Chapter 687

A sea of metal, banners, and bloodied helmets churned across the battlefield, an unrelenting tide of war. At its heart, like a lone reef amidst the storm, Jon Connington stood still, his gaze fixed on the impenetrable tortoise-like formation of the western campaign army.

"The last scraps inside that shell are starting to gather," he noted, relaying the scout reports in the simplest terms. Then, with a frown, he muttered his own doubts. "Strange... It’s like Aegor is always one step ahead. Does the boy have some kind of foresight?"

"If he did, he wouldn’t be fighting this battle in the first place," Randyll Tarly shot back without hesitation. "Deploying troops by the river? With what soldiers? The first wave of our fleet alone will land over two thousand men, and I’d wager Aegor doesn’t have even that many left to deploy. And after that, we still have another ten thousand ready to follow from the northern shore."

Before them, an intricate sand table war map displayed the battle in full—the shifting pieces of their grand strategy laid bare. King Aegon VI nodded in agreement with Tarly’s assessment.

"Precisely. Our real concern now is Garlan Tyrell. His forces must keep the enemy's southern and eastern flanks fully engaged. Only then will our fleet have the conditions to land unopposed."

Duke Mace Tyrell, old and weary, spoke for his absent son. "After the first attack, Garlan split his remaining forces into two divisions. They remain engaged at the front, maintaining pressure—"

"Not enough!"

Aegon’s voice cut through the war council like a whip.

"He was the first to rush in, recklessly dragging our entire army into an early battle. But now, when we need him to press harder, he's growing cautious?" The young king’s expression darkened as he turned to his father-in-law and brother-in-law’s absent command. "Garlan thinks simply holding position is enough to keep Aegor from shifting troops? What if Aegor sees through it? What if he leaves only a token force behind and moves his main strength elsewhere?"

He turned to his attendants. "Send every messenger we have. Order Garlan—at all costs, attack again! Do not let the Night’s Watchman catch his breath!"

Mace Tyrell’s jaw tightened at his son-in-law’s sharp tone. He disliked being commanded like this—Aegon needed Tyrell support, that was a fact. But he also knew Garlan had indeed lost them the initiative through his earlier mistake. And now, no matter the risk, the only real option was full-scale assault.

With great reluctance, the Reach lord nodded, waving a hand for his retainers to relay the order.
----


A group of messengers galloped off at full speed, their departure bringing a moment of uneasy calm to the command post.

Despite failing to breach Aegor’s defensive formations, the illusion of control still belonged to the Reach (at least on the surface). As long as their couriers could deliver commands, their battle plan remained intact—barely.

But every officer present knew the truth: this precarious balance rested on rapidly burning morale.

The battlefield was vast, but their engagement zone was narrow. The enemy, frustratingly conservative, refused to push forward even after repelling multiple attacks.

The Reach, despite superior numbers, could only sustain pressure by rotating fresh troops to the front—each new wave fueled by the illusion of impending victory.

But the cracks were already showing.

Unlike Aegor’s men, whose tactical retreats allowed them to rest and re-enter the fray, every Reach soldier withdrawn from combat left the battlefield spent.

Their troops fought hard—but when they pulled back, they were done. Their morale gone, their stamina emptied. What should have been a cycle of reinforcement was, in reality, a slow, grinding attrition of their fighting strength.

And now, the men standing closest to the command post—the final unblooded reserves—were the last they had left:The elite of House Tyrell and the Golden Company’s finest foot soldiers.The last card to be played.

They would be unleashed only when the fleet’s shallow-water warships landed troops on the northern bank, ready for one last decisive assault.

Surrounded by Reach lords and Golden Company officers, the war council murmured their final battle plans.

Victory was still possible.

Aegor’s flanks were locked in combat. His reserves had been fully drawn out.

And as for his cannons?

They had no clever way to counter them.

But they did have a stupid one.

No matter how devastating Aegor’s artillery was, it could only focus on one direction at a time.

The moment they breached the tortoise formation from any side—the battle would be won.

Aegon’s command for Garlan to resume the assault had never been about achieving breakthrough.

It was about drawing fire away.

If Garlan’s cavalry could force the western army to focus elsewhere, then the Mander landing and the final total assault would have their opening.

Victory was within reach.
----


Until suddenly—something shifted.

A ripple spread through the chaotic battlefield.

Something pierced through the melee.

Something crossed the defensive trenches.

It moved past the low earthen walls meant to deflect cannon shot.

It tore through the packed ranks of highborn Reach infantry—sending them scrambling in panic, tripping over one another, as if a shark’s fin had emerged in a sea of men.

And then, the screams began.

Jon Connington’s spine went rigid. He had spent too many years in war to ignore that tone of terror.

"What happened?"

From atop his horse, his eyes darted across the field. The command post was close to the front, but far enough that no stray shot—no mundane weapon—should be reaching them.

A scout cried out, voice shaking.

"A shadow—a black shape—heading straight for us!"

"Shadow-binding!"

Connington’s blood ran cold.

He knew this magic.

The rumors of Renly Baratheon’s murder were no longer whispers.

This was the same foul sorcery that had struck down a king in the dead of night.

His sword was in his hand before he could think, throwing himself between the incoming horror and Aegon VI.

"Where are the sorcerers?!" he barked.

Two gaunt, foreign warlocks—hired from across the Narrow Sea—stepped forth from the guard lines.

"Fear not," one rasped. "The dust has been laid. The shadow cannot cross the barrier."

But they had made a critical mistake.

The anti-shadow dust—crafted from magical alloys and powdered relics—had been laid on the ground.

It could stop the creature from walking through.

But it could not stop it from jumping over.
----


The shadow surged forward, an inhuman specter.

It had the shape of a man, but its form was wrong—black as pitch, thick like tar smoke, shifting unnaturally with each movement.

And then—it leapt.

Soaring effortlessly over the protective dust, it landed within the command post.

Panic erupted.

Some screamed. Some drew steel.

One nobleman hurled a seven-pointed star at it—useless.

Swords, stones, talismans—nothing touched it.

The shadow ignored them all.

It looked around. Searching.

It had one chance—one moment—to strike.

It found its target.

The banner.
----


With impossible force, the shadow-forged axe cut through the wooden flagpole, splintering it in half.

And as the Targaryen banner collapsed, it felt as if the entire war had just been decided.