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Chapter 672
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 18:26:18 +0000 UTCOn the banks of the Blackwater, the Gifted Army’s artillery had fired from the north bank, shelling the south bank where the wedding was taking place and covering the vanguard’s river crossing. The entire Blackwater separated the cannons from their target, forcing Aegor’s artillery to elevate their barrels and fire at a medium-angle trajectory, relying on their maximum range to achieve their tactical objective.
Moreover, the battlefield—the riverbank in its dry season—was already sloped slightly toward the bombardment, further complicating the physics of impact.
The result? The skipping effect of solid shot, where cannonballs bounced like stones across water, never materialized. Instead, each projectile that failed to strike an unfortunate soul upon landing simply buried itself into the mud, vanishing from sight.
But this time was different.
Aegor ordered immediate fire, not because he gave a damn about chivalry—that was a joke—but because this was the perfect moment. The Reachmen had yet to fully deploy, their troops still crammed together in disorder—a prime target for solid shot.
There was no table on the battlefield for the furious count to flip in rage. All Matthos Rowan could do was tremble with the realization that he had been deceived. Whether by an outright lie or because the command tent itself had been fooled by Aegor, he had no time to dwell on it.
Yes, his vanguard’s role was to draw artillery fire.
But they weren’t even fully deployed yet!
The enemy firing first this early was outright shameless!
Rowan yanked his skittish warhorse to a halt, nearly dropping his Myrish lens in frustration, cursing under his breath.
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The first cannonballs struck the ground, their speed dropping below the speed of sound after just one impact—but momentum was a cruel thing. No armor, no flesh, no bone could stop them.
It wasn’t just lethal—it was categorically overwhelming.
Even after the fourth or fifth bounce, when the cannonballs slowed enough that a fool might think they could be caught by hand, any soldier foolish enough to try would find themselves rewarded with a shock that would haunt them for life.
By the time the iron spheres finally rolled to a stop in the grass, they had already torn through the entire formation.
With few exceptions—where shots strayed too wide or the angle was slightly off—every single cannonball sliced clean through the Reachmen like a hot knife through butter, carving bloody trenches through the densely packed ranks.
One volley.
Hundreds of casualties.
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The first generation of Gifted Army cannons had been bronze—a pragmatic choice to go from nothing to something as quickly as possible, regardless of cost. But bronze was expensive. Until the Seven Kingdoms were unified, there was no stable supply.
Fortunately, the engineers of the Gifted Armory had long anticipated this and developed a workaround: iron-core bronze cannons. These hybrid weapons used lighter materials to withstand similar chamber pressures, reducing cost, weight, and increasing lifespan—the ideal solution until metallurgy advanced further.
The second volley followed before the first smoke had even cleared.
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The Reachmen had seen artillery before, at the Battle of the Blackwater.
They had studied its effects.
They had interviewed survivors.
They had trained for it.
They thought they understood.
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Then came the screaming iron.
The first cannonballs fell short, splashing into the soft ground before bouncing back into the air. But the second impact sent them skipping forward—right into the vanguard.
What followed was slaughter.
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Bugles blared. War drums pounded. Signal flags flailed wildly as officers barked contradictory orders. Medics sprinted onto the field, frantically seeking anyone still alive.
The frontline soldiers, their faces splattered with the blood of their comrades, stood frozen for only a second—then, hands and legs shaking, they rushed forward, desperately trying to deploy before another volley ripped them apart.
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Aegor had approved a bold plan.
His engineers had produced a new cannon—a "King’s Landing model", a budget version of the Gifted Army’s artillery, cheaper but still deadly enough to massacre an ill-prepared army.
These new cannons had doubled the firepower of the Westerland host.
And the Queen’s cannons? The two massive siege guns reforged from the Iron Throne?
That was a lie.
The actual amount of Iron Throne metal in them?
Maybe a fingernail’s worth.
But who would dare question it?
Who had the authority to call Aegor a liar?
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The thunderclaps of dozens of cannons shook the battlefield, each blast hammering the ears and chilling the hearts of the Reachmen.
The only mercy? The battlefield was too flat for echoes, sparing them from an even greater psychological assault.
Today’s artillery duel was happening on flat, open plains.
And the cannon fodder regiment, whose only job was to "absorb fire", had—by accident or design—deployed right at the edge of the Westerland direct fire zone.
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Rowan barely had time to curse before the first volley slammed into his vanguard.
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Aegor and the Queen’s forces had spent one month in King’s Landing after its capture.
They had not been idle.
While outwardly appearing to do nothing, they had orchestrated massive logistics maneuvers, redirected vast resources, and most importantly—completed a monumental feat.
They had built the South’s first artillery production line.
They had trained new artillerymen.
And in the final hour, they had made one final decision—to halt work on the Iron Throne super-gun and divert its metal to mass-produce small-caliber iron-core bronze cannons for the Westerland host.
This tripled their available artillery.
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Rowan had no time to react.
His men could not retreat—a single step backward would immediately collapse into full rout.
The only option?
Mitigate the damage.
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The battlefield wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Hadn’t their training said cannon fire was point-based?
So why was it suddenly line-based?
This wasn’t part of the plan!
(That dog of a Night’s Watch bastard—where’s his honor?!)
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It was hell.
Blood hung in the air, misting in the morning sun.
Limbs lay scattered.
Men screamed.
For ten whole seconds, Rowan was too stunned to comprehend what had happened.
This was not a nightmare.
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The real problem?
This wasn’t just artillery effectiveness catching them off-guard.
No.
It was firepower.
The Westerland had more guns than expected.
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The only answer?
Spread the line thin.
Reduce the depth.
Make artillery’s linear effect as inefficient as possible.
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The angle was perfect.
Each cannonball bounced just at the right height.
The first bounce? Legs, shattered.
The second? Torsos, ripped open.
The third? Skulls, crushed.
An ideal kill zone.
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And to think—the Iron Throne had been melted down for this.
The Reachmen had believed cannons were loud but inefficient.
That was not wrong.
But it was also completely, utterly wrong.
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“Spread out! NOW!” Rowan roared, voice cracking.
He had planned to bait Aegor, to tempt him into a reckless charge.
But now?
The bait was costing too much.
