Chapter 603

As the first human force to engage the Gifted Army in open battle, the Golden Company’s performance was commendable—perhaps even exceptional. But it mattered little, for they were not facing the shielded infantry they had imagined. Instead, they had run headfirst into Westeros’ first-ever grenadier corps.

Cannons had already been introduced to the battlefield, but high-explosive shells were still beyond their grasp. And so, Aegor relied once more on the explosive bombs that had proven their worth in the war against the Others, letting these simple yet reliable weapons continue their reign of terror.

The shields carried by the vanguard were not merely for blocking arrows and blades—they served a greater purpose: protecting their own men from the deadly shrapnel.

Amidst flashes of fire and plumes of smoke, countless iron nails, jagged stone shards, and shattered pottery erupted from the explosions, ripping through everything within range. Agonized screams filled the battlefield.

The Golden Company sat atop the mercenary food chain, and their soldiers were well-equipped. Even the lowliest footmen bore armor far superior to common levies. The shrapnel wounded many, leaving faces bloodied and voices howling in pain, but the damage was surprisingly minimal. In truth, most of them were likely suffering more from the deafening concussion of the blast than the actual wounds.

A choking white fog spread across the battlefield. Though many soldiers were dazed, they were still capable of fighting. Officers, their weapons raised high, bellowed for the charge to continue.

And then they realized the most disastrous consequence of the explosion.

The war elephants had panicked.

Elephants were powerful, intelligent creatures—some were said to possess the intellect of human children. Yet they were also sensitive and easily spooked. Training them for war required extensive conditioning. Properly prepared war elephants could charge through fire and steel, ignoring the clash of weapons, the screams of men, even the pain of arrows and spears.

But never had they been trained for explosions.

The Golden Company’s mahouts had been forward-thinking enough to stuff their elephants’ ears before battle, preventing them from panicking at the enemy’s cannon fire. But cloth was no true defense against sound, and the distant booms of artillery were nothing compared to the ear-shattering blasts right beneath their feet.

The ground-shaking detonations overwhelmed their senses. The concussive waves pounded their ears. The fire and light flashed painfully in their eyes. The acrid stench of burnt powder filled their trunks.

Every instinct in their massive bodies screamed of danger.

And at that moment, the commands of their riders, the presence of their human comrades, the battle they had charged into—it all vanished from their minds.

There was only one thought left: flee.
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Escape. That was all that mattered.

But forward? No. The enemy’s shield wall, bristling with spears, was no place to run. That left only two choices—to the sides, or back the way they came.

The mercenaries, still shaking off the effects of the blasts, had barely begun to regroup when they saw their carefully synchronized step-elephant coordination collapse before their eyes.

The massive beasts wheeled around wildly, breaking apart the once-imposing wedge formation. Three of the older, more experienced elephants managed to weave through the gaps in the mercenary lines, but the younger ones—blinded by terror—simply plowed straight through their own troops.

Chaos erupted.

Men screamed as several-ton beasts barreled through them, bones snapping under massive feet, bodies crushed into the frozen earth. Blood spattered across the battlefield. The once-mighty golden tide shattered before it could even reach the black shield wall.

But the enemy was not about to let them regroup.

Every grenadier had carried two bombs into battle. Once they hurled their own, they took up the extra supply handed to them by the shield-bearers.

As the first wave of explosions still lingered in the air, the second and third volleys detonated in quick succession.

Thunder roared across the battlefield. Smoke and dust erupted in a relentless storm.

The war elephants—already maddened by fear—broke into a full stampede. The continuous blasts undid whatever desperate efforts their riders made to control them. The mercenaries, who had barely mustered the courage to hold their ground, saw their fragile morale obliterated.

By the time the fourth round of explosives shattered the ground, the battle was over.

The trumpet of a charge sounded. But it was not from the Golden Company.

The shield wall—until now a steadfast barrier—collapsed forward as one. Unscathed soldiers of the Gifted Army tossed aside their wooden shields, took up their comrades’ spears, and seamlessly transitioned from defense to offense.

A unified, thunderous roar filled the air as they surged toward the shattered remnants of their enemy.
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From the highest commanders to the lowliest footmen, every member of the Gifted Army treated the Golden Company as though they were fighting the undead—giving them no quarter.

But the Golden Company’s resolve?

It didn’t even come close to that of the dead.

The battle had defied logic, outstripped anything the mercenaries had prepared for. Moments ago, it had seemed as if their charge would sweep the Gifted Army into the river.

Now, they were the ones being pushed back.

Of the thousand men who had launched the initial assault, more than nine hundred were still standing.

But they were no longer fighting.

They were fleeing.

Weapons abandoned, armor discarded, their only thought was escape.

Their retreat broke through the ranks of the five hundred archers who had been advancing behind them. Within moments, fourteen hundred soldiers were routed—scattered and driven back toward their own lines like a flock of terrified sheep.

Up on the high ground, Strickland watched it all unfold, his face pale with rage and humiliation—and something far worse.

Fear.

He didn’t blame his men for retreating. The battle was lost; even a suicidal last stand would achieve nothing. Mercenaries were not knights—they fought for gold, not glory.

And in this battle—this impossible rout—the Golden Company had found itself on the wrong side of history.

Fifteen hundred men had charged against two hundred.

And they had lost.

If two hundred Gifted Army soldiers could rout them so thoroughly—how many Golden Company soldiers would it take to defeat the full army?

Two minutes ago, Strickland had regretted launching the attack too soon.

Now, he could no longer afford to wait.

"Prepare the full army!" he barked. "The moment the first wave returns, we launch a full offensive!"

The enemy had spent their initial supply of explosive weapons. Their tight formation had loosened in the chaos of the pursuit.

This was their chance.

Four thousand men would charge those two hundred.

If he could kill them all and retreat in one piece, the battle might still be salvaged.

The drums of war pounded once more. Forty full battalions raised their banners, rallying into formation. The mercenaries shouted as they prepared their final push.

And then—

A shadow passed overhead.

A single word rang out.

"Dragon!"

Someone screamed, "Get the ballistae ready!"

Overhead, two massive beasts circled the battlefield. The same dragons that had loomed over the southern army camp had returned—now gliding over the abandoned wedding grounds.

They wheeled in the sky, scanning the battlefield.

Then, they turned toward the Golden Company’s banners.

Strickland sneered. If this was the enemy’s final trump card, he was ready.

Unlike the bombs and cannons, dragons were an expected threat.

And they had prepared for them.

The Reachmen had left behind a third of their ballistae for the Golden Company to cover their retreat. Per soldier, they had more anti-dragon weapons than any previous army.

Killing two hundred infantry was nothing.

But if they brought down a dragon...

That would be glorious.
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High above, Daenerys spotted the largest cluster of Golden Company soldiers.

And then—she dove.