Chapter 705

“How did this happen? Who killed Prince Aegon?”

Daenerys lifted her head, her violet eyes—usually warm, sometimes seductive—now burning with fury as they swept over the assembled officers of the Golden Company. Finally, her gaze locked onto the leader of the surrendering delegation.

“I need an explanation, Captain Strickland!”

Seven hells.

Doing the dirty work was one thing, but now he had to put on a performance too?

This was like a whore trying to pretend she was a maiden.

Storm’s End wasn’t going to come cheap.

Suppressing the curse rising in his throat, Harry Strickland wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and forced himself into the role of a shame-faced, nervous subordinate. He stammered, fidgeted, and began recounting the events of that fateful night with the appropriate mix of regret and horror.

He had been prepared for this.

A man like Harry, who had survived decades in the mercenary trade, knew that nothing ever went smoothly. Anticipating complications, he had spent the entire journey preparing his alibi, gathering evidence, and instructing his men on the “official” version of events.

The script was airtight.

At the time of the incident, he had been asleep—meaning he was not personally present when it happened. That alone was enough to absolve him of direct involvement.

By the time his attendants woke him and he hurriedly donned his armor to rush to the prince’s chambers, it was already too late. Aegon was dead. All Harry had been able to do was retrieve the body to prevent desecration and execute the culprits on the spot.

A perfect, self-contained timeline.

No one within the Golden Company had any incentive to contradict him. And if the Queen wanted someone to blame, he could provide her with dead men—actual corpses from the chaos of that night.

During the riot, as the Golden Company fought to prevent Mace Tyrell’s men from rescuing Aegon, loyalists from the Highgarden guard had clashed with the mercenaries. There had been casualties. Those corpses were now being repurposed, their deaths given new meaning.

They had died for nothing, but now? Now, they would serve one last time—as scapegoats for the crime of regicide.

Harry was certain that, if their ghosts still lingered, they would feel honored by such pragmatic resourcefulness.

At least, he had convinced himself of that.

The Unsullied soldiers showed no sadness for the traitorous prince’s death, only satisfaction. Yet they also sensed their Queen’s loss—whether Aegon was truly her blood or not, he had been the last remaining question of her lineage.

Daenerys pressed on with relentless questions, digging into every inconsistency, every unclear moment.

She was mourning, yes. But she also suspected something wasn’t right.

Harry, however, played his role to perfection—seemingly flustered, yet never missing a step.

The whole thing was a lie, of course.

But he had crafted it so thoroughly that it had become the truth.

He was playing at the third level.

The other officers of the Golden Company, as well as Mace Tyrell, remained impassive.

They had already guessed that this was all a formality. Even if Strickland had not acted under direct orders from the Queen, he had certainly done so with Aegor’s tacit approval.

They were playing at the fourth level.

And behind the Queen, Aegor himself stood apart from them all—watching these disconnected performances with an expression of cold detachment.

They bickered. They schemed. They grasped for control of a situation that had already slipped beyond them.

But he was already thinking ahead—to how he would detonate the next conflict.

The assassination had succeeded, but the aftermath had not yet been secured.

And looking at Harry Strickland now, so smug in his composure, Aegor knew the man had no intention of slipping up.

Daenerys was constrained by her role as the “rightful ruler” of Westeros. She could not act like a tyrant—not openly.

So long as the Golden Company insisted this was an accident, she would be forced to swallow her fury and uphold the peace treaty. She would have to accept their surrender and let them leave Westeros unharmed.

And once that happened?

Strickland, feeling unappreciated for his “service,” would start spreading word of his secret negotiations with Aegor. He would flaunt his forged pardon. He would poison Daenerys’s reputation, undermine her legitimacy, and sow discord between her and her Hand.

Unacceptable.

This had to end today.

And the ideal conclusion?

The Queen herself dealing with the loose ends.

For that to happen, Aegor needed Strickland to confess.

But Strickland wasn’t a fool—if anything, he was sharper than ninety-nine percent of men.

Convincing him to walk willingly into his own grave would be no easy task.

Fortunately, Aegor was no ordinary man.

He held absolute authority.

And if clever schemes wouldn’t work?

Then brute force would.
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His expression darkened.

He stepped forward.

All eyes turned to him.

Even Harry, caught mid-sentence, flicked his gaze toward Aegor—and in that instant, the man stiffened ever so slightly.

Aegor saw it.

The subconscious, visceral fear.

It wasn’t the fear of a soldier before a superior.

It wasn’t the fear of a man caught in a lie.

It was the fear of prey recognizing a predator.

For the first time in his life, Harry Strickland felt the presence of something far more dangerous than a battlefield.

Something inevitable.

Something he could not buy, could not bargain with.

And he understood, in the deepest part of himself, that the man before him was not the same one he had met that night in the wilderness.

This was someone else.

Something else.

“The Golden Company,” Aegor’s voice was calm. Cutting.

“The most powerful and disciplined mercenary company in Essos.”

He stopped beside the Queen, fixing Harry with an unreadable gaze.

“And yet this is the extent of your loyalty? The limit of your discipline?”

He didn’t look at the corpse.

“You swore to protect your prince with your lives.”

“You failed.”

“And you—” he pointed directly at Strickland “—as captain-general, bear the ultimate responsibility.”

He turned his head, addressing the Unsullied:

“Seize him.”

The order was absolute.

And yet—

Nothing happened.

No soldier moved.

For just an instant, the world froze.

And then every gaze turned to Daenerys.

Even the Unsullied, her most obedient soldiers, hesitated.

The Queen was right there.

It was her command to give.

And if she did not give it—

Strickland blinked, momentarily dumbfounded.

Then his instincts took over.

“My Queen!” He lurched back, barely keeping his voice steady. “I—yes, I failed in my duty! I—I take full responsibility! But I have already executed the traitors! I have recovered the prince’s body!

“Please, Your Grace—spare me!”

Daenerys faltered.

Her first instinct was that Aegor was overstepping.

She had found no obvious flaws in Strickland’s testimony.

Everything pointed to this being a tragic, senseless riot.

She was being watched.

The world was waiting for her response.

She could not, on a whim, arrest a man who had surrendered in good faith.

But she also knew—challenging Aegor, here, in public, was equally unwise.

Her face remained unreadable.

She nodded once.

“Captain Strickland,” she said coldly. “There are many unanswered questions.”

“You will submit to an inquiry.”

She gestured to the Unsullied.

“Take him.”

The mercenaries tensed.

Strickland paled.

And then—

Steel rang as he leapt backward, sword drawn.

More than half the Golden Company followed his lead.

The Unsullied immediately raised their spears.

The Tyrell guards recoiled.

And in an instant, the fragile peace shattered.

“Your Grace!” Strickland’s voice cracked. “Reconsider! I came here to surrender—to honor our agreement!”

But he wasn’t looking at her anymore.

His terrified gaze was locked onto Aegor.