Chapter 685

Aegor sensed something was wrong even before the call for reinforcements reached him.

Following the principle of “balanced combat distribution,” the explosive grenades of the western campaign army had been evenly allocated among the nine phalanxes—each phalanx was assigned around a hundred grenadiers, each carrying two grenades. Any extras were reserved for Aegor’s direct vassal forces, while the Unsullied and Westerlands cavalry were not equipped with them at all.

Unlike artillery—limited in number and slow to reload—grenades were too easy to use. Although the total supply was not small, it averaged to only one per ten soldiers. And since their operation was simple to learn, they could easily be wasted in the heat of battle. To prevent unnecessary expenditure and avoid excessive firepower wastage, Aegor had issued strict pre-battle orders: Grenades were to be used only against cavalry charges or in dire emergencies.

Yet just moments ago, between two volleys of grapeshot, he had heard the distinct thunder of grenades erupting from the infantry battle lines.

A single explosion might have been a mistake—perhaps an overeager officer misjudging the situation. But when the second and third detonations rang out in succession, it became clear that multiple commanders had issued orders to use grenades.

There was only one possible conclusion.

The entire infantry front was under immense pressure.

But that made no sense.

According to Aegor’s pre-battle assessments, the western infantry phalanxes only needed to hold the line against the enemy foot soldiers, to withstand their assault without breaking. He had never expected his infantry to outright defeat their counterparts—this battle would be decided elsewhere. The enemy had no artillery, no way to efficiently break formations. Their forces were, in essence, equal. If anything, the momentum of the western army, fresh off consecutive victories, should have ensured they could at least fight to a draw.

Aegor’s biggest concern had not been that his troops would collapse. It was the opposite—he had feared that after repelling the first enemy assault, his soldiers might get carried away and pursue the retreating Reachmen, breaking formation and walking straight into a trap. He had drilled it into his commanders: no pursuit, no pursuit, no pursuit!

Yet now, the infantry line itself was failing?

Frowning, he shifted his focus from the mostly-secured southern flank to the western battlefront. It took only moments of observation and a few quick reports to understand the cause:

The Reach had brought forward their dragon-killing ballistae.
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The tight wedge formation had been Aegor’s answer to the Reach’s superior numbers, shrinking the western campaign army’s exposed frontage to the absolute minimum. In doing so, he had effectively neutralized the enemy’s numerical advantage. This was not a normal battlefield formation. It was designed with one goal in mind—to exploit the enemy’s lack of efficient, high-volume ranged weaponry.

But now, the Reach had just introduced a low-tier substitute.

The massive scorpion ballistae could not match the destructive efficiency of cannons—unlike solid shot, their bolts did not bounce or roll along the ground, cutting through multiple ranks. In raw effectiveness, even primitive grenades had a higher kill potential.

But war was not simply about bringing the better weapon.

Artillery was occupied countering cavalry. Grenades, due to their limited supply, could not be used indiscriminately.

The ballistae, crude though they were, had found their opening.

Aegor’s refusal to let his troops pursue retreating enemies had been a calculated decision—one that minimized mistakes and prevented his formation from unraveling. But in doing so, he had also granted his foes the time they needed to reorganize.

With each rolling thunder of explosions, the first two ranks of his western infantry fell back, soot-covered and bloodied. Yet their replacements were already surging forward, driven by the blades and commands of their knightly commanders.

And all the while, the scorpions continued firing.

A bolt from a scorpion was not a cannonball. It lacked the sheer concussive force to send men flying. But to the unfortunate soldier on the receiving end, that distinction meant nothing.

Aegor understood the logic well enough: it didn’t need to be as powerful as a cannon. It only needed to pierce a soldier’s shield and armor. And if it was strong enough to penetrate a dragon’s scales, that was more than enough.

The other advantage of cold weapons quickly became apparent—scorpion bolts were just repurposed spears. They were cheap. Readily available. Unlike gunpowder-based weaponry, they could be fired without worrying about exhausting ammunition supplies.

Against a relentless, rolling offensive, while comrades around them were randomly impaled by massive bolts, no army could hold indefinitely.

The Reach had gone all in.

If Daenerys and her dragon were here, a single pass from above could have reduced the scorpion crews to ash, but Aegor looked to the skies—there was nothing. Not even a shadow.

He forced down the bitter thought and refocused on the immediate crisis.

The artillery positions were located at the very heart of the wedge, slightly closer to Highgarden. If the western flank collapsed, it would threaten the entire battle line. More important than the southern or eastern fronts.

He still had some cards to play.
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Among the nine phalanxes forming the wedge, six occupied the outermost line, while three remained in reserve. Those three were exactly what he needed now.

Aegor acted without hesitation.

First, he ordered the three reserve phalanxes to move westward, preparing to relieve the battered frontline.

Second, he dispatched his final grenadier reserve—originally intended as his ace in the hole—to the gap between the first and second infantry ranks. Their task was simple: use whatever grenades remained to cover the unit rotation.

Third, he issued orders to the artillery commanders: reposition half of the cannons, load solid shot, and turn them westward.

The scorpions had outlived their usefulness. They needed to die.
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War was not a strategy game. Even with Aegor’s decisive response, the battle had already shifted in unpredictable ways.

By the time his orders were relayed, minutes had passed.

On the southern front, Garlan Tyrell had completed his attack on the southeastern corner of the wedge, while the artillery had fired its second volley of grapeshot.

And Garlan… had not made the mistake of charging too deep.

He had not aimed for the central line of the wedge.

Instead, he had executed a passing strike—like an osprey skimming the water’s surface for prey.

His cavalry had not driven straight into the enemy ranks. Instead, they had sliced through the formation’s exposed outermost edge, creating a jagged breach before pulling away.

Two thousand heavy cavalry had shattered an entire phalanx—then escaped before being enveloped.

The wedge held, but barely. The cost had been steep.

And as the battered survivors of the charge retreated, the third wave of Reach cavalry bore down upon them.

For a moment, it looked like the breach would collapse entirely.

Then, the Queen’s forces sent in their answer.

Black armor. Black shields.

Moving in perfect unison, the Unsullied advanced.

The third wave of Reach cavalry, expecting a demoralized, disorganized enemy, instead found themselves facing the finest infantry in the known world.

No fear. No hesitation. No mercy.

The knights faltered. Wavered. Then, almost as one, they turned and fled.

But before Aegor could breathe relief, another shift in the battle occurred.

To the west, where the river curved, ships had appeared.

"Ships!"

The falcon-skinchanger at Aegor’s side gasped, emerging from their trance.

"Coming from the west! A lot of them! Sailing upriver! Packed with men!"