Blood splattered.
The mercenary, as strong as an ox, clutched his throat in disbelief.
Gurgle... Gurgle...
Blood sprayed like a fountain from the shattered gorget, splattering the silver-haired young man before him. The slender Dark Sister had sliced through the steel neck guard as easily as a hot knife through butter. Just like the previous sentries, the mercenaries stationed by Motarion and Horus had been caught off guard by the Valyrian steel sword. As the towering mercenary collapsed, a crossbowman bearing a surcoat adorned with the sigil of dead trees and ravens stepped forward in a flash, pulling the trigger.
Thwip! Thwip!
Two archers on either side of the tunnel dropped dead instantly.
Aemon yanked an arrow from his black enamelled plate armor, emblazoned with a red dragon, and glanced back to count his men.
The three hundred he had led into the tunnels were all second or younger sons from noble houses. Each wore three layers of armor, carried no fewer than three weapons, and bore at least three solid wooden shields reinforced with iron.
Even so, after reaching this point, they had already lost several dozen men.
The Kingsguard assigned to protect Aemon looked a little embarrassed. His white-painted shield was battered and pierced by several bolts. He was meant to be protecting the prince, yet it had been Aemon leading the charges all along.
The knightly prince gritted his teeth. He had known this underground stronghold would be tough—after all, both Horus and Motarion were inside—but he hadn't expected it to be this brutal. They had only fought through thirteen sentry posts from the entrance to here, and already the casualties were heavy.
"Your Highness, should we press on?" the Kingsguard asked worriedly. Unlike the young prince, this knight was a seasoned veteran, having served King Aegon II for many years after succeeding his predecessor. He had even fought in the Stepstones campaign from the Stormlands. Bloodshed was no stranger to him.
Aemon looked back at his soldiers.
"White Knight, are you afraid?" Harrold Reyne, known as the Blood Lion, sneered as he hefted his battle axe. He had just slain nine mercenaries guarding the eleventh sentry post single-handedly, and now his thick armor was drenched in blood, making the ruby-inlaid lion crest on his chest gleam all the redder. "If you're scared, get out of the way."
"Lord Reyne, we don't know how long this tunnel is..." the White Knight retorted, but before he could finish, the ground trembled violently. Stones rained down from the tunnel ceiling, raising clouds of pale dust. "Even if the princes and their dragons are suppressing the surface, we still don't know how long it will take to reach the main bunker."
"We're already inside the bunker," Aemon said suddenly.
The young knightly prince bit the tip of his iron gauntlet. He had begun suspecting as much around the seventh sentry post. Near the third, they had found bronze pipes and drainage channels typical of a bunker; by the fifth, they had encountered dug-out chambers carved into packed earth and stone walls.
All signs pointed to one thing.
Motarion, that madman, had built this stronghold like an underground warren, with tunnels spreading in every direction.
Lord Reyne couldn't help but twitch at the corner of his eye. With Aemon's reminder, he quickly realized it too—his own keep had similar architecture.
Seven hells, Casterly Rock was built this way too. No wonder it was so damned hard to take.
Narrow, labyrinthine tunnels made this place an impenetrable fortress. Just a few men could block an entire passage, and among Aemon's three hundred elite soldiers, only the foremost few could engage, while the rest were left to weather a storm of bolts.
"How many brought crossbows?" Aemon made his decision. Before setting out, they had left Hornstorm to guard the rear, while the dragons had soared into the sky to bombard the surface of the stronghold, trying to find a way to collapse it—so far without success.
But at least it gave Aemon's force some cover.
"I did!"
"I have one, Your Highness!"
"Your Highness, I'm Taswell Florent, the best shot in my house!"
"Your Highness, will a longbow do?"
"Enough!"
Lord Reyne roared like a lion. "Everyone, follow Prince Aemon's lead!"
"All crossbowmen, form up behind us. Shields, protect the shooters. Lord Reyne, Lord Bolton, I need six good men," Aemon said coldly. "We charge at full speed together!"
Reyne and Bolton both understood what Aemon meant. During the earlier charges, the vanguard would always end up wounded, exhausted, or even killed. But now, what Aemon needed were fighters strong enough to carve a path forward at full speed.
"The North has no shortage of warriors," said Domeric Bolton, throwing aside his longsword and drawing a long-handled battle axe, its wooden shaft cut short to better maneuver in tight spaces.
"The West as well!" roared Lord Reyne, licking his lips. In the blink of an eye, six warriors were selected from the ranks.
Aemon nodded and pointed Dark Sister forward. "Charge!"
The next checkpoint had the same setup: four infantry blocking the tunnel entrance, each clad in steel-forged armor, wielding two long spears, a sword, and standing alongside a towering, heavily armored mercenary, likely from the Summer Isles or Slaver's Bay. Five or six archers loomed behind them.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
The soldiers equipped with crossbows in Aemon's party loosed their bolts the moment they spotted the flicker of firelight.
In an instant, the archers, whose positions had been roughly marked out by the Westerosi, fell screaming to the ground.
The spearmen tried to brace their long weapons, but an amber-eyed old man roared and swung his axe, shattering the wooden spear shaft in a single blow. The next moment, that same axe split the soldier's skull wide open.
Red and white fluids sprayed through the air.
Another spearman, along with a swordsman riddled with arrows like a porcupine, met the same brutal end.
Clang!
Crash!
Without the slightest resistance, Dark Sister once again sliced through the towering Summer Islander's crescent axe like a hot knife through butter. Aemon danced past the broken weapon and, without mercy, cut through the mercenary's heavily armored throat.
In the blink of an eye—
The entire checkpoint was annihilated.
The two hundred remaining soldiers crashed forward like an unstoppable tide.
The deeper they pressed into the fortress, the heavier the tremors beneath their feet grew. And with each step, Aemon's grin grew wider.
Above ground—
Dreamfyre roared, raking her claws across the stone walls stacked atop the bunker. With a single swipe, she opened a gaping hole in the fortress roof. At the same moment, Sendros landed atop the surface structures and, seizing the opportunity, unleashed his fury.
A torrent of pale green wildfire poured through the newly torn gap like a lightning strike.