CHAPTER 6

IF YOU ARE AFRAID, YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD

THE REACH'S SKY.

Daenery's POV

Drogon soared, circling high above the battlefield with the sun on his back, dark scales glinting in the light, casting his shadow far below, invisible to those on the ground. Here, astride the great black dragon, Daenerys felt an unyielding calm, her doubts and fears vanishing with each beat of his mighty wings. In the silence of the open sky, punctuated only by Drogon's heavy breaths and rumbling growls, she found a clarity that no council or plan could offer. There was no safer place, no truer self, than this.

From above, she saw the Lannister forces converging on Highgarden, their two columns closing into a pincer around the city, confident in their numbers. She could descend upon them now, ending it in a single storm of fire, but Olenna's warning urged caution. Today would not be a day of impatience. She would watch first, and wait.

Her gaze shifted as a plume of black smoke began rising from the Mander's shoreline, trailing along the advancing Lannister troops. She guided Drogon lower, trusting in the shadows cast by the late morning sun. What she saw caught her by surprise: long ships hidden among the riverbank's reeds, their lean, elegant hulls waiting behind the thicket.

So, these are the warriors Olenna mentioned.

She traced their movements, noting their strategy with silent admiration. There were more ships across the river's western bank, each lined in disciplined formation. Her smile grew. The ambush was already underway, unfolding with a patience and ferocity that rivaled any army in Westeros.

She felt Drogon's tension beneath her, his body taut, his wings holding back the urge to dive and unleash his fury. The flames seemed already in his throat, begging release.

"Patience, my beautiful child," she murmured, stroking his scaled neck. "Let the lions come to us."

She could see the Kingslanding forces hastening to the open field before Highgarden's walls, fleeing the flames at their backs. The figures of the Viking warriors emerged from the smoke, pursuing but not rushing, their ranks organized, running shoulder to shoulder in a relentless advance. Their tactics were precise, allowing the retreating Lannister forces no respite, herding them toward the clearing but holding back from a complete massacre—yet.

On the western bank of the Mander, the ambush played out once more. Thick, dark tar, followed swiftly by fire-tipped arrows, rained down on the Lannister soldiers, ripping through their lines and leaving them easy prey for the Viking warriors who showed no mercy.

From above, Daenerys watched as the surviving soldiers ran toward the clearing. Their ballistas had burned, little more than twisted, forgotten wreckage now. Still, she held Drogon back, reigning in his instinct to plunge, choosing to remain out of sight. She knew the power of timing.

Finally, when the retreating Lannister forces converged, regrouping in the open field, she recognized the moment to strip them of whatever fragile hope they may have reclaimed by joining their allies. The Viking ranks were greatly outnumbered; should the two Lannister forces align in open ground, the lions could stand a chance, and the vikings could suffer costly losses.

Just before taking the plunge, a movement below caught her eye—the Tyrell army had at last begun to advance from the city walls, making their move to join the fray.

The Queen of Thorns joins the board, she thought, satisfaction simmering beneath her cool exterior. A brilliant game of chess.

Daenerys allowed herself a moment's pause, feeling the thrill rise within her as she leaned forward, her eyes narrowing on the field below. She would deliver the final checkmate.

THE MANDER PLAINS
Jaime's POV

Upon reaching the open field, Jaime did his best to rally the banners, ordering the scattering men to form ranks. His throat burned from smoke inhaled on the march, each barked command scraping against the rawness of his voice.

Ahead, the remnants of the Casterly Rock army stumbled toward him, their numbers just as gutted as his own regiment. Rage flashed white-hot in his chest, and he cursed under his breath.

Soldiers from the Ocean Road came staggering in, wounded, winded, and thick with fear. Jaime fought his way to the front of the line, trying to make sense of the scattered assembly.

"Where is Ser Daven?" he demanded. "Who commands here?"

One soldier, sooty-faced and bleeding, dropped to his knee, too weak to answer. Jaime yanked him up by the collar, the man's eyes wide and glassy as he struggled for words.

"Find your tongue!" Jaime snarled, his own temper barely held in check.

The soldier's words spilled out, slurred with exhaustion. "Ser Daven is dead, m'lord."

Jaime's mind flashed unbidden to his cousin's broad frame lying face-down in the mud, thick hair matted with blood and dirt. Blunt and brash though Daven had been, he was a stalwart soldier, fiercely loyal. Yet there was no time to mourn or even comprehend the brutality that had reduced their ranks to this. Jaime knew they'd been cornered, that they'd suffered a masterful ambush.

But he also knew his remaining forces still outnumbered the attackers—if he could just hold the lines, organize the men, and survive until reinforcements arrived.

The towering walls of Highgarden cut off his view of the Dustonbury road, but he gazed at them, willing the third army to arrive.

Hurry up, you old goat. We need you here.

Jaime felt a surge of strength as he called upon his lieutenants and heralds, swiftly commanding the banners to form two fronts. Archers moved to the rear, ready to rain arrows on the advancing enemy; cavalry stood in reserve for a command to charge; swordsmen prepared to advance as the second wave; and lancers formed a solid line at the front, shields poised to absorb the brunt of the attack. Across the fields, the two enemy hosts marched toward him. They looked scarce in number compared to his own sea of Lannister men.

"Let's see if they're as fierce when we're expecting them." He clenched his jaw, a hard glint in his eyes.

Bronn, who had remained at his side, suddenly yanked his arm with urgency.

"Highgarden is coming!"

Jaime's head snapped toward the city. The Tyrell host, clad in green and gold banners emblazoned with roses, was advancing from the walls toward his rear flank. The sight struck him like a blow to the chest, making his world darker at every turn. But before despair could swallow him, a brassy battle trumpet sounded from the south, filling him with a flicker of hope.

Randyll Tarly. The old turncloak was coming to turn the tide in his favor. The knowledge that his fate rested in Tarly's hands stung, but Jaime couldn't contain the rush of relief that surged through him. He grabbed Bronn's shoulder, almost pulling the mercenary into an embrace.

"Bronn!" he shouted. "Lead the horses and help Tarly keep the Tyrell banners off us. When you're done trampling roses, cut through the barbarians' flanks."

He pulled Bronn even closer, his voice a growl of defiance. "Tell me we'll be feasting with Highgarden's proper ladies tonight."

Bronn cracked a grin, genuine for once, without his usual cynicism. "Proper ladies are boring. I'd rather have the wenches."

With a curt nod, he was off, leading the remaining cavalry toward the emerald banners, while Tarly's forces closed in from behind.

Jaime's attention swung back to the enemy at the fore. The barbarian horde advanced steadily, their pace unrushed, as if savoring the approach. One man walked several paces ahead of the others—clad in leather and chain mail like the rest, yet his stance and gait bore an unmistakable aura of command. Jaime's eyes locked onto the figure, and even across the field, the blood-spattered barbarian held his gaze, his expression twisting into a feral grin as he raised his hand, bringing the march of his horde to a halt. On the opposite flank, the second band of barbarians stopped as well, their ranks falling eerily silent.

Jaime's lips curled back in a snarl of rage. "Come at us, you coward bastards! Why do you stop?" His blood was up, his veins buzzing with the desperate urge to fight.

But in that very moment, a dark shadow slid across the earth, followed by a strident, otherworldly screech from above. The battlefield fell silent, a dreadful hush spreading across Lannisters and barbarians alike. Jaime's gaze snapped upward.

There, plummeting from the sky with wings folded tight and jaws open wide, was Drogon. His massive shadow expanded over the field as he dove with unimaginable speed, his horrid maw and glinting fangs leading his descent like a spear of death. Jaime's soldiers froze, a collective gasp strangling in their throats as though all air had been robbed from their lungs.

Beyond the first line of shields, the barbarians erupted in wild cheers, voices reverberating across the plains.

"Flogdreka! Dis!"

They raised their weapons, laughing and roaring in mad delight, while Drogon's shadow widened, swallowing the ground beneath them in darkness and the smell of sulfur and ash.

Jaime's hand slackened, and his sword, Widow's Wail, slipped from his fingers to the ground. His heart hammered, and he could do nothing but stand transfixed, gaze fixed on the descending terror as he awaited what could only be his fiery end.

The dragon unfurled its massive wings just yards from the ground, creating a thunderous gust that swept over the Lannister soldiers. Men staggered back, bracing themselves against the surging wall of air, some barely keeping their footing as the creature blotted out the sun above them. Its shadow swept over their ranks but left them untouched as it skimmed just above the earth, soaring straight toward the charging cavalry with lethal intent.

Jaime's voice broke into a frantic shout, though his cries were swallowed in the clamor of battle and the barbarian roars rising behind him.

"Bronn! Bronn! Scatter away!"

His voice was lost, muffled by the maddened, rising cheers of the enemy horde. It was no use.