Chapter 671

The eastern sky shifted from purple to gold to blue as the sun crested the horizon and rose into the sky. The last few bright stars, still twinkling against the dark vault above, finally faded into nothingness. Bathed in the golden morning light, Count Matthos Rowan rode up the highest nearby hill, reined in his towering warhorse, and raised his Myrish lens to observe the slow, deliberate approach of the Westerland army.

The Reachmen had hoped to gather all three advantages—time, terrain, and unity—before this decisive battle. But the heavens were not on their side.

The terrain was theirs, as always in a home-field battle. Unity had been forced upon them in the face of dire threat. But time—time had defied them. The perfect battlefield, the perfect moment, had come and gone days ago, northeast of here, along the Rose Road by the Mander’s northern bank. That day had been draped in steady drizzle, ideal conditions for their plan. And yet their enemy, Aegor, as if foreseeing their intentions, had swept southward after capturing New Barrel, crossing the river before they could react, throwing all their plans into disarray and slipping past their trap by sheer chance.

In haste, they had wheeled the army back south of the Mander, relying once more on their maesters' predictions: today, there would be rain. On that promise, the command tent had resolved to rest briefly before launching their attack. The maesters had been right—rain had come—but it fell too soon, in the dark before dawn, and had not lingered until morning. When first light crept over the land, the air was still damp, but by sunrise, the moisture had thinned to nothing. A clear sky after rain—a beautiful day, but a wretched day for battle against the Westerland host.

Now, all that Count Rowan could pray for was that the night's downpour had spoiled enough of the Night’s Watch’s powder to blunt their devastating ranged fire.

Back to the battlefield.

Today, he was entrusted with a daunting task: commanding the vanguard.

King Aegon had given him no strict orders, only a flexible strategy. At the moment of engagement, he was to extend his battle line just beyond the enemy’s flanks—though, given the river's proximity, that now meant extending to one side only. Then, he was to gauge Aegor’s reaction and act accordingly.

If Aegor did nothing, merely deploying in a standard formation while guarding against flanking maneuvers, then Rowan was to position his ten thousand foot soldiers and three thousand cavalry in a solid front, creating the illusion of a direct clash while the main cavalry force maneuvered behind the enemy. If possible, he was to stage a convincing feigned retreat, drawing Aegor’s forces into an encirclement by their infantry.

If, however, Aegor attempted to widen his own battle line in response, then Rowan’s orders were different: he was to continue stretching his own line while relaying urgent orders to the main infantry and the rear cavalry. No more trickery—just a full-force assault to smash through the weakened, overstretched Westerland line in one overwhelming strike.

Two possible scenarios. Simple in theory. A nightmare in execution.

Though a seasoned commander, Count Rowan had never led an army of this scale—let alone one composed of unfamiliar troops, not the disciplined warriors of his own Goldengrove garrison. He barked orders ceaselessly, sending messengers galloping to exhaustion as he struggled to keep his ten thousand conscripts in formation while advancing eastward. When at last they reached the enemy’s line of sight, he called for the troops to extend their ranks and prepared to read Aegor’s reaction.

And then, he realized—Aegor was not playing by the rules.

The Westerland army, marching in tight formation along the river, did not immediately deploy upon sighting the Reachmen. Even when Rowan ordered his troops to raise banners and signal their presence, Aegor’s forces merely slowed their pace and halted.

From his vantage point on the hill, Rowan had no way of seeing the exact structure of the Westerland formation—but what he could see was troubling enough. Their front was not arrayed in the usual broad line for battle, but in staggered blocks, with their ranks forming a stepped diagonal pattern.

He had never seen a formation like this before, but two things were clear:

First, this was not the standard marching formation of a thirty-thousand-strong army.

Second, it was not a battle line prepared for an open-field engagement.

If he ordered his right flank to charge forward, could he not easily encircle the entire enemy force against the riverbank? Was Aegor... incompetent?

Suspicion flickered in Rowan’s mind for a brief moment before being crushed by reason—of all the possibilities, that was the least likely.

He raised his Myrish lens again, scrutinizing the enemy’s arrangement.

Under the bright midday sun, every detail became clear through the glass: regiments of roughly two thousand men each, soldiers clad in glinting steel, black and red banners rippling above them. The gaps between each regiment were almost as wide as the formations themselves, and within those gaps, couriers dashed back and forth. Even the faint vibrations in the earth, the rhythmic tramp of synchronized marching, reached his ears.

His heart, steady moments ago, began to hammer. Sweat prickled down his back despite the cool spring breeze.

He was beginning to understand.

The tight formation covered the entire force in the protective range of their cannons.

The segmented blocks allowed them to rapidly shift facing in response to any attack—far easier to turn a regiment of two thousand than an army of thirty thousand, especially when facing threats from multiple directions.

The staggered diagonal front ensured that the Reachmen’s larger numbers could not easily crash against a single, thin line and overwhelm it.

He could guess what lay beyond his sight—on the far side of Aegor’s formation, the same diagonal pattern, ensuring defense from all directions.

And the layered ranks in depth meant that any attempt to break through the front lines would face reinforcements in swift succession.

The gaps between regiments? Not a flaw—lanes, designed for cavalry and reserves to maneuver within the formation, not outside it.

A purely defensive formation. Its flaws were obvious—no speed, no pursuit capability, vulnerable in retreat—but that was not its purpose.

And then, the realization that made his blood run cold:

This formation was perfectly designed to advance under fire, absorb attacks from any direction, and hold its ground until it reached Highgarden.

Aegor had no intention of winning by annihilation.

He only needed to push forward.

Rowan’s pulse roared in his ears. If Aegor refused to take the bait, refused to overextend, refused to be lured into a trap—what was left?

If Aegor was not reckless…

If Aegor would not be deceived…

Then how in the Seven Hells was he supposed to stop him?

His mind reeled, grasping for a counter. His vanguard was already moving. They needed orders.

But Aegor did not give him time to think.

As Rowan hesitated, the Westerland cannons fired.

A peal of thunder split the sky.

The battle for Highgarden had begun.