ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

Pheasant Hall endured.

Day and night, the Reach came on. Catapults thudded from beyond the ditches, hurling great stones that struck tower, wall, and parapet with sounds like thunder trapped in masonry. Arrows fell in dark sheets, forcing men behind shields and merlons. Siege ladders rose and were shoved back. Rams beat at the gates until the hinges groaned like old men forced to dance. Twice, fire pots burst against the outer works and had to be smothered under wet hides. Once, a tower nearly reached the wall before Diana ordered the last of the heavy oil poured and set alight, turning the men within into a screaming lesson in impatience.

The walls were scarred. The defenders were worse.

Yet every time the line bent, it re-formed.

Diana stood behind that stubbornness. She did not inspire like a bard’s dream. She did not wave a sword and promise glory. She counted arrows, shifted men, marked tired companies, sent veterans to weak points, pulled frightened boys off the front before they spread their fear, and put them to hauling stones until shame became usefulness. She mixed the best western archers with Battanian skirmishers and crossbowmen left inside the fortress, forming small killing companies whose only task was to shoot Reach officers, standard-bearers, engineers, and siege crews.

“Not the mass,” she told them. “The hands that move it.”

They obeyed.

Reach captains began dying beneath the walls. Men carrying scaling orders fell with shafts in their throats. Engineers guiding mantlets took bolts through their eyes. Standard-bearers dropped, and the men behind them hesitated just long enough for stones and oil to fall.

Diana also prepared for failure, which is why she succeeded longer than hope deserved. Laborers dug angled trenches behind the inner walls to move reserves under cover. Streets near the gate were narrowed with carts, stone, barrels, and beams stripped from lesser buildings. Barricades rose in layers, each one placed to slow an enemy who might break through. Wells were guarded. Granaries counted twice. Children and the oldest townsfolk were moved into cellars. Septons were told to pray quietly unless they could also carry water.

On the fourth day, a battered sergeant asked whether all this meant she expected the walls to fall.

“I expect Lord Tarly to try,” Diana said. “It would be rude not to prepare him a welcome.”

The sergeant laughed, and then half the men near him did. It did more for the wall than a speech would have. Men laugh when they still believe morning may come.

Outside the fortress, Randyll Tarly’s mood darkened.

From the height of a siege tower, he looked upon Pheasant Hall and saw a castle that should have been breaking. Its defenders were outnumbered. Its stores were not endless. Its walls had been weakened by bombardment. Yet the resistance remained precise, organized, and unreasonably calm. It offended him on professional grounds.

Worse were the reports from the rear.

“My lord,” a captain said, mud to his knees and fear hidden badly in his voice, “a convoy from Highgarden was struck in Broken Spear Valley. The escort was destroyed. Grain and arrows burned or carried off.”

Another came before Tarly could finish cursing. “The field hospital near Old Oak Wood was raided in the night. Wounded slain, healers scattered, medicines taken.”

Then another. “The Third Banner patrol vanished near Gravel Slope. We found some bodies. Stripped. Arranged.”

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Tarly’s jaw tightened until it seemed the bones might crack.

Smith’s men had slipped out of Pheasant Hall and become knives in the dark. No longer content with small border tricks, they now struck the living parts of the siege host: food, arrows, healers, messengers, spare horses, watch posts, scouts. They moved through hills and abandoned villages as if the land itself had lent them passage. Reach clearing parties arrived too late or followed trails into ambush. Men slept badly. Horses stamped at shadows. Fires were built too large, then punished by arrows. Fires built too small left men cold and frightened. There is no winning against fear once it learns camp routine.

Tarly understood the danger. A host of fifty thousand could not remain strong if its supplies bled out and its men believed every tree held a western axe. The siege would slow. Casualties would rise. Pheasant Hall would last. Worse, Arthur Greyoak would be given time.

He needed to kill Smith’s field force.

The numbers were uncertain. Reports exaggerated wildly, as reports do when soldiers are scared and officers do not want blame. Tarly judged that the raiders could not be too many. Their main strength must be scattered. If he offered rich bait and shaped the ground, perhaps he could force them to gather, then crush them beneath Reach cavalry and infantry.

He chose Golden Ear Valley, ten miles southeast of Pheasant Hall.

The valley was open and broad, hemmed by high ground on three sides, with two wider exits north and south. It looked suitable for a convoy to rest, and better still for cavalry to sweep in once the trap closed. Tarly ordered five thousand men to play bait: a false supply column, noisy, burdened with wagons, fires, and enough visible slackness to tempt a wolf. In the woods near the exits and beyond the ridges he hid eight thousand heavy cavalry and twelve thousand infantry, placed to strike from north and south once the Battanians entered the valley. Close the gates. Beat the dogs. Very tidy. Men love tidy plans because corpses do not yet appear in them.

Golden Ear Valley lay under morning mist when the bait came.

The false convoy rolled into the center and stopped as if exhausted. Men loosened armor. Fires were lit. Wagons stood in clumsy rows. A few soldiers complained loudly enough that any hidden scout might hear. Officers pretended irritation. The performance was not poor. Reachmen had, after all, spent generations pretending courtesy toward one another while measuring inheritance. Acting came naturally.

In the woods, hidden men waited.

But above the valley, from the heights of Eagle Beak Cliff, Smith watched through a spyglass taken from a Reach officer and improved by western hands.

He had not scattered his whole army, as Tarly hoped. Diana had warned him that the Reach would soon seek a field decision, and Smith had believed her. While small bands continued the harassment, he had quietly gathered the main strength of the Bannermen Guard, twenty-two thousand men, on the broken high ground northeast of the valley. The position overlooked the trap. A steep, hidden path ran down toward the western side of the valley, a route difficult enough that Tarly had not considered it fit for a large assault.

Smith smiled thinly.

“Tarly wants to fish,” he said. “He brought bait for a pond and forgot wolves climb.”

Kator stood nearby, restless as a chained hound. One-Eye Marco spat over the cliff. Beland checked the reserves below. The men waited in silence, shields ready, bows strung, axes at belts, war drums muffled under cloth.

Smith lowered the spyglass. “We strike from the west. Not at the jaws. At the throat.”

He turned to his officers.

“First echelon: Oathkeepers, Chosen Warriors, and heavy shield men. With me. We take Eagle Beak Path, descend in formation, strike the bait force head-on, then press south.”

“Kator,” he continued, “third echelon. Riders, rangers, veteran skirmishers. Move by the northern slope. Do not charge the exit. Occupy the high ground and keep their northern reinforcements pinned. Arrows, javelins, axes, short strikes. Delay them.”

Kator grinned. “Delay. Not kill?”

“Delay by killing.”

“That I understand.”

“Marco,” Smith said, turning to the one-eyed veteran, “second echelon. Fian warriors, falxmen, noble warriors. Behind my right. Shoot horses, officers, exposed flanks. If cavalry comes from the south, break its speed before it reaches us.”

Marco nodded once.

“Beland, reserves remain on Eagle Beak heights. Volunteers, noble youths, forest raiders. Reinforce where signaled. If Tarly has hidden a second trick, you catch it.”

Beland placed a fist to his chest.

Smith looked over them all. “War drums and horns. No chasing glory. No breaking formation. The aim is to destroy the bait, maul the rescue, break the encirclement, and remind the Reach that we can fight in daylight too. For the Westerlands. For the Trident. For the oath.”

The answering sound was low, not a roar but a pressure in the chest, men breathing together before violence.

The mist still clung to the valley when the first Reach soldier looked up toward the western slope and saw the impossible.

A deep green wall of shields was coming down Eagle Beak Path.