The pale light of dawn slowly and relentlessly tore through the veil of night, returning light to the besieged city of Godsgrace.
Standing atop the central keep's tower, Jon Connington stared blankly at the rising sun in the eastern sky, its brilliance enough to make his head throb.
The air rang with the deep, mournful blare of war horns, the clash of steel on steel, and the agonized screams of the wounded. These sounds intertwined, composing a symphony of slaughter.
The lead performer of this gruesome melody was none other than the white dragon.
It circled high above Godsgrace, its colossal wings beating the air with thunderous force, casting a shadow large enough to shroud entire city blocks. Periodically, it would dive, spewing molten fire like lava from its gaping maw.
Countless soldiers of the Golden Company had already been incinerated, reduced to ash in its fiery wake. Those who remained fought back desperately, but arrows and spears proved useless against the creature's immense size.
Only the scorpions—the massive bolt throwers—offered any hope.
Jon could see that a bolt had pierced the dragon's underbelly, its thick shaft lodged deep in its scales. The scorpion's shot had managed to penetrate the beast's armor-like hide.
But it wasn't enough.
Even with its size and strength, the scorpion's bolt had failed to deal a fatal blow. The dragon was simply too massive.
Isn't this dragon supposed to have hatched only three years ago? Jon thought, his heart sinking.
Yet it looks fully grown, as large as the dragons from Aegon the Conqueror's time.
Such a beast would require dozens of scorpion bolts to weaken, let alone kill. Either that, or the sheer luck of a bolt striking its most vulnerable point—like Meraxes during the Conquest, when a bolt had pierced its eye and shattered its skull.
But Jon couldn't count on luck.
He doubted the gods were inclined to favor him.
Still, he knew he had no choice but to try.
"Order all troops to retreat to the western gate!" Jon barked at his messenger.
"But, my lord… Are we abandoning Godsgrace entirely?"
Jon suppressed his frustration, speaking coldly:
"Relay my command immediately."
"Yes, my lord."
As the messenger hurried away, Jon exhaled deeply.
He was well aware that his earlier missteps had badly shaken the soldiers' faith in his leadership. Many were now openly doubting his abilities as a commander.
But Jon wasn't planning a simple retreat—he was preparing for one final gamble.
A strike against the dragon.
He understood all too well that victory in this battle hinged on slaying the white beast.
The scorpions were their only hope.
Unfortunately, most of the Golden Company's scorpions had been positioned at the western gate in anticipation of an ambush. There was no time to relocate them.
Thus, the dragon would need to be lured to the western gate.
Jon was willing to abandon all of Godsgrace if it meant creating this opportunity.
Soon, the blaring of retreat horns echoed through the city. One by one, the Golden Company's forces began withdrawing toward the western gate.
The Dornish, emboldened by this apparent retreat, pressed their advantage, their morale surging as they pursued.
In contrast, the Golden Company's troops were demoralized, their orderly withdrawal dissolving into a chaotic rout.
Ser Hughs Dayne, clad in full armor, led a charge of 300 cavalry down a wide avenue.
The outcome was inevitable. With the Golden Company in disarray and lacking the will to fight, their lines were shattered in moments.
What followed was a massacre.
That street became a river of corpses, bodies piling atop one another as blood flowed freely, pooling into streams.
The front line of battle shifted rapidly westward, with Godsgrace falling into Samwell's hands at an astonishing pace.
Riding his white dragon, Samwell followed the shifting lines, striking wherever he saw opportunity. The dragon's fiery breath left devastation in its wake, reducing entire blocks to smoldering ruins.
But the rapid retreat of the Golden Company made Samwell wary.
The enemy's retreat had been too swift, too decisive.
They're giving up the city too easily, he thought, frowning.
Such an approach would only hasten the Golden Company's downfall.
Either their commander was an utter fool, or… this was a trap.
Samwell wasn't inclined to overestimate Jon Connington's military acumen. Based on the man's history—both during Robert's Rebellion and in this current campaign—Jon was far from a brilliant tactician.
Still, Samwell wasn't about to lower his guard.
If this was a ruse, then it was a risky one. Feigned retreats were a high-stakes gamble, and a single misstep could turn a fake defeat into a real one.
From the looks of things, the Golden Company was perilously close to the latter.
As the western gate came into view, Samwell noticed the enemy regrouping in an open square before the gate.
It seemed they were preparing for a desperate stand.
Narrowing his eyes, Samwell suddenly pulled his dragon into a steep climb.
Whoosh!
A volley of massive scorpion bolts shot through the air, aimed precisely at where the dragon had been moments ago.
Thanks to his vigilance, Samwell had spotted the scorpions just in time.
Even so, several bolts came dangerously close, grazing the dragon's underbelly and leaving a faint line of blood.
The minor wound only served to enrage the dragon.
Coupled with an earlier wound it had sustained at the eastern gate—a bolt that had struck deep into its abdomen—the dragon's fury now burned white-hot.
Without waiting for Samwell's command, the dragon roared and dove, its jaws unleashing a torrent of orange-red flames.
Three scorpions and their crews were engulfed in an instant, reduced to ash and melted steel.
The dragon's massive wings beat furiously, sending flaming debris and charred bodies hurtling through the air.
Then, out of nowhere, two more scorpion bolts streaked through the air.
Samwell reacted instantly, drawing his greatsword and cleaving one bolt in half.
The second bolt, however, struck true, embedding itself in the dragon's rear haunch.
The beast let out an earsplitting scream, its pain and rage reverberating through the city like an earthquake.
Samwell, alarmed, wrestled for control, coaxing the dragon back into the skies and away from the battlefield.
As they ascended, three more bolts streaked past, narrowly missing its wings.
It was a close call—and a stark reminder of the dangers they faced.
This was the crucial role of a dragonrider.
Though dragons were formidable creatures, they were still beasts—prone to rage and instinct, and easily provoked.
The Golden Company's strategy was cruelly effective. Rather than grouping all their scorpions in one location, they had spread them out, hiding some in unexpected places.
Samwell had assumed that the initial volley had been their only shot and had nearly committed to a landing. Had he done so, the hidden scorpions would have had a clean shot, potentially killing the dragon.
The ploy was both cunning and ruthless.
Had Samwell not been present to temper the dragon's instincts, it might have charged blindly into danger.
Without a skilled rider to guide it, even a mighty dragon could fall prey to the Golden Company's deadly ambush.
(End of Chapter)