Chapter 604

High-explosive shells were essentially explosive bombs designed to be fired from cannons. The concept of both impact and time-delay fuses was not particularly complex—the real challenge lay in ensuring these shells remained stable and reliable even after enduring the extreme heat and pressure of being fired. That required rigorous testing and refinement, which was where development had stalled.

But what if they abandoned hot-launching entirely?

The research division had already developed impact-fused explosive shells, though stuffing them into cannons would likely result in catastrophic barrel explosions or dud rounds. However, if they were dropped from the air instead…

Delivered by dragons, these unstable shells became aerial bombs.

With this, magic and technology merged—giving them the equivalent of bombers, centuries ahead of their time. The only real limitation was the dragons’ endurance and carrying capacity, which restricted their payload to around a hundred pounds.

Even without a spyglass, the results were evident—the northern bank of the Blackwater was now a maelstrom of smoke and debris. In their attempt to evade cannon fire, the Golden Company had formed a long, snaking formation along the embankment. But that made them perfect targets for an aerial bombing run. The dragons had only to follow the line and drop their payloads—they couldn’t miss even if they tried.

Aegor never expected a mere hundred pounds of bombs to eliminate the Golden Company’s command structure entirely. But the psychological impact was undeniable—thousands of men, once poised for an all-out assault, froze mid-motion as the explosions rained down.

They did not surge forward to crush the Gifted Army.

Instead, they turned and retreated—silently fading beyond the horizon.

The Golden Company had withdrawn.
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They had not been defeated unjustly.

Aegor had played every card he had. He had spared no effort, no reserves—even half-finished prototypes had been thrown into their faces.

The Gifted Army had treated the Golden Company as though they were the Others themselves.

Unfortunately for them, they were nowhere near as resilient.

Aegor had spared nothing in this battle not out of recklessness, but because this war was far from simple.

They weren’t just fighting the southern army across the river. They were also maintaining a siege on King’s Landing.

Stannis Baratheon was waiting inside the city, watching for any shift in momentum. If the battle at the river dragged on too long, if it drained too much of their focus and manpower, the King’s Landing garrison could launch a counteroffensive.

They had to win. Decisively. Brutally. There could be no uncertainty. No slow war of attrition.
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The Golden Company had fought in every condition—under fair winds and in disasters, in victory and in retreat.

And they had learned when to cut their losses.

Their withdrawal was swift, precise. So clean, in fact, that Aegor had no means to pursue them.

Their own strength lay in defensive warfare, in fortifications, in attritional tactics. But there was one major weakness that could not be fixed in the short term—they lacked cavalry.

By the time the entire army had crossed the Blackwater and regrouped, the Golden Company was already miles away.

But they weren’t out of danger yet.
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Because waiting for them further south was another army.

For hours, the Dornish spearmen had remained idle, enduring the cannon fire in disciplined silence. They had not rushed in like the Riverlands forces.

They had waited.

And the moment the Reachmen had fully withdrawn, the Dornish emerged from their camps, blocking the Golden Company’s path to retreat.

A steel trap had been set.

The Golden Company, cornered and desperate, fought with everything they had.

But they fought until the Gifted Army’s black banners appeared behind them.

By then, escape was impossible.

If not for the Riverlands forces realizing something was amiss and sending the Tarly cavalry back to break the encirclement, the strongest mercenary company in the world would have been annihilated at the Blackwater.

After a blood-soaked retreat, fewer than three thousand Golden Company soldiers survived.

But their spirit was broken.

They did not rally.

They did not regroup for another battle.

Instead, they ran.

And when the Gifted Army and the Dornish united in pursuit, they were slow—but they did not stop.

They hounded the retreating forces, cutting down one supply train after another.

For miles, the corpses of fallen Reachmen and shattered banners littered the road.

It was only after the Reach finally abandoned their baggage trains, shedding their supplies to move faster, that the chase came to an end.

By nightfall, the war was already decided.

The remaining southern forces huddled together, three to four times the size of their pursuers, but too broken to fight.

And the Gifted Army?

They simply took their loot, occupied the abandoned Riverlands encampments, and began their victory feast.
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The Battle of Blackwater was over.

And it had ended in total victory.

The Gifted Army had not only driven away the greatest threat to their siege on King’s Landing, but had seized nearly all of the enemy’s supplies, siege weapons, and equipment.

With this level of material advantage, there was no longer any question about the siege’s outcome.

Aegor had already drawn up the next phase of the campaign.

Half of the Dornish forces would be assigned to guard the southern bank of the Blackwater, ensuring no further reinforcements could arrive.

The other half?

They would join the final assault on King’s Landing.

Thirty thousand troops.

Fully equipped. Backed by dragons.

Against a city barely garrisoned by ten thousand men.

There was no way to lose.
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Yet despite the victory celebrations outside, the mood inside the war council tent was grim.
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Daenerys Targaryen had returned from Rosby with more than just her dragons.

She had brought troubling news.

The previous night, a warship from Dragonstone’s fleet had vanished while patrolling the southeastern waters of Blackwater Bay.

The next morning, two survivors washed up in a rowboat.

Both had been mutilated—tongues cut out, mouths still bleeding.

It took hours before the port guards could piece together their story.

Their ship had been surrounded, boarded, and captured by a large, unknown fleet.

And the attackers?

They were no mystery at all.

The Iron Fleet had returned.

Months ago, they had raided the western coast of the North.

Now, they had sailed around half of Westeros—straight into Blackwater Bay.
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“What do they want?”

Robb Stark, his voice tinged with unease, broke the silence.

“Did the survivors carry a message? Some demand? They wouldn’t have sailed across the Seven Kingdoms for nothing. Surely, they must have a reason.”

Fighting against a former ally clearly unsettled him. But it was better to be on the winning side than the losing one.

After a long, silent journey south, he was finally starting to engage with Daenerys’ war council.
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Aegor scoffed.

“Want?” He shook his head.

“Euron Greyjoy attacked Icebreaker Bay even as the Others were bearing down on us. Did he get anything from it? No.”

“Perhaps he has no clear objective. Perhaps he’s simply enjoying the chaos of Westeros—and doesn’t want anyone to win too easily.”

“Stannis may not even know he’s here. And even if he does—it doesn’t mean they’re allies.”

Aegor’s gaze hardened.

“The real question is—how strong is the fleet at Dragonstone?”

“Because if Euron has brought his entire force, and Stannis still holds the royal fleet… can we handle them both?”