Chapter 683

Men and horses tumbled.

Men and horses tumbled again.

Men and horses tumbled again and again...

The battlefield was a cacophony of destruction. The sharp whistle of projectiles cutting through the air, the sickening crunch of impacts. Warhorses reared and collapsed, riders thrown violently from the saddle—some dead before they hit the ground, others rolling helplessly before being trampled under the relentless charge of their own comrades. The clash of steel, the screams of dying men, the terrified whinnies of panicked horses—it all blended into an overwhelming wall of sound.

And yet, the Reach cavalry could not understand what was happening.

The cannons had fired only one synchronized volley. The arrows had come in a steady, expected rain—no greater in volume or force than before. And yet, their ranks fell as if cut down by an invisible reaper. Comrades toppled like wheat beneath a farmer’s scythe—riders thrown from their saddles, entire lines of horse and man collapsing together.

Their warhorses had been trained to withstand the thunder of gunpowder. The men had braced themselves for cannon shot and the chaos of battle.

But that cursed Night’s Watchman had unleashed yet another devastating trick from his unholy arsenal.

There were no mangled bodies from solid shot tearing through flesh and bone. No missing limbs, no gory wreckage. Just a sudden, brutal surge of casualties—tiny iron pellets punching through armor, finding the gaps between plates, lodging into flesh with ruthless precision. It was as if an army of unseen marksmen were loosing armor-piercing arrows straight into their ranks.

In the span of three seconds, a hundred cavalrymen lay dead or crippled.

Had they been infantry, had they suffered such an inexplicable hammer blow, their instincts would have screamed at them to fall back, to retreat and regroup.

But they were cavalry. The momentum of their charge, the weight of the thousands pressing behind them, the sheer force of inertia—there was no stopping now.

They had no choice but to press forward.

And waiting ahead, beyond the next wave of arrows, was an even crueler fate.

The cannons needed time to reload. But Aegor’s arsenal was not limited to refined weaponry. The simplest tools of war could still wreak havoc.

With a shouted command, the frontline grenadiers surged forward, each man hurling a smoking black sphere into the path of the onrushing cavalry before swiftly falling back into formation.

The Reach knights had seen these things before. Unlike the Golden Company at the Blackwater, they knew what was coming.

They tried to veer away, to weave between the deadly projectiles.

It was useless.

A series of thunderous explosions erupted beneath them.

The blast itself was not what killed them—these bombs were too small, too crude to tear through plate and mail like cannon shot. But the fragments, the shockwave, the sheer impact—these were enough to drive jagged iron shards into exposed flesh, to send men lurching in the saddle.

And for the horses?

For creatures of flesh and blood, trained though they were, the sudden, relentless blasts were too much.

The warhorses of the Reach had been carefully desensitized to the sound of explosions at the allied muster outside Highgarden. But this was different. These detonations were closer. They did not just sound more terrifying—they hurt. Shrapnel, no matter how small, stung their legs, their bellies, their flanks. The sharp, unpredictable pain, coupled with the deafening concussions, pushed the animals past their limits.

Another wave of panic swept through the cavalry.

The first rank crumbled.

The once-disciplined rhythm of galloping hooves turned to chaos—stumbling, rearing, desperate attempts to escape. The tight, cohesive charge shattered, not merely from casualties but from pure fear.

It was no longer just about losses. The entire formation was breaking down.

Ahead of them, the frontline of the western campaign army—rank upon rank of disciplined Westerlands spearmen and Dornish pikemen—stood unwavering, their gleaming weapons braced, a wall of death awaiting any who dared continue the charge.

The Reach knights no longer wanted to charge.

They couldn’t stop, but they wouldn’t go forward.

And so, instinctively, they began to veer away.
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The main body of the Reach cavalry had been positioned under Garlan Tyrell’s command, lingering just southwest of the Queen’s forces, waiting for the opportune moment. To ensure a clean advance that wouldn’t disrupt the main infantry assault, they had aimed their charge at the southeasternmost corner of the Queen’s wedge formation—the very spot where the infantry lines had first engaged.

Thus, their charge had been moving from southwest to northeast.

Now, faced with complete disaster, with no way to break through, the first wave of cavalry did what came naturally.

They turned.

At the last possible moment, instead of smashing into the enemy line, they swerved—a full ninety-degree turn, sweeping eastward, galloping parallel to the enemy formation before breaking away in retreat. Their once-straight charge became a chaotic curve, carving a looping path away from the battle.

Watching from behind the safety of their shields, the western army soldiers barely had time to exhale before the retreating cavalry lashed out.

Scattered among the fleeing knights, small objects arced through the air—short crossbow bolts, throwing axes, spears. Even rusted iron scraps, flung wildly in frustration.

A handful of men in the Queen’s ranks grunted as they were struck, some dropping to their knees, blood trickling from minor wounds. But it was a petty retaliation—a few injured, none slain.

The first wave of the Reach cavalry had been utterly crushed, trading hundreds of their own lives for nothing.

And now, the second wave was upon them.
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Many of the Queen’s soldiers, watching the first charge collapse, assumed the next would be the same.

They were wrong.

The first wave had not fled purely out of cowardice. Their parting volley of missiles was not an act of spite.

This was all part of the plan.

Garlan Tyrell had never intended for his entire cavalry to charge as a single, undifferentiated mass. From the very start, he had divided his forces with purpose.

The first wave consisted of lesser knights, mercenaries, free riders, and even some mounted infantry—men who lacked the training and armor to be true heavy cavalry but who possessed ranged weapons. Their job was not to break the enemy, but to test them.

To see what awaited them.

And now, Garlan Tyrell himself led the true charge.

The second wave was the core of his cavalry—the best-equipped, best-trained knights of the Reach. Noble retainers, sworn swords, the cavalry of the Golden Company. His personal command.

He had seen the first wave falter. He had seen the unexpected, brutal toll of Aegor’s hidden weapons.

He had a choice. He could call off the attack, spare his best men, retreat and rethink.

But there was no tomorrow.

This battle would decide the fate of House Tyrell and the Reach itself.

Victory meant everything. Defeat meant ruin.

He had no choice but to press forward, no matter the cost.

The first wave had served their purpose—they had absorbed the worst of the Queen’s firepower. The cannons needed time to reload. The artillery had spent its first and best shot.

There would be no better moment than this.

Garlan took a deep breath.

He raised his lance high.

"Hold formation—FOR HIGHGARDEN!"