The cavalry of Lyria, led by the Queen's knights, charged forward without hesitation.
They passed a stretch of land that looked as though it had been scorched by fire. Scattered across the ground were fragments of black armor. Among them, they could vaguely make out the emblems of Lyria—marks of their fellow countrymen who had served as the vanguard.
It was their sacrifice that had created this opportunity to charge.
When it came to the knightly class, the North and South were roughly evenly matched in combat prowess. But once the regular ranks were included, the gap between them widened dramatically.
The South had endured years of continuous warfare. Even the lowest ranks were filled with career soldiers—seasoned veterans of the battlefield. Equipped with superior gear, a single Nilfgaardian foot soldier could take on two, three, even five Northern soldiers.
And yet the Black Army always came in numbers two, three, even five times greater than the Northerners. Facing such overwhelming tides of the Black Army, the North was repeatedly routed—beaten without ever gaining the upper hand.
But there was one advantage the Northerners had that the South could never match—morale.
Their Queen stood behind them. This was a battle of honor from which they could not retreat. Ahead of them lay the capital of Lyria. This was a battle to defend their homeland from ruin.
Even if a dragon stood in their path, the Lyrians would charge without the slightest hesitation.
The thunder of hooves rumbled again as they crossed a patch of snow-covered ground. The ice had begun to melt, revealing shattered fragments of Black Sun armor, and a trampled Silver Sun banner, now barely recognizable.
The Ard Feainn Division—one of Nilfgaard's elite heavy cavalry regiments—had been crushed here. Their defeat gave the Lyrians newfound confidence.
If Duke Lannister had led the allied forces to rout such a unit, then clearly Northern troops weren't weak at all. The Lyrians could defeat Nilfgaard!
Ahead, the banners of the Black Sun grew nearer. The eyes of the Lyrians were bloodshot with fury. From behind came a fierce and valiant cry: "Charge! Soldiers, I ride with you!"
"For Queen Meve!!"
[BOOM!]
The Nilfgaardians, having no other cavalry units besides the Ard Feainn Division dispatched from Lower Sodden, were now relying entirely on infantry to hold the river crossing. They stood their ground with long spears and heavy shields—and were promptly smashed into by the oncoming Lyrian cavalry.
The black tide slammed into a reef—and was torn wide open.
These were light infantry units. They'd arrived first, having run the fastest. And whether or not it made any sense for Nilfgaard to have them intercept cavalry, the Lyrians didn't care. No one paused to wonder why such a bizarre tactic—sending light infantry to clash head-on with mounted knights—was being used.
They simply dove into the long-awaited thrill of battle.
Lances shattered. Swords were drawn and swung down with deadly precision. Hooves thundered, crushing enemies left and right with sheer impact alone.
Slashing to the left and right, the Queen's reckless cavalry soon found the path before them abruptly opened.
"Don't stop! There are more Nilfgaardian units ahead! The routing troops will be dealt with by our reinforcements—keep charging!"
The brief clearing gave the riders room to accelerate again, and after the rush of blood-soaked slaughter, their morale had reached its peak.
In the distance, the knights spotted a formation ahead—troops clad in thick armor and carrying heavy shields. They might prove a temporary obstacle.
But the Lyrians feared no sacrifice. The knights at the front prepared to throw themselves and their steeds against those shields, to carve open a breach for the comrades behind them—
When suddenly, from deep within the Nilfgaardian ranks, a distant horn sounded.
Nilfgaard's army was famed for its strict discipline and rigid hierarchy. After years of war, their soldiers had internalized the empire's harsh military laws. No matter how absurd an order might seem, it would be carried out to the letter by the lower ranks.
So the Lyrians, mid-charge, were astonished to witness the infantry before them abruptly stop—and then turn around and retreat.
…
Infantry facing down cavalry—halfway through a clash—and they turn their backs and flee?
What kind of tactic was that?
The front-line cavalry of Lyria froze for a moment—but their steeds did not.
The sudden extension of charge distance allowed them to gather momentum to its very peak. Though their numbers had dwindled somewhat, the force they now carried was nearly equal to that of their initial assault.
[BOOM!]
The cavalry slammed straight into the retreating infantry's exposed backs. The scene was nothing short of a slaughter.
A second horn call rang out, long and melodic. The Black Army already in contact with the cavalry had fully descended into rout. Yet at the rear of the formation, some Nilfgaardian infantry abruptly stopped in their tracks. They hesitated—as if considering turning back to counter-charge.
They blocked the escape path of those ahead.
Shoving. Trampling. Chaos erupted. The entire unit collapsed into a panicked stampede.
To the Lyrian cavalry, it felt like they had become butchers slicing into meat—only, with every stroke, the flesh somehow grew thicker. It was almost a blessed inconvenience.
What the hell is going on with the Nilfgaardians?
That question kept bubbling up in the minds of the knights.
…
"By the Sun—has the bugler gone mad?!"
The commander of the infantry finally snapped.
"Forget the horn! All units follow my command—!"
He knew full well he might face military punishment for this later. But given the way things were going, he wasn't sure he'd live long enough to worry about it.
Suddenly, the Lyrians noticed a change.
Though the enemy still fled, still crumbled like meat under a cleaver—something about it no longer felt quite the same. That thick, sticky sensation of slicing through helpless flesh was gone.
The Lyrian expressions grew solemn.
Something had changed.
Then—beneath the Nilfgaardian banner, a burst of fire lit up the air. The Black Sun flag toppled.
And with that, the chaos returned. That visceral resistance vanished, replaced once more by the yielding of slaughter.
"Your Majesty!"
The thunder of hooves raged around her. A knight galloped up beside Queen Meve and shouted, "Something's wrong—this is going too smoothly! The Nilfgaardians must be laying a trap! These troops are just bait! Your safety is paramount, we should—"
"What kind of trap are we worth to them, hmm?"
The Queen snapped back, silencing her knight without hesitation.
"It's Lann—this must be his doing! I don't know how he pulled it off, but this is the perfect moment to reclaim our land. Keep charging!"
…
What followed was stranger still.
As the cavalry advanced, they often hadn't even clashed with the enemy before the Nilfgaardian banners would fall—and their formations would break.
By now, even the Aedirnian troops had carved their way deep into the Black Army ranks, turning the entire southern army into a fleeing mob.
Gradually, Meve's cavalry slowed their pace.
There was no longer any need to charge. All they had to do was let their horses hound the retreating troops—who, in their panic, dragged their own comrades into chaos. The sheer damage caused by trampling, scrambling, and infighting now exceeded what Lyria's initial charge had inflicted.
The horn blasts continued to blare, shrill and disordered. But the Black Army paid them no heed anymore.
Only one command remained for them to follow—run.
Queen Meve was struck by a surreal feeling.
She had steeled herself for hand-to-hand slaughter, prepared to personally take lives. Yet here she was, not a single drop of blood on her blade. The enemy hadn't even come close to breaking through her guard.
Then, in a sudden moment, thunderous hooves sounded from ahead.
The Nilfgaardian line burst open.
From the gap rode a cavalry unit clad in the same armor and bearing the same crest as her own troops. Yet at its head was a knight in silver-black armor, golden-haired, and with the fierce aura of a lion.
Lann Lannister—the Lion of Cintra.
Though his squad had just fought their way through the enemy, they carried themselves with far more vigor and fire than the men who had merely chased fleeing foes.
The knights behind the Lion stared at him with eyes alight, shining with admiration.
So much so that, for a moment, they didn't even notice their Queen.
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