Chapter 6 - Skirmish

A gloomy sky weighed heavily upon the hearts of the people, a persistent gloom that refused to be dispelled.

The drizzle had lessened.

Yet, the enemy's assault came like a sudden downpour, like a violent gust of wind. Horse hooves trampled the ground, long swords and spears held high, charging towards the carriage protected by the guards at its center.

All the enemies wore black cloth over their faces, concealing their identities by removing their family crests from their armor.

The lead knight held a long spear tucked under his arm, its sharp tip slightly lowered, the cold glint of the spearhead aimed directly at the Red Keep's guards.

With black cloth wrapped around his cheeks, only a pair of eyes were visible, as a deep, muted growl sounded out word by word.

"Kill! Them! All!"

Like thunder.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The next second, iron hooves thundered, rushing forward.

The purpose of these masked attackers was crystal clear; they were determined to bring death to Queen Raela and her child.

Queen Raela and her handmaidens were stunned by the sudden attack, barely able to comprehend what was happening.

"Ambush!"

Among them, the battle-hardened Sir William was the first to react.

But at this moment, he had no longsword in his hand and could only unfasten the short throwing spear he was skilled with from his waist, aimed at the enemy in the lead, and threw it with all his might.

Whoosh!

The short spear burst through the air with a resounding sound.

The lead masked attacker, caught off guard, was struck directly in the chest by the throwing spear.

Bang!

The hard breastplate was not penetrated, but a deep dent was left.

The masked knight, not gripping his horse tightly with his legs, had the balance of his charge disrupted by the powerful impact of the spear. He was thrown off his horse by the tremendous force.

Thud.

Dust and smoke rose, the masked knight fell in a heap, his foot entangled in the stirrup. He was forcibly dragged for several meters by the horse before he managed to struggle free.

The experienced cavalrymen following him immediately noticed this unexpected development, swerved to avoid their fallen 'lord,' and continued their charge.

Otherwise, the unfortunate knight would have been trampled into a bloody pulp by the ruthless iron hooves.

And with this spear, the prelude to the ambush on the highway began.

"Kill them!"

In an instant, the sounds of battle echoed throughout the highway and the surrounding woods, like thunder. The Red Keep's guards, who had just been resting, were caught off guard by the attack and quickly found themselves at a disadvantage.

Several soldiers were either sent flying by the charging horses or had their throats slit before they could even stand up.

Blood spattered, screams filled the air, and some soldiers even dropped their weapons and fled into the woods in an attempt to escape.

However, the recently unhorsed masked knight had already struggled to his feet.

His leg seemed broken, and he had lost track of his long spear. He used the sheath of his side sword to prop himself up, laboriously standing up with a limp.

His eyes betrayed an unmistakable humiliation.

For the shame of being unhorsed had plagued him for half his life.

He had once been defeated in a team event at a tourney in King's Landing by a red-robed monk from Myr. The reason? The monk had wielded a flaming sword that spooked his warhorse, causing the honorable knight to suffer the disgrace of being thrown from his steed.

Unexpectedly, today he found himself falling from his horse again, this time seemingly breaking his leg in the process.

The masked, limping knight struggled to stand, one hand on the hilt of his sword. Pain surged through his leg like a dull knife carving flesh, and cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

Yet, he gritted his teeth, enduring the pain. His hawk-like eyes remained sharp and vigilant, meticulously scanning the entire battlefield.

He spotted several Red Keep guards attempting to flee with the queen and the prince. With a wave of his hand, he pointed towards them and issued a decisive order.

"Kill them all!"

"Don't let a single one escape!"

Before the Usurper's War began, his family had not declared their allegiance, wavering between the rebels and the Iron Throne.

However, since the Battle of the Trident, the royal heir had been slain, and the situation had become clearer. House Targaryen's hold was waning, and his family had lost faith in the Iron Throne. At the same time, they had found the perfect opportunity to intervene in the war and reap the rewards of victory.

Now, the heads of Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys would serve as the perfect tokens of allegiance to the rebel camp.

But for various reasons, they could not yet reveal their identities.

So, with the limping knight's command, several masked 'bandits' with trained efficiency detached themselves from the battlefield.

Thundering hooves churned the muddy ground as the masked attackers rode their steeds, brandishing bloodied swords.

With no hesitation, they urged their horses through the underbrush and foliage, disappearing into the woods. Their goal was to kill every last enemy, leaving no survivors and ensuring no information would leak.

"Very good."

The limping knight nodded in satisfaction at the scene.

As pain flared in his leg, the muscles of his face spasmed, and he gripped the hilt of his sword for support.

Though the king's army was corrupt, the Red Keep guards remained elite. Caught off guard by the sudden attack, they initially suffered heavy losses. However, they soon rallied and mounted a fierce resistance.

In an instant, under the guidance of the Red Keep's master-at-arms, several masked riders were unhorsed, their heads cleaved from their bodies. Blood sprayed freely, like a gruesome fountain.

"Protect Her Majesty the Queen!"

The curly-haired, blood-soaked middle-aged man managed to wrest a steed from an enemy and clambered aboard.

Crouched low against the horse's back, he raced across the battlefield, his sword in one hand. He evaded enemy attacks and, with his masterful swordsmanship, slit the throat of a foe.

The terrified horse bolted, dragging the corpse of its assailant toward the woods.

Viserys, clutching Ser William's sword, was still in a daze.

He realized what was happening, but his legs felt as though they were filled with lead, rooted to the spot. He could only watch in horror as the grisly scene unfolded before him.

The shrill screams, the spattering of blood, the rolling severed heads – the intense, shocking images made it difficult for him to breathe.

Then, he saw a frightened warhorse, dragging an enemy's corpse, barreling straight towards him.

It was only then that Viserys' mind cleared, as he realized that if he were struck by the charging horse, he would likely meet his end.

Summoning all his strength to overcome his inner terror, his leaden legs seemed to suddenly find a hint of power.

And just as the frightened warhorse was about to collide with him...

He threw himself to the side.