After clearly analyzing what the situation was at hand, Randyll Tarly felt completely settled in his heart.
Why was he willing to take such a risk, instead of choosing the safer harassment-and-attrition tactics—pressing and wearing down Kal Baratheon's army step by step to achieve his strategic objective?
Why, before the war began, did he skillfully employ psychological warfare to plant this kind of illusion in Kal Baratheon's mind, even going so far as to strike as the vanguard commander while leading only light cavalry?
And why did he deliberately choose this exact moment to launch the sudden assault?
He went to such painstaking lengths to do all this for one purpose only: to weaken Kal Baratheon's ability to dominate the battlefield through sheer personal prowess—an ability that could sway the entire situation and turn decay into the miraculous—to the lowest possible point.
He did not believe that, once battered and crippled, Kal Baratheon could still display that kind of extraordinary individual combat power to influence the course of the war.
War was, in the end, still war. This was not a game for one man, nor a place to indulge personal heroics.
"It is over, Kal Baratheon. Robert once could perform miracles just like you, but you have no such chance now."
"Robert Baratheon did indeed win the final victory, but you are too young, and too reckless—leading you to the outcome you face today."
Having already realized that the battle was decided, Randyll Tarly could not help but let out a sigh in his heart.
He acknowledged that Kal was a hero. Though of humble birth, he possessed a remarkable charm uniquely his own.
This man had even managed to influence his own exceedingly cowardly son and bring about some change in him.
To be honest, Randyll Tarly truly felt admiration and recognition for Kal.
At times, he could not help but fantasize how happy he would be if Kal were his own son.
Even if he were truly only a bastard, he would without hesitation allow him to inherit Horn Hill and the Tarly family's Heartsbane.
And it was precisely because of this that he decided to bring out the full measure of his strength—going even further by placing a gamble atop it all.
But everything was already over.
Reality often needs only a single, seemingly casual failure to turn all of a person's past successes into ashes.
In his heart, Randyll Tarly sighed in regret for Kal. Then he resolutely drew the Valyrian steel sword "Heartsbane" from his waist and, following the troops ahead of him, slammed straight into the infantry formation before him—a forest of spears and shields.
And accompanying him as well was an inconspicuous "ordinary soldier" at his side.
"It's over."
Beneath the visor, the corner of Kal's mouth lifted slightly.
To be honest, even Kal had not expected Jon and the others to respond and act with such decisiveness. At this moment, it could be said that both the timing and the rhythm had been seized perfectly.
In this hazy, dim night, facing an enemy whose numbers exerted boundless pressure and were impossible to gauge, Jon was still able to remain calm and resolutely carry out the original tactic.
Moreover, in only a very short time, he had actually discerned Randyll Tarly's intent.
Such keen perception and resolve were truly remarkable.
It should be known that upon seeing this situation, Kal had already been prepared to pay a certain price. Yet he had not expected Jon to deliver him such a considerable surprise.
Just as Kal was reflecting on Jon's reactions in the battle and the surprise before him—
Straight ahead, the charging cavalry slammed violently into the shielded infantry. At that moment when dawn was neither fully broken nor fully dark, the battlefield still lacked the timely responsiveness it would have had in full daylight.
However, this limitation applied only to the charging cavalry.
For the infantry, who merely needed to remain in place with weapons at the ready, this situation instead allowed them to deal even better with a cavalry charge.
And more importantly, this seemingly fierce charge actually had little real impact on them at all.
Because before the enemy even truly made contact with the shields in their hands, at least seventy percent of the attackers had already inexplicably fallen along the path of the charge.
Horses that had originally been galloping forward at full speed, under the dim visibility, suddenly lost their balance mid-charge and pitched violently forward, crashing hard to the ground.
As for the riders on their backs—those with better luck were flung off, smashed into the ground, snapped their necks, and died on the spot.
Those with worse luck either hit the ground and broke their bones, or could only watch helplessly as the comrades charging right behind them trampled them to pieces.
Or else they fell into a stupor and lost consciousness, only to be trampled into mud within their dreams.
Even worse were those who were crushed to the ground by their former comrades—by their own beloved warhorses.
Those with good fortune lost all sound at once.
But most could only be miserably pinned to the ground, letting out one wail after another before being trampled to death by their companions, or crushed to death by the warhorses that continued to fall one after another.
As for their comrades—the horses that had inexplicably fallen—the animals could only lie on the ground as well, their throats releasing hoarse, mournful neighs, enough to break the hearts of those who heard them and draw tears from any listener.
And this cavalry force, charging at full speed in a sharp arrowhead formation, saw more and more of its number fall once the first had gone down.
Some stepped into pits that had inexplicably appeared in the ground, snapping their horses' legs and sending them crashing down. Others were tripped and brought down by comrades who had already fallen ahead of them.
In any case, no matter the manner, seventy to eighty percent of them inexplicably collapsed along the path of the charge.
The number of cavalry who were truly fortunate enough to smash cleanly and intact into the infantry formation was exceedingly small.
This brilliant, starlit river, in the dim light, was like a torrent colliding with an unseen reef—shattered into fragments.
Yet even after those behind had already noticed what was happening ahead, they were utterly unable to rein in the speed once they were in full motion.
They could only, in despair and helplessness, crash straight into that "reef."
Even if some quick-witted horses managed to leap up and clear these "obstacles," they would still be unable to restrain their momentum and would again have their legs broken by unseen pits ahead, stumbling and falling.
"It's our turn to take the field."
Balon Swann rode his warhorse, half his face taking on a solemn cast under the flickering firelight.
He first glanced at Jon's cavalry, which had suddenly veered off with the vanguard and then looped back to shield his flank instead.
Only then did he raise his hand to draw the longsword at his waist, his gaze turning toward the clusters of shattered "rivers" broken against the "reef" not far away.
The sky at the horizon had already taken on a pale blue hue, as orange-red light gradually rose from the edge of the world.
Compared to moments earlier, it was now possible to roughly make out the surroundings and the situation on the battlefield.
And precisely because of this, people could now see more clearly what had truly happened to the enemy's central force—the one that should have been the most powerful, with the greatest impact.
"Truly pitiful."
Watching those warhorses that had stepped into pits and broken their legs, Balon Swann could not help but shiver. He then reached out and patted his own horse's neck in comfort.
Then he gave a light tap with his foot. His companion began to move its legs, accelerating more and more, charging at full speed toward the enemies shattered against the invisible reef.
Acting together with him was another force on the opposite flank—the remaining four hundred or so cavalry led by Garlan Tyrell.
A trace of compassion lingered in his eyes, yet he still resolutely took up his weapon.
As for the battlefield, what should originally have been a brutal strangulation—cavalry against infantry—suddenly and inexplicably underwent a complete reversal.
Facing enemies who had already lost both mobility and the ability to maneuver, the infantry holding the center, at a single order from their commander, raised their shields, took up their long spears, and advanced slowly forward.
With every step they took, the spears extending from behind them thrust three times.
Each thrust drew forth agonized cries.
After completing this tedious sequence, they stepped over the fallen enemies' blood and bodies and continued advancing.
Meanwhile, the cavalry of Balon Swann, turning in from the flank, together with Garlan Tyrell's cavalry, at this moment became like the Stranger's sickle.
Facing the enemy, they swung their blades down without mercy, cruelly carving again and again into lambs awaiting slaughter.
Thus, the cavalry on the two wings were like a crab's twin claws.
The infantry in the center were like an invisible, gaping maw. The more than two thousand cavalry that should have been the ones to carry out a brutal strangulation upon them were, in an instant, obstructed by an unseen force, their every bit of mobility completely checked.
Cavalry that had lost speed and impact, when facing infantry several times their number, were nothing more than lambs to be slaughtered, utterly without the power to resist.
Blood sprayed beneath the morning sunlight. Piercing wails accompanied death's silent curses.
Even those warhorses in the rear that had barely managed to rein in their charge—forcing themselves to halt their momentum and avoiding crashing into the chaos of fallen comrades ahead—fell together with the remaining forces of Randyll Tarly's army.
And when faced with the cavalry slaughter charging in at high speed under Balon Swann, Garlan Tyrell, and the others, they were unable to put up the slightest resistance.
At this moment, Randyll Tarly, holding "Heartsbane" aloft—who only an instant earlier had believed himself to have won this war—was forced to pull on the reins and bring his horse to a stop.
The expression on his face did not even have time to change as he stared in shock at everything that had suddenly unfolded before him.
Amid waves of clashing steel, anguished screams, and the shrill neighing of horses—
He maintained that expression, staring in disbelief at Kal's army, which had already completed the encirclement and thoroughly swallowed his central force "into its belly."
Spears thrust mercilessly, and volleys of arrows—no one knew from where—ruthlessly harvested lives.
But in the face of slaughter, it was already too late.
Even if the troops outside—who should have been executing an encirclement from the left and right wings—discovered the battle situation here, at this moment they had lost the ability to provide rescue, entangled with the enemy.
On the distant horizon, the sun had now slightly revealed half its face, as if shyly watching the earth before it and everything happening upon it.
Then, as sunlight spread and the surroundings grew brighter, Jon and the others—who had originally relied solely on hot blood and courage to resist the enemy—also realized that the enemy they faced was not actually that much more numerous than they were.
Hope of surviving a desperate situation, together with the victory in the center—the very victory they had hoped for—once again brought immense courage and morale to these two cavalry forces that had turned from the center to provide flank cover.
With one side rising as the other fell, they fought with growing relish, even turning the tables and pressing Randyll Tarly's army back.
It could be said that their momentum swelled with the wind at their backs; swords swung down, cutting the enemy into utter disarray.
"Surrender. You have already failed, Lord Randyll Tarly."
Just as he was being crowded and strangled in the crush, with hardly any room left to move at his side, the despairing Randyll Tarly suddenly heard this sentence by his ear.
Hearing that somewhat familiar voice, Randyll Tarly, who was being guarded in the middle by his personal guards fighting to the death, was startled and instinctively turned his head toward the direction the voice came from.
Then he saw that a knight who had always been following at his side slowly removed his helmet, revealing a face he was fairly familiar with.
Looking at the man within arm's reach—staring at that head of black hair, and those deep blue eyes that gleamed under the sunlight as if they shone with light—Randyll Tarly froze in place.
Only in the next moment did he come back to his senses, jolted by yet another scream of agony.
It was one of his personal guards, whose eye had been pierced by an arrow from nowhere, the shaft burying itself deep into his head.
The tremendous force even shattered the back of his skull, brain matter mixed with blood splattering across his face.
Perhaps having suddenly fallen into utter despair, knowing there was no hope of survival, the man had removed his helmet right on the battlefield—making himself a conspicuous target.
"Lay down your weapons. We choose to surrender!"
Watching yet another life die beside him because of his own misjudgment, Randyll Tarly came back to his senses and, without the slightest hesitation, let out a loud shout, issuing his final command.
As his voice fell, an intensely eye-catching radiance suddenly rose amid the chaotic battlefield.
It drew the instinctive attention of even the soldiers whose eyes had already gone red with killing.
"Surrender—no killing!"
Suddenly, a voice like a great bell resounded across the entire battlefield, appearing together with that striking radiance.
"Randyll Tarly has been captured! All surrender—those who surrender will not be killed!!!"
Another thunderous shout rang out, letting everyone locked in combat across the battlefield know exactly what had happened.
Recognizing that it was Kal's voice, Jon pulled his longsword out of an enemy's neck, bringing out a spray of blood, and hurriedly retreated.
His warhorse had been wounded and fallen in the recent fighting. Left with no choice, at the final moment he had leapt forward, seized an enemy, and dragged him down to the ground for close combat.
Now his body was smeared with blood and mud, so filthy that it was impossible to tell who he was.
Even so, he hastily raised his sword and shouted at the top of his lungs.
"Cease fighting—surrender and you will not be killed!"
"Cease fighting—surrender and you will not be killed!"
"Randyll Tarly has been captured! All surrender—those who surrender will not be killed!!!"
"Randyll Tarly has been captured! All surrender—those who surrender will not be killed!!!"
As the cries of "surrender, no killing" grew louder, more frequent, and more unified, the entire battlefield gradually came to a halt.
After laying down their weapons, Randyll Tarly's army stared wide-eyed in bewilderment at everything unfolding before them.
Kal's army, on the other hand, regarded their enemies with an entirely different attitude.
Defeat had become inevitable. Once he clearly realized what had truly happened, Randyll Tarly also calmed down.
"Since when have you been at my side?" His gaze rested on the horse pits on the ground—those that had been impossible to see before—as he murmured.
Kal paid no heed to his tone and answered with interest, "From the moment you set out from your camp."
"Then why didn't you capture me back then?"
A trace of unwillingness crept into Randyll Tarly's voice.
"If I had done that, would you have surrendered?"
"Or rather—would you truly have accepted it?"
Kal's voice came slowly.
Randyll Tarly understood what Kal meant. He lowered his head in dejection, and the "Heartsbane" clenched tightly in his hand slipped free and fell limply to the ground.
Kal's gaze was drawn to it.
He waved a hand. Balon Swann, who had somehow also squeezed his way over, shifted his longsword to his other hand, picked up the Valyrian steel weapon that had fallen and lay slanted in the blood-soaked mud, and handed it to his king.
Looking at the sword, Kal turned to Randyll Tarly and asked with a smile, "It is my trophy now, isn't it?"
Randyll Tarly instinctively glanced at his family sword now held in Kal's hand, his mouth opening slightly.
He wanted to say something, but in the end he chose to give up, only answering dejectedly, "Yes, Your Majesty."
The sudden form of address made Kal pause for a moment, and then he could not help but laugh.
---
I will post some extra Chapters in Patreon, you can check it out. >> patreon.com/TitoVillar
---