Chapter 686

"Gather the baggage train guards, the kitchen hands, and every man in the southern second phalanx who can still lift a weapon. Bring them to me."

Aegor had accepted the reality of his situation. There was only one choice left.

"Send word to the artillery positions—fire off all remaining grapeshot westward, then switch to solid shot. Aim for the river to the north, adjust for range, and prepare to engage enemy ships!"

The Reach’s intentions were painfully obvious—almost as if they had written them on a banner and paraded them across the battlefield. If another direct assault would only result in yet another bloody failure, why not simply exist as a looming threat? Why not remain just close enough to keep Aegor pinned, forcing him to hold troops in reserve against them instead of committing them elsewhere?

Aegor drew his steel sword and pointed it downward.

"Soldiers, look beneath your feet!"

His men had no ingrained reverence for the Reach, no subconscious belief that these lands belonged to its lords. These warriors had come from beyond the Wall, from the frozen wastes where only death reigned. And those who had spent the battle standing idle in the center of the wedge—his undefeated elite—were more than eager to finally fight.

The Reach had fought just hard enough to force Aegor’s reserves into action. As he swept his gaze across the battlefield, he realized with grim finality—he had nothing left to deploy.
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To the west, cannon fire continued, but the density of fire had lessened. The eastern half of the artillery remained loaded with grapeshot, awaiting another cavalry assault, while the western batteries had already switched to solid shot, targeting the Reach’s scorpion positions behind their infantry lines. The accuracy was nothing to boast about, but it did its job—suppressing the enemy's resolve, steadying the morale of Aegor’s own soldiers.

From his command post—located mere steps from the artillery lines, the baggage train, and the wounded resting areas—Aegor could hear the third wave of grapeshot being unleashed. At the same time, the last remnants of his makeshift reinforcements had finally gathered at his side.

Then, in that moment, a cold dread surged up Aegor’s spine.

He understood.

The Reach’s stubborn resistance hadn’t been just empty bravado.

They had another move prepared.
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"This land—this entire land, from the frozen wastes of the North to the deserts of Dorne—is the richest, flattest, most valuable land in all Westeros!"

"And it should belong to us—to those who defeated the Others, who saved mankind, who raised our banners behind the true king!"

"Instead, these treacherous pigs refuse to kneel! They resist us! They dare to stand in our way!"

Aegor let the words sink in, let them fester in his soldiers' hearts. Then, he bellowed:

"Can we tolerate this?"

Whether they had heard him or not, the answer swept through the ranks, passed from man to man, shouted until it roared like a storm.
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A thousand armored knights on the opposite bank of the river meant nothing if they could not cross.

But a fleet—a large enough fleet—could change everything.

If enough ships could land at the base of the wedge, unloading soldiers who could seize the shoreline and hold a foothold, then those same ships could turn around, ferrying reinforcements in wave after wave.

The Reach infantry on the far bank of the river would become an endless force, able to throw itself into battle again and again.

It was no longer just a threat.

It was a disaster waiting to unfold.

The exact number of enemy ships was unknown, but thanks to the falcon-skinchanger’s aerial reconnaissance, Aegor’s army had detected them while they were still several miles away.

That bought him time.

But not much.

Aegor raised his left hand, silencing the growing murmurs of concern. Then, with his sword, he pointed north.

"Then let’s show those bastards what happens when they test us!"
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After issuing two brief orders, Aegor stepped down from his makeshift watchtower—a repurposed wagon. He disappeared inside for only a moment before emerging once more, standing atop its roof.

The falcon-skinchanger’s scouts had already warned him—there were significant enemy forces stationed on the northern riverbank. But he had dismissed them as a blocking force, meant to cut off his retreat if he attempted to flee across the river.

Now, he realized his mistake.

He had not accounted for their true purpose.
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To the southwest, the cavalry clash between the Westerlands knights and the Golden Company had ended almost as soon as it had begun.

The two forces had met, crossed blades, inflicted only minor casualties on one another—and then promptly disengaged, returning to their respective formations.

There had been no dramatic cavalry duel. No decisive charge.

And that was fine.

Aegor had no illusions about his cavalry defeating the Golden Company. Their objective had been clear: drive off the enemy cavalry. And they had done that—though not decisively, they had done enough to force the enemy to withdraw.

Now, they had to remain vigilant. The Golden Company had not been broken or destroyed. If they regrouped and charged again, the battlefield could still unravel.

The lines had held—for now.
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As Aegor stood in the midst of the chaos, the battlefield’s clamor roared around him. But within his mind, everything was quiet.

Was he still in control?

Had he outmaneuvered his enemy, or had they outmaneuvered him?

He could no longer tell.

Under the combined cover of exploding grenades and sustained cannon fire, three reserve phalanxes—supported by a thin line of grenadiers—had pushed forward, locking the western battlefront in place.

The Reach infantry was being driven back.

Aegor’s reinforcements had stabilized the line. His infantry was winning.

But that didn’t matter.

The soldiers he had rotated out were exhausted, bloodied, barely standing. They needed rest. But rest would not come. They would have to return to the fight soon.

The battle had reached its most critical moment.

"NO!"

Aegor’s voice rang out, cutting through the din.
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His final reserves consisted of:Two thousand soldiers from the Gifted Men, his personal guard.Two to three hundred baggage train guards and kitchen hands, hastily armed.Five to six hundred archers from the Westerlands and Dorne, who had somehow survived Garlan Tyrell’s entire cavalry assault.

This was all he had left.

And he had to make it work.
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To the southeast, the Reach cavalry—having failed in three successive assaults—was utterly spent. Both men and horses had been pushed beyond their limits.

Yet, to Aegor’s surprise, they did not retreat.

Instead, under the iron grip of Dickon Tarly, the Reach commanders began reorganizing.

Those who were too wounded to fight were removed. Shattered formations were consolidated. Swords were exchanged for spears, lances abandoned for shields.

By the time they had finished reorganizing, their numbers had dwindled to ten thousand.

But one-third of that force still remained mounted.

The other two-thirds—the bulk of the cavalry—had dismounted, forming a fresh infantry unit.
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"They're not giving up," Aegor muttered.

"They're changing the game."