Chapter 688

It seemed absurd that the soldiers of both armies could struggle to distinguish friend from foe, but the reality was that both sides bore the same sigil—the Three-Headed Red Dragon.

Neither Daenerys nor young Aegon had been willing to modify the Targaryen banner, even in the slightest way, for the sake of battlefield clarity. Not even a simple color change, as had been done during the Blackfyre Rebellion, had been considered. Both were too fixated on asserting their legitimacy as the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

After a brief yet thorough assessment of the situation, Daenerys lightly patted the dragon beneath her. A deafening roar pierced the sky as she and her two dragons, black and green, dove straight toward the Mander River.
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The battlefield stretched wide on either side of the river, split in two by the Mander like a sword had cleaved it apart.

War raged on all fronts. Soldiers clashed in tangled, chaotic melees, locked in combat so fiercely that their formations had dissolved into an indistinguishable mass of flesh, steel, and blood.

The southern bank was simple enough to understand—House Tyrell’s forces had used their superior numbers to stretch their battle lines into a three-sided encirclement of the western campaign army. In response, Aegor had arrayed his forces along the riverbank, fighting with their backs to the water—a classic back-to-the-wall formation.

It was nothing like her previous campaign against the White Walkers.

Back then, she had a clear destination—Queenscrown. She only needed to follow the Kingsroad north, a straight path that made getting lost nearly impossible.

But here?

Aegor’s army was somewhere in the endless plains of the Reach.
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The Reach was a land of rivers.

It was a place of rain and water, where countless streams, creeks, and tributaries crisscrossed the landscape—many of them too small to be marked on any map but real enough to create confusion for a dragonrider searching from above.

She knew that the Mander was a great river, flowing east to west, with slow currents and a broad surface.

But how slow?

How broad?

Rivers fitting that description were everywhere.

She had received Aegor’s call for aid more than a week ago. His message had reported logistical harassment, fiercer-than-expected resistance from the Reach, but also firm progress toward Highgarden.

Yet now, as she gazed at the thin line of soldiers on the northern bank, uncertainty gnawed at her.

Were they Aegor’s men, retreating across the river to escape?

Or were they fresh enemy reinforcements, preparing to cross south and enter the battle?

And if it was the latter—whose reinforcements were they?
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There was only one clear course of action:

Find the Mander, follow it downstream, and locate the army.

As she did, she noticed something—a detail she had overlooked in her first sweeping glance of the battlefield.

The Mander River was covered in ships—shallow-water warships, their sails lowered.

For a brief moment, Daenerys hesitated.

Then, she made her decision.

She would join the battle.
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At the time Aegor’s first message had arrived, Daenerys had been drowning in the responsibilities of ruling the Seven Kingdoms—or, to be more precise, five of the Seven, as the Vale and the Reach remained in open rebellion.

The situation across the Narrow Sea had worsened as well. The previously fractured anti-Targaryen alliance had suddenly united under Braavosi backing. The Iron Bank’s involvement had only made things more complicated.

With her attention torn in all directions, she had not treated Aegor’s request as urgent.

His letter had not described a desperate situation—so she had simply ordered Grey Worm to send reinforcements to secure the supply lines, while she remained in King’s Landing, overseeing the kingdom.

But two days ago, the second message had arrived.

This time, it was a direct plea for her personal intervention.

And so, Daenerys had dropped everything.

She had mounted her dragon, taken flight, and raced to the frontlines with both of her dragons.

She had arrived just in time for what might be the final, decisive battle of the war.
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Daenerys wheeled her black dragon around, scanning for smaller banners.

If she could identify the sigils of Reach, Westerlands, or Dornish forces, then she would know who was who.

The winds were no longer icy cold—spring had finally come, and for the first time in months, she no longer had to cling tightly to the dragon’s back for warmth. She sat upright in the saddle, gazing down upon the battlefield from above.
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The Reach was enemy territory.

Every landing, every interaction carried unpredictable risks.

But two dragons were enough deterrence—and, with a bit of luck, she had avoided encountering any enemy soldiers armed with bows or scorpions.

Through this tedious, trial-and-error method of landing, speaking, taking off, and searching, she had finally found the Mander and followed its southern bank westward.

And now—at last—she had arrived at the battlefield.

Though whether she was just a little late or a catastrophic amount late, she could not yet tell.

What she could tell, however, was that Aegor was under attack from all sides.
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Daenerys had never set foot in the Reach before.

She had no mental image of what its river networks should look like from above.

She knew, of course, that rivers were not simply divided into large and small—there were endless variations in between.

And as she flew over countless streams, tributaries, and waterways of every possible size, she quickly found herself lost.

Had she already passed the Mander?

Or was it still further ahead?

The thought sent a chill down her spine.

Her experience in battle was not expert, but it was extensive enough that her instincts screamed that this battle was unwinnable.

And yet—

The Western Army wasn’t losing.

The battle raged on three fronts—east, south, and north.

But to the west—the densest and bloodiest part of the battlefield—

The attackers were collapsing.

The encircled Western Army was breaking out.
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She descended, trying to follow the tracks of marching soldiers.

But spring rain and rapidly growing vegetation had erased all traces of movement.

So she chose a simpler—though less reliable—method:

At every major river, she landed and asked for directions.

Numbers and measurements might not mean much from above, but any rough estimate was better than wandering blindly.

She followed the Rose Road westward, stopping at the last fortress that Aegor had reported capturing—New Barrel.

There, the garrison commander confirmed Aegor’s last known location.

To avoid enemy ambushes, Aegor had left the main road, crossed the Mander, and advanced along the northern bank.
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The ships made one thing clear.

There were no friendly naval forces in this battle.

If there were ships, they belonged to the enemy.

If there were troops on the north bank, they were the enemy.
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The western front no longer needed her.

The eastern and southern battles were too entangled—dragonfire risked hitting her own troops.

But the ships on the river and the forces across the Mander?

There was no risk of friendly fire there.

She knew where to strike.