On the outskirts of Rosby.
Even in the Long Summer, the mornings at the end of the year carried a sharp chill. Dew glistened on the blades of wild grass.
Across the open fields, rows of cavalry stood ready. Sunlight gleamed off their matte silver armor, making them look from a distance like a forest of iron towers rising from the grassland.
The Ironmen of Harrenhal had rested through the night. Both men and horses were at peak condition, eyes fixed on Ser Barristan, waiting for the order to attack.
Barristan stood on a low rise, peering through the telescope crafted by Scholar Tom as he studied the Reach encampment.
He was waiting for Roman's signal. The moment the timing was right, he would lead the elite cavalry behind him in a thunderous charge.
All the Reach scouts and outposts along the route had already been silently eliminated by Roman's ravens and magic. The enemy had no idea the Harrenhal army was even nearby. This was the perfect moment.
After a tense wait, a raven swooped in and called out clearly:
"Ser Barristan! Roman has confirmed the enemy strength. Four thousand Reach soldiers are camped ahead. Their outposts are cleared. He says you may begin!"
Barristan's eyes sharpened. He turned and shouted, "Execute the original plan! Begin the raid!"
At the signal, the Harrenhal cavalry clamped their mouths shut and spurred their horses forward in a silent, surging wave.
The Reach Encampment
Most of the soldiers had just woken up. They milled about without discipline, crowding around buckets of water to wash their faces.
The night-watch sentries were changing shifts, yawning as they passed on the report.
"It's quiet. The scouts went out twenty miles and didn't see a single Harrenhal man. Everything's safe."
The relief soldiers nodded, visibly relaxed.
For them, being sent away from the ruined, dangerous streets of King's Landing felt like a holiday.
But as the men of the Reach lazily washed and ate, someone suddenly pointed into the distance.
"Look! What's that? A patch of silver grass?"
The others turned. When their eyes focused, they realized it wasn't grass at all.
It was heavy cavalry.
"Enemy attack! Enemy attack! To arms! Quickly!"
The Reach commanders reacted first, screaming at the top of their lungs for the soldiers to don their armor.
Only those on duty had their full gear on. Everyone else scrambled in panic, desperately searching for their equipment.
"Damn it! The Harrenhal cavalry is right on top of us! Why didn't the scouts warn us? Where the hell did they go?!"
The Reach soldiers fought desperately to arm themselves, but the Ironmen and light cavalry gave them no time. They swept in from all sides and surrounded the camp.
Though Barristan had caught them completely off guard, the Reach troops still managed to form a crude spear line to meet the charge of the Ironmen.
Observing the formation, Barristan issued calm orders. The Ironmen immediately split apart, sweeping past both flanks of the spear line while launching repeated probing attacks to rattle the enemy.
At first the Reach soldiers held their ground, gripping their weapons with trembling hands. Then the Harrenhal cavalry began hurling oil jars.
The jars, filled with Roman's white flame, exploded across the Reach ranks. The flame seeped through armor like liquid fire.
Screams rose alongside the sickening smell of burning flesh. Commanders tried to drag the wounded back and plug the gaps, but on the fifth charge the Reach line finally shattered.
The moment the first soldier in the front rank dropped his weapon, panic spread like wildfire. The Harrenhal cavalry seized the opening instantly.
The Ironmen formed a wide semi-circle and drove forward, while the light cavalry fired arrows and hurled more fire jars from the rear, cutting off any escape.
Once the defensive line collapsed, the remaining spearmen became easy targets, turned into pincushions by the cavalry lances coming from every direction.
The deserters fared no better. They were hunted down and cut down, adding to the Harrenhal cavalry's tally of military merits.
Barristan watched the rout and could only sigh.
"When did the soldiers of the Reach become this fragile? When they fought the Westermen, they only broke after being completely surrounded. Compared to them, this army collapses at the slightest touch."
He glanced toward the distance where Roman waited.
At that moment, Roman was leading another detachment of Ironmen across the plains to intercept a separate Reach cavalry force.
Because his scouts had been repeatedly wiped out, Lord Tarly had sent large numbers of light cavalry ahead as eyes while keeping heavy cavalry ready in reserve.
This time, Roman ran straight into one of those heavy cavalry units. Both sides were heavy cavalry. The clash would come down to quality.
Roman stayed hidden in the center of his formation, wearing specially crafted armor, quietly observing.
The moment the Harrenhal cavalry saw Roman riding with them, their morale surged far beyond the enemy's.
They also knew Roman would intervene at critical moments, so they charged without fear.
Harrenhal's cavalry benefited from a specialized junior officer training system. The commander only needed to give orders; the squad leaders would then direct their men with precision. There was no need for chaotic shouting.
Moreover, because Roman personally selected and rewarded only the most loyal and courageous men, every Harrenhal cavalry trooper was daring and disciplined.
In contrast, most of the Reach cavalry dreaded a head-on clash between heavy horsemen.
Their formation was usually divided: a quarter charging bravely at the front, half trotting uncertainly in the middle, and the final quarter hanging back, ready to flee at the first sign of trouble.
This meant that although the Reach had four thousand cavalry—most of them heavy—fewer than a thousand actually committed to the fight.
Those thousand first faced Harrenhal's light cavalry sweeping in from the flanks. Roman's riders kept a safe distance and rained down oil jars. Because the Reach formation was already disjointed, no one could stop the barrage. Horses tripped and chaos spread before the lines even met.
By the time they faced the Ironmen head-on, only about six hundred Reach cavalry remained.
At that exact moment, Roman launched himself into the air. His dark blue-black wings unfurled. Countless bright white spheres appeared around him, crackling with thunder.
The Reach cavalry had never seen anything like it. Their horses panicked and reared.
Then the spheres slammed into the center of their formation. Massive fireballs and shockwaves hurled men and horses in every direction.
Immediately afterward, Roman flew directly over the Reach cavalry and unleashed a roaring pillar of white flame, completely shattering what remained of their formation.
When the Ironmen, armed with their specially forged lances, charged into the broken mass, the slaughter became one-sided.
The Reach cavalry discovered in horror that their armor offered almost no protection against the Harrenhal lances. Many felt a terrible impact in the chest or gut and were knocked from their saddles in agony.
Worse, the Ironmen's lances were flexible and could be used again and again. A single rider could kill multiple enemies in one charge.
The bravest soldiers of the Reach were cut down quickly. The rest immediately lost heart and began looking for any way to flee.
Roman gave them no chance. Magic missiles, flames, and sweeping jets of white fire followed one after another, destroying the last shred of their will to fight.
The soldiers of the Reach suffered a complete and unprecedented rout, which only hastened their deaths.
The Ironmen pressed the advantage while the Harrenhal light cavalry efficiently reaped lives from the flanks.
In a single charge, the true worth of the Reach army had been laid bare.
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