Chapter 680

Can the gamble be won?

As the intensified cannon fire thundered across the battlefield, the thickest clouds of smoke yet billowed from the Queen’s army’s lines. The sheer density and volume of the gunpowder fog were so overwhelming that it seemed as if some god had poured a vast vat of pure white milk mixed with rice porridge into the glass basin of the Reach's plains. In an instant, the entire frontline was obscured, the battlefield swallowed by a tangible sea of smoke. Even from a distance, Garlan found himself instinctively struggling to breathe, absurdly beginning to worry about the air quality for the enemy’s gunners.

The Reach had found the one countermeasure Aegor feared most—a defensive stand, forcing the Western Expedition into a decision: either remain locked in a stalemate, slowly depleting their own ammunition and supplies, or abandon the defensive advantages of their trapezoidal formations and advance, exposing their flanks to the cavalry.

If yesterday’s battle had been like food already swallowed but violently regurgitated from the Reach’s gut…

Then today, the roles had reversed. A mighty eagle, wings powerful and talons sharp, had found itself trapped in an iron cage—no matter how fiercely it beat its wings, no matter how violently it struck the bars with its beak or tore at them with its claws, it could not break free.

There was no time for hesitation. Instinct reminded Garlan of his duty as a commander—when infantry became locked in battle, that was the cavalry’s moment to strike. It would take time for his riders to arrive from beyond the cannons’ range, and whatever reason the command had for ordering an advance, his duty was to support it, not cling rigidly to prior plans.

Doubt and awe clashed in his mind.

In past wars, the higher a noble's status, the better his armor and weapons, the more knights he had at his side. No matter how brutal the battle, their casualties were always far lower than those of peasant levies. But this time, against the Queen’s cannons and gunpowder, armor and guards were useless. For the first time since the dawn of history, on this battlefield, the Reach's nobles and peasants were truly equal in death.

This "siege without an assault" was a brilliant strategy, but it hinged on a gamble—the command was betting that, after extensive psychological conditioning through controlled gunpowder explosions, the Reach's forces had steeled themselves against the terror of artillery. That, with their lords leading them in the trenches, their morale would outlast the enemy’s ammunition reserves.

It was suffocating, it was agonizing—but if they wavered now, the losses would be even greater.

This was no deception, no feint—it was a blatant, inescapable truth. The Reach had abandoned all illusions. They had chosen to fight Aegor head-on.

Aegor took a deep breath and gave the order. Outwardly composed, inwardly uncertain—he unleashed the special tactic he had prepared for precisely this scenario.

Ammunition—second only to food, it was the Western Expedition’s most limited resource.

Keeping his spyglass trained on the battle, Garlan swallowed hard, privately relieved that he commanded the cavalry and was not among the infantry.

He could already imagine the reports that would come once the battle ended—how many unlucky noble lords had been struck by cannon fire, how many had been maimed or killed outright.

Yet despite hundreds of shells crashing down on the Reach’s ranks from all directions—east to west, south to north—the battered lines refused to break. Wounded and dead were swiftly carried away by the medics, but the survivors clung stubbornly to the earthen barricades, unyielding.

Like a mountain in the storm, they would not move.

The earth trembled. The sky was torn asunder. Smoke drifted in the soft eastern breeze, hanging over the battlefield like a ghostly veil.

Something was wrong.

Today, countless Reachmen would spill their blood across these fields—but if it meant that their children and grandchildren would not live under foreign rule, then every drop was worth it.

...

The thunder of cannon fire roared once more.

For the Reach's infantry, who bore the full brunt of the bombardment, today’s battlefield was nothing short of hell.

Even from miles away, Garlan could feel the helpless terror of the infantry trapped beneath the artillery fire—the deafening explosions, the whistling death that tore through the air, the paralyzing horror of knowing they could do nothing in response.

The barricade-lined frontline held firm—for now. But there was another, invisible line that could not be seen with the eye: morale.

Yesterday’s retreat had already chipped away at it.

Every cannon blast wore it down further.

The command’s solution? Have the noble lords stand shoulder to shoulder with their troops. Let their very presence force the army to hold.

Through the smoke, Garlan spotted the first clash.

At the base of the Queen’s trapezoidal formation—where the opposing infantry lines came closest—soldiers had already raised their banners and surged into battle. The bloodletting had begun.

Among those banners, he saw the golden rose of House Tyrell.

But why?

Had the command not explicitly ordered that no offensive be launched today? That they would wait for Aegor to break first?

Had something changed?

Had the artillery fire proven too much to bear?

Or had they seen an opportunity so perfect that they could not afford to let it slip?

...

His spyglass blurred with smoke. Garlan lowered it, letting his right eye rest after hours of strain.

And then—a sudden shift.

From the front lines came a deafening roar—not the earth-shaking thunder of artillery, but a human sound. The sheer number of voices, their collective force, sent a shiver down Garlan’s spine.

Battle cries.

Something had ignited the field.

He snapped the spyglass back to his eye, scanning desperately for the source.

The cannon barrage had been relentless, wave after wave. Aegor’s skinchangers reported that, aside from minor miscalculations in the first two salvos, nearly every shot had landed perfectly within the Reach’s formations. Their army was so massive that, as long as the right powder charge and angle were used, hitting them was as easy as shooting blindfolded.

Every two to three shots landed kills.

It wasn’t as deadly as direct fire at close range, but it was more than enough to shake their nerve.

"Messenger!"

The order rang out.

"Full assault!"

The cannon fire abruptly ceased.

A pregnant silence fell over the field.

Garlan frowned. This made no sense.

Surely the enemy’s powder stores weren’t already depleted?

Then—the silence shattered.

A massive, coordinated volley erupted, louder and heavier than anything before.

The sheer force of the impact rattled the ground beneath him. Even the warhorses, long accustomed to the sounds of battle, whinnied in fear and tried to bolt. It took two squires to restrain them.

...

Aegor’s plan was clear now.

Advance.

Move closer.

Crush their morale.

Not only would this shorten the range, increasing accuracy and psychological pressure, but—most importantly—the closer they got, the less powder they needed to fire their cannons.

Garlan didn’t dare to draw conclusions yet. But he knew one thing—as a son, as a knight, as a commander—his only duty now was to follow orders.

To watch his own infantry suffer under the barrage.

And to wait.

Wait for the Queen’s army to break their formation—to expose a weakness.

To seize the moment of opportunity.

And to strike.