Chapter 681

When Aegor set out from King’s Landing, he thought the western campaign would be a straightforward march to victory—steady advances, crushing resistance along the way. He never expected to find himself in a perilous situation where only a stroke of cunning could ensure survival.

As a modern man from a peaceful world devoid of the supernatural, he had no grasp of meteorology, no knowledge of occult warfare, and his understanding of military strategy was limited to common works like The Art of War and The Thirty-Six Stratagems, sanitized and adapted for general readership. He couldn’t predict the winds, let alone summon them to his aid; he wasn’t a warrior bold enough to lead from the front, nor did he possess the legendary "gift of command."

But victory didn’t always hinge on supernatural blessings or prodigious talent. Keen observation, a sharp memory, and occasional bursts of inspiration—when the right moment and place aligned—could achieve just as much.

Westeros was in the brief spring between winter and summer, and for several days, the wind had remained stable. During the previous day's bombardment of the Reachmen’s infantry vanguard, Aegor had noticed that the light breeze consistently carried the smoke toward the enemy lines. At first, he hadn’t given it much thought—just a passing regret that it was only smoke and not poison gas. At best, it could irritate the eyes and throat, but it was far from a true chemical weapon capable of crippling the enemy’s combat effectiveness.

But when the enemy vanguard unexpectedly collapsed into a chaotic rout, leaving behind a battlefield strewn with abandoned banners, a sudden thought struck Aegor like a bolt of lightning.

The western campaign army faced westward while the Reachmen's infantry were arrayed against them. The easterly wind carried the smoke into the no-man’s land between the two forces, shrouding the battlefield where the inevitable clash would occur. If the smoke could obscure the infantry’s vision, then it could just as easily blind the cavalry lingering on the battlefield’s periphery, limiting their awareness of the fight’s progression.

And if their vision was obscured… then what if soldiers raised enemy banners high and the entire army bellowed a battle cry?

The Reach’s plan was to trap the western campaign army inside an iron cauldron, a perfect encirclement from which there was no escape. Aegor couldn’t break through it directly, but he could exploit the cauldron’s fatal flaw—its sheer size and the inevitable delays in communication. He would use deception to bait part of the encircling force into acting prematurely, forcing the entire formation to unravel.

Everything—the gradual forward advance of his forces, the final artillery barrage that generated massive clouds of smoke, even the extra measures taken to thicken the haze—had been in service of a single objective: convincing the distant Reach cavalry that battle had already begun.
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To the sound of trumpets, drums, and shouted orders, the largest cavalry charge in Westerosi history began—triggered not by the attacker, but by the deceived.

The Reach’s cavalry had mirrored the Queen’s army on the battlefield’s periphery, always staying within sight but maintaining a slow and steady pace. Due to the deliberate sluggishness of their wedge-shaped formation, there had been little pressure on their march. Furthermore, under the strict discipline imposed by Garlan Tyrell, the entire force had remained in a state of combat readiness. The moment they received the order to attack, they mounted in unison, crested the low hills concealing them, and emerged onto the battlefield.

To avoid being massacred by cannon fire, the Reach cavalry adopted an unprecedentedly loose formation. Each rider and mount was spaced three to four yards apart, advancing in three massive waves of roughly five to six thousand each, with over a hundred yards between each wave. The entire cavalry force, numbering over ten thousand, did not hold a decisive numerical advantage—but from a distance, they looked unstoppable, like a flood of quicksilver spilling over the southern horizon. A wall of steel, banners billowing in the wind, surged toward the western army’s formation like three unstoppable tsunamis.

By the time they entered the Queen’s army’s field of vision, the Reach cavalry had already completed their initial formation alignment at a slow trot. They transitioned into a brisk canter as they neared the battlefield, then, under the guidance of knights and seasoned officers, steadily increased their pace toward a full gallop. The pounding of war drums and the blaring of horns filled the air, a ceaseless din of metal clashing against metal, of hooves striking earth. The sheer spectacle was blinding—the gleam of steel, the sheer number of banners unfurling in the wind. The noise, beginning as a distant rumble, steadily crescendoed into a deafening roar that crashed upon the ears of the western campaign soldiers, sending shivers down their spines and pressing against their chests like an unseen weight.

Aegor knew, logically, that victory was inevitable. But when he peered through his spyglass and saw the sheer immensity of the charge—the massed cavalry stretching wider than his own battle line—he couldn’t help but swallow hard. Then he promptly lowered the lens, unwilling to risk vertigo.

This was going to be a brutal fight.

"Infantry, defensive formation! Artillery, prepare anti-cavalry rounds! Cavalry, mount up!"

The Queen’s army responded with equal determination. Horns blared, war drums thundered, and the western army began its final battlefield adjustments. Artillery crews repositioned their cannons and hastily loaded grapeshot. Cavalrymen mounted up, adjusting their weapons and readying themselves for a countercharge. Meanwhile, on the exposed edges of the wedge formation, the outermost infantry ranks began a disciplined withdrawal to avoid being isolated. The last two rows of soldiers sprinted into the gaps between formations, sealing any weak points. Within moments, the nine-rank-deep wedge formation had morphed into something still recognizable but now resembling a smooth, curving bulwark—a crude approximation of a half-circle.

Both armies braced for a fight to the death. But in the hidden command post behind the Reach’s infantry lines—shrouded in the very smoke that had lured their cavalry into this trap—chaos erupted among the Reach’s high lords.

They had accounted for countless possible responses from their enemy. But not this. Not even in their wildest imaginings had they considered that the western army would use deception to lure their cavalry into a premature charge.

"Where’s Garlan—what the hell is he doing?!"

"He’s leading a cavalry charge!" Jon Connington’s sharp voice cut through the panic, snapping the Highgarden Duke from his dazed stupor. Connington didn’t delude himself—he would have loved for their cavalry commander to see through the ruse. But it was too late. The die had been cast. Now, they had to find a way to mitigate the disaster. "The Seven can’t halt his charge now. The only thing we can do is double down. We must order a full infantry advance to support them. Otherwise, if Aegor crushes our cavalry, the remaining fifty thousand foot soldiers will be lambs to the slaughter. Your Grace—decide!"

King Aegon, pale-skinned and striking, his youthful face full of noble grace, was shaken. Raised by an entire council of advisors and trained from childhood to rule, he was no mere puppet king. He was learned, strategic, and composed. But even he had not anticipated such cunning from his enemy. In the face of the man reputed to have saved the Seven Kingdoms, this "perfectly crafted" king suddenly felt like a foolish boy.

His Lord Hand’s sharp command jolted him from his daze. He hesitated for a single second before nodding. "The Hand speaks true. Give the order—full advance!"

"We won’t win a frontal assault against the Night’s Watchman." Strickland felt it instinctively, though he couldn’t explain why. After all, the Reach’s infantry was elite and had been drilled for this exact scenario. Still, the commander of the Golden Company steeled himself and offered his counsel: "Our scouts report no sign of the Queen or her dragons. We cannot leave our anti-dragon units idle. Your Grace, I suggest we redeploy them for ground combat. Use them to shield the infantry’s charge!"

Dragon-killing ballistae needed to be positioned near the front lines to reach the Queen’s forces, and repurposing them for ground targets would take time—at least half a minute to adjust their aim. It was a gamble. But Aegon saw no other choice. If they wanted to turn the tide, they had to throw everything they had into the fight.

Without waiting for objections, he nodded. "Do it. Send the order immediately!"