Chapter 600

Putting down the finely crafted, undoubtedly expensive Myrish lens, Harry Strickland—leader of the Golden Company, known as "Homeless Harry"—let out a sigh. The breath turned to mist in the frigid air.

That sigh carried two emotions.

The first was admiration.

Admiration for the black-clad army assembling on the far shore—for their discipline, their readiness, and the sheer presence they exuded. But more than that, admiration for the man leading them.

Strickland had always thought that Old Griff—Jon Connington, Lord Hand to Aegon VI—was as steady as they came. Yet now he found himself facing a commander who was even more patient, even more methodical.

The Gifted Army had been formed up on the riverbank for over an hour. Their floating bridge was ready. But they did not attack.

They waited.

Strickland knew what they were waiting for—behind him, the Reach lords and their armies were hurriedly packing up supplies, withdrawing in a controlled but hasty retreat under cannon fire.

The enemy commander understood that attacking too soon would mean facing tens of thousands of men still in formation. A counterattack could turn the tide.

So they waited.

Waited until the Reachmen had retreated, until only the rearguard remained—until all that was left was the Golden Company, isolated and alone.

That was the second emotion in Strickland’s sigh—pure frustration.
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To his mind, the retreat should have been immediate and decisive.

With that blasted new weapon—that thunderous, invisible killer—battering their camp, the only reasonable response was to abandon everything and pull back in force.

Fifty thousand men, **fully equipped, properly formed, marching as one—**no force in Westeros, not Aegor West, not Daenerys Targaryen, would dare pursue such an army headlong.

And if they were so worried about supplies, they could have burned the camp to the ground.

But the greedy Reach lords refused to leave anything behind. They wanted to take everything—every barrel, every wagon, every tent.

Baggage slowed movement and weakened formations. It required extra men to guard it, extra space to maneuver.

And so, because of their foolishness, a rearguard was necessary.

And Aegon, their supposed king, had chosen the Golden Company.

Strickland resented it.

The legendary mercenary host, feared across Essos, had crossed the Narrow Sea… only to be left cleaning up after these bumbling aristocrats.

Gods damn them all.
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But cursing wouldn’t change anything.

Strickland knew Aegon’s decision hadn’t been made out of malice.

The king could not afford to order the Reachmen to stay behind.

That would look like a sacrifice—like he was saving his own forces and throwing his allies to the wolves. Worse, it would spark endless arguments over which house’s men should be chosen.

To avoid internal strife, Aegon had taken the easy route—using his own men.

And that meant using the Golden Company.
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Back to the battlefield.

Even from across the river, Strickland could tell—these men in black were killers.

Even at this distance, he could feel their bloodlust.

For the first time, he understood how they had driven back the dead.

How they had carved through the North and the Riverlands to stand here, unyielding.

And if this were an open field battle, Strickland would never engage them head-on.

The Golden Company outnumbered them. Their soldiers were no less skilled.

But they were mercenaries.

And mercenaries did not fight losing battles.
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A head-to-head fight with a powerful enemy, even if won, would be pyrrhic.

What use was victory, if none lived to enjoy it?

A 10,000-man army might win a hard-fought battle, but if 9,000 died, what then?

What mercenary company could go to its employer and demand payment for 9,000 dead men?

And if the employer refused to pay?

Would the survivors march to collect the debt—or simply be silenced?

The Free Cities had no shortage of betrayals, no shortage of mercenary companies abandoned after battle.

Losses could be tolerated.

Defeat could be endured.

But a battle so costly that the survivors lacked the strength to claim their reward?

Unacceptable.
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That was Strickland’s philosophy.

Whenever facing a true equal, the Golden Company would fight, but retreat before destruction.

Whenever two mercenary bands clashed, they often chose not to fight at all.

Instead, they would meet, drink, compare forces, and once the outcome was clear, the weaker side would “lose” gracefully.

They would stage a **theater of battle—**enough to satisfy the employer, but ensuring the Company itself survived.

That was why the Golden Company thrived where others failed.

Because victory mattered less than survival.

And their clients? Clients wanted wars won.

Not bloodbaths.

If a lord hired mercenaries, did he really care how the victory was won?

No.

He cared that it was won.

Unless, of course—

He paid extra.

**And if the money was good enough, then yes—**the Golden Company would fight to the last man.
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Of course, this job was different.

Normally, Strickland would never accept a suicidal rearguard duty against dragons and cannons.

Yet here he was, standing on the frontline, directing troops down to the hundred-man unit.

Not because of loyalty.

But because he had no other choice.
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The Golden Company had already invested too much.

They had crossed the sea.

They had lost over 2,000 men in transit, another 3,000 in the chaotic Stormlands campaign.

Even with local recruits, their strength was barely over 6,000.

If they abandoned Aegon now, all that investment would be lost.

But more than that—this was not just another contract.

This was a gamble with a prize beyond gold.
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Strickland’s nickname—“Homeless Harry”—was not just a joke.

It was a curse.

His ancestors had been Westerosi lords before they backed the Blackfyres and lost everything.

Stripped of lands, titles, and a home, they had fled across the sea.

For four generations, the Stricklands had served the Golden Company.

And though Harry laughed about it, it was bitter laughter.

Because who the hell actually wanted to be a mercenary?

Yes, mercenaries had money, freedom, adventure.

But they died young.

Harry had resigned himself to the same fate—until Illyrio Mopatis had offered another way.

Back Aegon.

Restore House Strickland.

If Aegon won, Harry would not just get gold.

He would get land. A title. A castle. A legacy.

He would die in a feathered bed, by a roaring hearth, surrounded by kin.

And not as another skull, gilded and mounted on a spear.
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A low, keening horn snapped him from his thoughts.

He didn’t need the lens to know what it meant.

Across the river, the Gifted Army was on the move.

The crossing had begun.