction. It was another thing to see them being unleashed upon the enemy, and they fell with deadly accuracy. The men shambling forward could do nothing to protect themselves beyond pray to whatever god they believed in they weren't struck. Something that didn't work for many as the mass of bodies were feathered with arrows. 

Men curled around where they were struck, dropping where they stood. It would have been a mercy if they died instantly, but most didn't. He could see them writhing in pain, too weak to even scream with their life bleeding out of them. 

The vanguard hesitated in the face of the first volley. They were sapped of all strength, but that didn't make them mindless. Some took a step back, moving to retreat, only to fall to the spears pointed at their backs. Long spears, black armor -- he knew them on sight. The Unsullied. 

There were not many. Perhaps a few thousand amongst a hundred thousand, but they were wielded as an uncrossable line. Some, on the fringes, were granted some ability to maneuver. Possibly to escape, but those in the middle were driven forward to either die by their arrows or by the spears at their backs. 

“Loose!” Ned commanded again, another volley being unleashed upon them. He didn't need to give the order. Not really. But he hoped that if one of the archers found themselves struggling with sleep after this already wretched day, he could take solace in the fact that he was commanded to notch an arrow and let it fly. 

More from the mass of men dropped, their cries echoing out across the battlefield. Ned bit the side of his mouth, seeing the paling faces around him. It was unnerving. It was… 

Before he was aware of it, Ned urged his horse forward and he shouted from the top of his lungs. “Do not avert your gaze!” He commanded the men, many of them flinching at the raw anger in his voice. “Look upon what we fight against! Men stripped off all dignity and rights!” He rode up and down the army, trying to be heard by all. 

Fear won battles. If you couldn't provide reasons for good morale for your own army, then the obvious solution was to weaken the morale of your enemy. The men gazed over the field, and they saw a mass of bodies being driven towards them. The slaughter of them was unnerving. Ned couldn't say that he wasn't affected by it either. But fear and unease was the wrong reaction.

“This is the world the Masters of Essos have created! This is why they fight! So they can bind you, your wives, your children in chains! To deny you your rights as free men!” Ned shouted, hoping the words were clear and they weren't butchered by his horse's fast trot between the infantry lines. “We did not come to this land for riches nor for fame. We have come because the gods, both Old and New, abhor slavery and those who practice it! Because the Masters of Essos stole our people from their homes, from their beds, and clasped them in chains!” 

His words were having an effect. The men looked upon the field of starved slaves, forced to fight, and they saw themselves. Their sons, brothers, and fathers. Their jaws clenched, their grips tightened around their weapons. Still, Ned continued even as the archers let loose another volley, thinning the mass of men to the point most of the arrows missed. And enough that they could see the slavers behind them, their spears leveled and jabbing at those who tried to retreat or stepping over their corpse with a callous disregard. 

“Do not fear them! Hate them! Hate the Masters to the marrow of your bones! To your soul! Hate them as I do! Lys has fallen! Tyrosh has fallen! And now Myr falls as we speak!” Ned's voice felt rough. Raw. Still, he continued, “So too shall any city that practices slavery! The Gods will it!” 

“The Gods will it!” A man echoed his cry before he did something unexpected. Ned almost didn't see, as he was riding by, but he caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. That movement… was a charge. The man lowered his spear, and he started sprinting to the enemy. 

The first few followed a heartbeat after, but they too joined him. 

Then the entire damned army followed.