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Chapter 599
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 17:56:37 +0000 UTCWar is like a game of chess. Until the final battle’s last engagement is fought, a commander’s orders remain crucial in shaping its outcome.
Though the war itself was between Aegon Targaryen and Daenerys Targaryen, today’s battle was a match between Aegor West, the Night’s Watch Lord Commander, the White Walker Slayer, the Savior of Humanity, and Jon Connington, Count of Griffin’s Roost, head of House Connington, former Hand of the King to Daenerys’s father.
By fame and record alone, Aegor far outmatched his opponent. But Jon Connington had an advantage of his own—he had made every mistake a young man could make and survived. Hardened by hardship, he had become shrewd, cautious, and seasoned. He was a difficult and worthy adversary.
A man like him would not crumble from mere cannon fire.
The moment Connington realized the “thunder” was no natural phenomenon but an enemy weapon, his mind erupted with calculations. Decades of battlefield experience allowed him to instantly consider every possible threat and scenario.
The worst-case possibility?
A truly catastrophic situation—one where Daenerys’s army was not only utilizing this new weapon but was already preparing a full-scale assault. A river crossing, dragons in the sky, perhaps even the Dornish marching to strike their longtime foes.
The direct casualties from the bombardment paled in comparison to what would follow if panic overtook the camp—if discipline collapsed, if troops were trampled in the chaos, if they routed and were hunted down.
Ensuring the royal couple’s safety, Connington swiftly took command. He directed elite guards to maintain order, deployed the Golden Company to secure the riverbank, called upon allies to hold the southern flank, and had the dragon-hunting scorpions readied.
Orders were relayed at breakneck speed. A few public executions put a swift end to the growing hysteria. Soon, despite the terrifying, unpredictable rain of iron, the army began regrouping into battle formations under Connington’s command.
His advantage? Numbers. He had several times the manpower of Aegor.
And though he did not know the name of this weapon, he could see its strengths and weaknesses.
Loud? Yes. Frightening? Yes. But there weren’t enough of them. The sheer volume and power required to do significant damage simply wasn’t there.
So, he made the call—stand firm and endure.
----
In theory, it was the perfect counter.
Even if one in every five cannonballs claimed a soldier’s life, emptying every shell would barely cost him a few hundred men—less than one percent of his forces. Acceptable losses.
But soldiers were not mere chess pieces.
They had minds. They had emotions.
A battlefield was different from a prolonged siege. Watching comrades fall while being unable to strike back was far worse than suffering even greater losses in a fair fight.
In the new command tent, a heated argument had just ended.
----
The command tent was hastily erected behind a small hill, with a dead tree at its peak acting as partial cover from cannon fire. A makeshift wooden wall had been added to the north-facing side, offering further protection.
Inside, all the key figures—the king, the queen, and the high lords—huddled together, sheltering from the bombardment.
Many Reach lords, including Mace Tyrell, were under immense pressure. They urged a retreat, arguing they should fall back several miles, regroup, and plan anew.
But Connington knew—the Dornish were likely waiting for precisely that.
Any sign of weakness could provoke an immediate southern attack.
By virtue of his position, Jon Connington could force the lords to hold their ground.
But that came at a price—if he refused to retreat, he needed to strike back.
----
A scout burst into the tent.
“Lord Hand, report from the riverbank! The enemy is moving boats—preparing to cross!”
Connington snapped back, “Tell Strickland to hold formation—wait until they’re mid-river before engaging!”
A second scout followed immediately after.
“My lord, the enemy isn’t boarding! They’re tying boats together—they’re building a floating bridge!”
A floating bridge?
Connington’s stomach sank.
These Night’s Watch bastards never run out of tricks.
Still, he kept his composure. “Order the siege crews forward! Deploy ranged weapons—disrupt the bridge-building!”
Orders flowed rapidly. Siege engines, meant for attacking King’s Landing, were repositioned. But as soon as they reached the riverbanks—
The artillery retaliated.
Observers on the northern bank had been waiting for them.
The moment the first trebuchets and ballistae were spotted, they were immediately targeted.
The next cannon volley shredded men and equipment alike.
Realizing their complete range disadvantage, Connington turned to another weapon—the dragon-hunting scorpions.
Designed for dragons, these massive crossbows could also be used against ground targets. Their range far exceeded standard ballistae.
If enough were deployed, they might overwhelm the northern cannons through sheer numbers.
But before Connington could commit to this gamble, their true threat arrived.
----
The dragons appeared.
They did not attack.
They merely circled high above before landing in the Night’s Watch industrial zone.
No fire. No assault.
But their mere presence was enough to kill the plan.
Connington could not risk deploying his scorpions away from their primary purpose.
----
“Lord Hand, we cannot hold out forever! We should withdraw before we lose more men!”
Mace Tyrell spoke up. The siege engineers, the wounded, the dead— all belonged to the Reach.
He was loath to concede, but he had already given Connington a chance to prove himself.
And in Mace’s eyes, he had failed.
“Lord Tyrell, remain patient. Even if we retreat, we must do so strategically. If we scatter in panic, it will become a rout.”
“What word from the Dornish?”
A scout rushed in. “They have not moved. They turned back our scouts at their perimeter.”
Good or bad news?
Unclear.
Had the Dornish attacked immediately, at least their intentions would be confirmed.
But they hadn’t.
And neither had the dragons.
Instead, Connington felt an unrelenting, tightening pressure.
Was this hesitation? Or was the noose slowly closing?
----
“I understand your concerns, Lord Hand.”
Margaery spoke at last.
As a woman, she had no official role in war councils.
But she was here, and in a moment like this, she would not be silent.
“If we hold position, we can fortify against an attack. But if we retreat into open ground, we will be vulnerable—to the army, and to the dragons. We will be annihilated.”
Then, she turned to her husband.
“Your Grace, there are only two paths before us.
Retreat now, or never retreat at all.
Choose.”
And in the distance—
The cannons roared again.
