Chapter 403: A Predestined Defeat
High above Godsgrace, the white dragon circled, its massive form blotting out the light of dawn.
The Golden Company watched in growing despair, their nerves fraying with every beat of its enormous wings.
Meanwhile, the Dornish army continued their relentless advance, slamming into the Golden Company's already tenuous formations.
Riding atop the white dragon, Samwell worked to steady the agitated beast. He helped the thick bolts embedded in its tail and belly, pulling them free one by one.
Scalding hot blood oozed from the wounds, evaporating into steam upon contact with the air.
Once the bolts were removed, Samwell carefully guided the dragon as it flew over the battlefield. His sharp eyes scanned the ground below, methodically identifying the locations of hidden scorpions.
Each time he found one, he ordered a coordinated strike. The white dragon would swoop low, pouring flames and fury onto the enemy's positions while Dornish soldiers surged forward to dismantle the siege weapons.
Samwell ensured that they maintained a safe distance from the scorpions, and he directed the dragon to change its flight path frequently. This made it increasingly difficult for the Golden Company's gunners to aim.
Bolts streaked through the air, but none struck home.
Under the combined pressure of dragonfire and the advancing Dornish forces, scorpion after scorpion was destroyed.
As the danger diminished, the white dragon grew bolder, its attacks more devastating.
The Golden Company's lines were carved apart by fire, leaving behind trails of charred corpses and the screams of the dying. The area before the western gate became a nightmarish inferno—a vision of hell on earth.
At last, the Golden Company broke.
The sight of the unstoppable dragon crushed their spirits completely. What remained of their forces dissolved into chaos, with mercenaries abandoning their positions and fleeing en masse through the western gate.
From the keep's tower, Jon Connington watched the collapse of his army.
The last flicker of hope in his heart was extinguished.
"My lord, we must flee!" a guard urged him.
Jon stood silently for a moment, then turned and began descending the tower stairs at an unhurried pace.
By now, the Dornish forces had surrounded the keep and were attacking fiercely.
Halfway down the stairs, Jon paused. Hearing the sounds of battle growing closer, he hesitated before walking down a side corridor to a wooden door.
The guards stationed there were still at their posts, though their faces betrayed their fear.
Jon pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Lady Ynys was seated on the bed, her lilac dress shimmering faintly in the dim light. She looked up at Jon, a bitter smile on her lips.
"You've come to kill me, haven't you?"
Jon didn't answer. His right hand rested on the hilt of his sword, but he couldn't bring himself to draw it.
He knew she had betrayed him, that her actions had led to his defeat. Yet his knightly pride restrained him.
It was the same pride that had stayed his hand all those years ago at Stoney Sept, when he had refused to burn the town to flush out Robert Baratheon.
Time and time again, Jon had dreamed of going back to that moment, imagining himself making a different choice.
But now, faced with the same dilemma, he realized the truth: he wasn't that kind of man.
After a moment, he let out a self-deprecating laugh, shaking his head.
"The gods have made me a proud coward," he muttered.
With that, Jon released the hilt of his sword and turned to leave.
The sounds of battle outside grew louder and closer.
Before he stepped through the door, Jon issued a final command to his guards:
"Lay down your weapons."
The guards exchanged uneasy glances but ultimately complied, discarding their swords and shields.
Jon adjusted his collar, his demeanor calm, almost regal.
He descended the keep as if he were preparing to attend a banquet rather than face his captors.
At the base of the stairs, a Dornish knight approached, sword stained with fresh blood.
Jon raised a hand.
"We surrender," he said. "Take me to meet His Grace Samwell Caesar."
---
Samwell stood atop the western gatehouse, overseeing the aftermath of the battle. Below, Dornish soldiers were disarming and rounding up Golden Company prisoners.
The white dragon loomed nearby, still furious. It vented its anger on the remains of the scorpions, reducing them to ashes before smashing the debris with its tail. Smoke and dust filled the air, mixing with the stench of blood and burning flesh.
The bodies of the dead, both men and horses, were already beginning to rot under the relentless sun. Samwell had ordered the townsfolk to dig mass graves outside the city walls to bury the fallen enemies.
Sir Hughes Dayne climbed the gatehouse, his armor smeared with blood. Removing his dented helmet, he reported the losses.
"Your Grace, the Dayne forces suffered over five hundred casualties in last night's battle. More than a hundred are dead, the rest wounded to varying degrees."
The numbers gave Samwell pause.
What he had anticipated as a swift and decisive victory had exacted a heavy toll.
The Golden Company had fought fiercely, even in the face of overwhelming odds and dragonfire. Their resistance had cost the Dornish dearly.
But their losses had been far worse.
Over two thousand Golden Company mercenaries had surrendered. Countless more lay dead, and many had fled into the wilderness.
As Samwell was issuing further orders for cleanup and recovery, two guards approached, escorting a middle-aged man.
The prisoner's breastplate bore the red-and-white gryphon sigil, making his identity unmistakable.
"Your Grace," the man said, bowing low. "Jon Connington, former Hand of the King to Aerys II, former Lord of Griffon's Roost, offers his greetings."
Samwell regarded him calmness.
"You've come to surrender?"
"Yes."
"Then drop the pretense. Get on your knees and beg for mercy."
Jon clenched his jaw, his pride struggling against the humiliation.
"Don't get too smug, King Samwell. You only won because you had a dragon."
His gaze drifted toward the white dragon, which was still prowling the battlefield, its presence radiating a suffocating aura of power.
Samwell sneered.
"And isn't your boy, this so-called Aegon, supposed to be the rightful heir of House Targaryen? Where's his dragon?"
Jon had no answer.
Samwell pressed on, his tone cutting:
"From the start, the Golden Company's defeat was inevitable. Even if you had held Godsgrace today, it wouldn't have mattered."
"You won, so of course you'll say that," Jon replied bitterly.
Samwell shook his head.
"Do you know why the nobles of Dorne refused to support your little pretender? It wasn't just because he didn't have a dragon."
Jon frowned. "Then why?"
"You overestimate the power of dragons and underestimated human nature. The people of Dorne aren't cowards—they've fought dragons before, and they've killed one. But they saw the truth about you and your Golden Company."
"And what truth is that?"
Samwell's voice turned cold:
"You came here to take what isn't yours.
"You were dreaming of glory, of reclaiming your lost lands and titles. But what about the lords who currently hold those lands? Do you think they'd just hand them over and welcome you back?"
Jon lowered his head, the harsh truth finally sinking in.
The Golden Company is a gathering place for the losers of the Blackfyre Rebellion and is filled with losers in the political struggles in Westeros. They are eager for glory, and even more so for territory and titles.
The Golden Company had never been welcome in Westeros.
From the moment they landed, they had been doomed to failure.
It was ridiculous that he had always believed that as long as little Aegon was there and as long as they raised the banner of the three-headed red dragon, they would immediately attract a large number of people and nobles from the seven kingdoms who would come to swear their fealty.
"I see your point," Jon murmured, his voice heavy with defeat. "We never had a chance, did we?"
Samwell's only response was a cold smile.
(End of Chapter)