Chapter 669

A light rain had fallen in the early hours before dawn, stopping just as the sky began to brighten. The first rays of sunlight broke through the remnants of the night, casting golden light over the vast expanse of the Reach. Mist rose lazily from the damp ground, forming a hazy veil that refracted into a brilliant rainbow stretching across the sky.

As the droplets of rain evaporated from the blades of grass, the wild growth and crops in the fields lifted their heads, competing for the morning sun as they always had. In the shade of a rock crevice, a cluster of fungi stood undisturbed, and from a hidden burrow, a lone field mouse—one of the lucky survivors of winter—cautiously poked its head out, sniffing for danger. With the safety of its litter in mind, it hesitated, planning its first meal of the day.

Then, the peace was shattered.

A tremor ran through the earth, growing into a rolling thunder of hooves. The approaching cacophony sent the mother mouse darting back into her hole, while the once-still fields were trampled underfoot. Wild grasses, cultivated crops—it made no difference. The relentless advance of men and beasts crushed everything in their path, grinding the delicate greenery into pulp, as if declaring their dominion over the land through sheer brutality.

The sky brightened further.

The gates of the Queen’s camp creaked open, and armored scouts poured out in a flood, their spare horses trailing behind them. They rode forth in all directions, as they did every morning, sweeping the land ahead to clear obstacles for the advancing army.

Behind them, thirty thousand soldiers began their morning routine, methodically dismantling their tents and preparing to march.

It had been two weeks since the Western Expeditionary Army crossed from the Crownlands into the Reach. They had cut a bloody path through the land, meeting no significant resistance aside from scattered skirmishes. Some of their initial eagerness had dulled from the uneventful advance, but their confidence in ultimate victory had only swelled.

At this pace, they expected to be camped beneath the walls of Highgarden in just two more days.

They were already imagining themselves riding through Lord Tyrell’s famed stables, celebrating their conquest.
----


In the heart of the massive camp, Aegor West emerged from his command tent, having just finished breakfast. He took a deep breath of the fresh morning air—but unlike his men, he did not share in their blind optimism.

The situation was not ideal.

Not that he thought they would lose—no, that wasn’t the issue.

The problem was that the odds of victory were shifting—not in his favor.

Two months ago, after the battle of Blackwater, if the Queen’s forces had immediately pressed forward into the Reach, victory would have been absolute. The enemy would have had no time to regroup, no time to resist.

Instead, Aegor had spent time consolidating.He fought a naval battle.He crushed a fortress siege.He secured the Westerlands.He drafted new policies, stabilized the Crownlands, and worked to ensure their hold on the capital.

It was time well spent—but it gave the enemy time as well.

By the time he marched west, Aegon VI and the Reachlords had recovered.

His chances of victory had dropped to ninety percent.

Then the Reach did the unexpected:They did not collapse.They successfully produced gunpowder.They mobilized their entire domain for war.

Eighty percent.

Then, instead of fighting recklessly, the Reachlords chose the correct strategy:A unified command.A defensive retreat.Scorched earth tactics.

Seventy percent.

Now, the Queen’s supply lines were under attack.

The Reach cavalry had maneuvered behind them, harassing their convoys, cutting off reinforcements. The spoils of war—the grain and supplies they had expected to plunder from castles—were not enough.

No matter how ruthlessly they “purchased” supplies from nearby villages, it wasn’t enough to sustain thirty thousand men and their horses.

The deeper they pushed into the Reach, the clearer it became—this was no rout.

The Reachlords had dug in.

They had prepared for a final battle.

The Queen’s army was still on the offensive.

But Aegor could feel the weight of the campaign shifting—the tide of war was pulling against them.
----


He had already taken action.

Two days ago, he had sent out a flurry of orders via messenger crows:To the Westerlands Army, stationed near Old Oak, ordering them to march south along the Coastal Road and flank Highgarden from the northwest.To the Northern Army, already in the Ashford region, commanding them to advance west and pressure Highgarden’s eastern flank.To Daenerys herself, requesting that she bring her dragons and reinforce the final battle.

There was no turning back.

And holding their supply lines was becoming untenable.

This left him with two choices:

Go defensive.Slow the advance.Control supplies and ration food to sustain the army.Hold position until reinforcements arrived.

Press forward.Abandon caution.Break through to Highgarden before their situation worsened.Secure Lord Tyrell’s winter stockpiles before the army starved.

Either way, he had to act soon.

But first, he had one last option to consider—a shadow in the dark.
----


That night, under the cover of darkness, Aegor summoned Melisandre and Kinvara into his tent.

Could shadowbinding magic be used to assassinate Aegon VI?

Yes.

Aegor was a practical man—he wasn’t above using unconventional methods.

He hadn’t considered this before, simply because the war seemed winnable through conventional means.

But now?

Now, the odds of failure had risen to thirty to forty percent.

Principles were meaningless if he lost.

"Better to be judged by history than to let the coroner decide."
----


Kinvara deferred to Melisandre.

"Shadowbinding is real, and it is deadly," she admitted. "But it is not a simple thing."

Aegor raised an eyebrow. "Explain."

"It requires preparation. Days of it. Even in this new age of magic, a shadow must be nurtured, fed, grown before it can kill."

"And the range?"

"The shadow must be close. The greater the distance, the weaker the control. To be truly effective, the target must be within sight—ideally within a single room, separated only by a wall."

"So, I need to be physically close to use this?"

Melisandre nodded. "Even then, success depends on whether Aegon’s protectors can detect the magic. If they are truly skilled, they may stop the shadow before it strikes."

Aegor considered.

It was a gamble.

But war was always a gamble.

"Prepare the ritual," he ordered. "I’ll decide when to use it."
----


The morning sun rose.

As Aegor stepped out of his tent, lost in thought, a war horn shattered the silence.

A warning.

Enemy sighted.

Within moments, a scout arrived at full gallop.

"Lord Hand! We’ve spotted the Reach army! Three to five thousand troops advancing from the west—in battle formation. Cavalry movements detected on the east and south—exact numbers unknown!"

The battle had begun.