Chapter 598

Spring thunder?

That was the first thought of the quickest-witted among them.

Every year, at the brief turning of the seasons before summer, the warming, humid air clashed with the lingering cold currents, creating violent vertical convection that birthed towering storm clouds and unleashed rolling thunder.

The lords of the Reach might not understand the precise meteorological principles behind it, but they had learned from experience: thunder meant summer was approaching.

Yet here and now, with the temperature barely hovering around freezing—thunder?

It was far too early for that.

Hesitation and confusion lasted only seconds before reality set in—because thunder did not come with screams and chaos.
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The Blackwater Rush, home to the great capital of the Seven Kingdoms, was one of the most famous rivers in Westeros, but in truth, it paled in comparison to the Trident or the Mander. In length, volume, and width, it was not even among the top three, and had it not benefited from the southern climate’s heavier rainfall, its only defining characteristic would have been its relatively fast current.

Still, even a river of moderate size—especially in its lower reaches near the sea—was formidable in winter’s low-water season. Near the Night’s Watch industrial complex, the river was still over a hundred meters wide. Add to that the soft, muddy riverbanks, and the extra hundred-meter buffer that the southern army had deliberately kept from the shoreline to avoid trebuchet and ballista fire—

The southern camp should have been entirely outside the effective range of any Blackwall artillery.

But “effective range” was not a rigid law of physics. It was a human concept, relevant only when precision and power were required. Aegor wasn’t aiming for precision—he was aiming for chaos.

When considering maximum range rather than effective range, the equation changed entirely.

The difference between the two?

It varied, but an extreme example made it clear: a pistol with an “effective range” of 50 meters was usually fired at much shorter distances. But if one aimed at a high angle, the bullet might still hit some unlucky soul a thousand meters away.

When maximum range was the factor, the entire southern camp was well within the Gifted artillery’s reach.

Accuracy? Against an encampment of sixty or seventy thousand men packed together, one could fire blind and still hit something.

Lethality? In an age without armored vehicles or reinforced concrete, even an iron ball losing speed over a thousand meters still carried enough force to crush wood, pierce armor, and break bones.
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When Aegor had taken Winterfell, he had possessed only five cannons.

During the pause in the campaign, additional guns had been cast in haste at Overton, bringing the Gifted artillery up to twenty pieces. Of those, fourteen were currently operational—the remaining six were not broken, but there simply weren’t enough trained gunners to operate them all.

That problem had not yet become pressing. But if Blackwall Keep’s transformation into a true arms factory proceeded smoothly, then soon, they would have more cannons than men to fire them.

That was a concern for another day.

For now, the first fourteen-gun volley thundered across the river, its deafening roar shattering the wedding’s festivities. The cannonballs sailed nearly a kilometer, raining down chaotically upon the southern camp over an area spanning hundreds of meters.

Of the fourteen rounds:Nine buried themselves in open ground, sending up fountains of dirt and debris.Two struck wooden palisades, splintering them into jagged shards.One hit a cooking pot, upending boiling broth over an unfortunate group of soldiers.One crashed into a tent, sending gamblers scattering in terror.One slammed through the roof of the temporary stables, sending dozens of warhorses into a frenzy.

Because the shells had been fired at a high angle, they lacked the ideal “skipping” effect upon impact. Instead, they embedded themselves deep in the mud, scattering wooden splinters, scalding broth, and clumps of sodden earth in all directions.

In a camp so densely packed with people, it was a miracle that no one had died.

After the initial shockwave of chaos, the confusion began to subside. Silence fell—stunned, disbelieving silence.

With the exception of those directly affected, most of the encampment remained clueless, still trying to process whether the noise had been some freak accident or an actual attack.

Everyone was waiting—waiting for orders to dismiss the incident as a fluke, or waiting for the next barrage to confirm their worst fears.

And then—

The second volley began.

This time, the shots were staggered—spread over thirty seconds instead of fired in unison.

This was not a mistake. It was intentional.

Aegor had ordered the transition to rapid fire.

The fourteen gunnery teams varied wildly in skill. If forced to synchronize their shots, the slowest crews would drag down the rate of fire. But when precision was irrelevant, and volume of fire was all that mattered, there was no reason to wait.

This haphazard, rolling bombardment only increased the psychological toll.

A continuous barrage—especially one that came at unpredictable intervals—was more unnerving than a clean, single volley. It never allowed the enemy time to recover.
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But fortune never lingers in one place for too long.

In a camp this crowded, the randomness of the cannonfire ensured that someone would be hit sooner or later.

One cannonball smashed through the wooden platform where Aegon and Margaery’s wedding had been held.

Another struck a knight from Honeyholt mid-sprint, tearing his arm to shreds.

It was then—finally—that the fear overtook the shock.

The army panicked.

The men of the Reach and the Golden Company were no Unsullied, but they were not cowards either. They would not flee at the first sign of trouble.

But this camp was not composed solely of soldiers.

It housed merchants, civilians, families of officers, camp followers— all untrained, all unprepared for such an assault.

And it was their terror—their screams, their stampeding flight—that infected the rest of the camp, threatening to spiral into a full-scale rout.

Before disaster could fully take hold, the King’s Hand, Jon Connington, finally roared out a command.

“NO ONE MOVES!”

“Guards! Escort His Grace and Her Grace to safety! Everyone else—remain in position! Officers, round up your men and restore order! Anyone caught running or spreading panic—EXECUTE THEM!”

He seized the momentary silence before the third barrage and barked out further orders:

“Lord Mace, send word to Lord Tarly—have him move the Reach’s forces SOUTH and deploy ALL scouts. We must ensure the Dornish are not advancing!”

“Messengers, relay to every ballista position—LOAD the dragon-hunting spears! If the dragons appear, fire IMMEDIATELY!”

“Strickland! Gather the Golden Company! Form up along the riverbank! If the Unsullied or the Gifted Army try to cross, STOP THEM!”

Jon Connington did not know what this weapon was—whether it was sorcery or some new instrument of war.

But he knew one thing:

His enemy could attack across the river.

And if it were him with such a weapon, he wouldn’t waste it just to disrupt a wedding.

This was only the beginning.

The conflict between the two Targaryens had skipped all pretense of diplomacy—it had gone straight to a battle for the throne.