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Chapter 707
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 19:35:27 +0000 UTCA blast of dragonfire erupted from Drogon’s maw, a tongue of orange-yellow flame licking across the earth in a precise, sweeping arc.
It caught Harry Strickland in mid-sprint, barely a hundred yards from where he had started.
The heatwave that followed was so intense that even those standing at a distance instinctively recoiled, their faces stung by its searing touch. No one dared to imagine what it must have felt like to be caught within that inferno.
Strickland’s screams lasted mere seconds before they were abruptly cut off. His round, bloated frame, propelled by momentum, toppled forward like a flaming sack of refuse, collapsing into a charred, smoldering heap.
All that remained of him was a small, grotesque bonfire vaguely shaped like a human corpse, the sickening stench of burning fat and flesh wafting into the air.
It was an execution, a cremation, and a final judgment all at once.
A sentence passed. A punishment delivered. A body reduced to ashes.
Daenerys Targaryen—the Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men—had once again proven herself to be a ruler who did not hesitate.
The surviving officers of the Golden Company swallowed hard, the sound of nervous gulping and sharp inhalations breaking the uneasy silence. It took them a long moment to tear their eyes away from the charred remains of their former commander and return their attention to the Queen, whose face was still cold as ice, and Aegor, who stood beside her, unreadable.
The Golden Company had a tradition dating back nearly seventy years: when a captain-general died, his skull was boiled clean, gilded, and affixed to the top of the company’s standard. The golden skulls of past commanders would be carried across the Narrow Sea on the day the company finally returned to Westeros, watching over the army as they reclaimed their “rightful” home.
Aegor had no idea if Harry Strickland would receive that same honor.
And frankly, he didn’t care.
He had more important matters to attend to.
From the perspective of the true architect of this plot, the plan had been a resounding success—Strickland had been eliminated by Daenerys’s own hand, removing him as a liability.
But as Hand of the Queen, his duty was not to orchestrate bloodshed for its own sake. His goal had always been the stability of the Targaryen reign. And right now, that stability was in jeopardy.
The immediate priority was to silence the Golden Company.
They could not be allowed to spread rumors that Daenerys had ordered the murder of her own kin.
Aegor had already devised a solution: the Golden Company would be absorbed.
Even accounting for deserters, captives, and the missing, at least three to four thousand sellswords remained.
Killing them all was not only impossible—it was tactically foolish.
And letting them return to Essos, as outlined in the peace terms?
Within days, they would be testifying in the Free Cities, declaring that the Queen had butchered her nephew to secure her throne. The slavers would seize upon the story, twisting it into a weapon against her.
The best way to prevent this was simple.
They would be detained.
Paid off.
And bound to her cause.
If their fortunes became tied to House Targaryen’s success, they would have no reason to spread the “Daenerys the Kinslayer” narrative. Instead, they would actively support the version of events Aegor wanted them to believe—that Harry Strickland had been deceived into murdering Aegon, and the Queen, in righteous fury, had executed him for his crime.
Aegor knew he couldn’t prevent conspiracy theories from surfacing eventually.
But he could delay them.
The truth—or at least the version that would define history—had to hold firm until the war against the anti-Targaryen alliance was over.
Aegor stepped forward, taking control of the situation while Daenerys, still shaken from the emotional weight of it all, remained silent.
“Yesterday,” he declared, “Captain Strickland met with a false Hand of the Queen.”
“But before you stands the true Queen and her true Hand.”
He swept his gaze over the gathered mercenaries, then turned to Mace Tyrell, ensuring the Highgarden lord bore witness.
“In the name of Queen Daenerys, I now issue a real and formal pardon to all surviving members of the Golden Company.
“With the exception of those who will be subject to investigation, no further punishments will be imposed.”
It was a calculated move.
Aegor had to strike the balance between authority and leniency.
Too much mercy, and the Queen’s wrath would seem hollow. Too much brutality, and the remaining mercenaries would resist.
Now for the next step.
“I have only one question,” he continued.
“Who leads the Golden Company now?”
A tense silence followed.
The officers glanced at one another, exchanging unreadable looks.
No one wanted the job.
Not after what had just happened.
“If you need time to discuss and elect a new leader,” Aegor said smoothly, “I understand.”
“But if you cannot decide—” He smiled, sharp and knowing.
“Then allow me to appoint a temporary captain.”
Without waiting for their response, he made his decision.
“You,” he gestured toward a black-skinned, white-haired sellsword wearing a feathered cloak.
“The one who had the courage to seize the false pardon from Strickland.
“What is your name?”
The man stepped forward without hesitation.
“Black Bartch, Lord Hand.”
His voice was steady. Whatever fear he had felt during Strickland’s execution, he didn’t show it.
“I hail from the Summer Isles. I have commanded the Golden Company’s archers since the days of ‘Blackheart’ Myles Toyne.”
He smiled slightly.
“If you need someone to ensure that a maester’s raven never reaches its destination, I am your best choice.”
Aegor nodded.
“I’m not in need of a marksman at this moment.
“But your experience will serve another purpose.”
He met Bartch’s gaze.
“Acting Captain Bartch,” he said, “I know the Golden Company did not cross the Narrow Sea just to return empty-handed.”
“I have a new contract for you.”
“Accept it, and not only will you have work, but many of your men may find permanent homes.”
“Are you interested?”
The truth was, the Golden Company wanted nothing to do with another campaign.
They had been fighting, losing, and running for months.
They were exhausted.
But after what had just happened, no one had the nerve to refuse outright.
Bartch swallowed his initial instinct to decline.
Instead, he asked:
“What’s the job? And what’s the pay?”
“The second phase of the Reach campaign,” Aegor said.
“There will be lords who defy House Tyrell’s surrender and refuse to bend the knee. Highgarden and the Queen do not have the numbers to chase down every last holdout.”
“We need help.”
He let the words settle before adding:
“As for payment?
“Land and castles.”
The Reach and the Stormlands had plenty to spare.
Aegor smiled.
“You can return to Essos empty-handed, facing the families of fallen comrades demanding reparations.”
“Or you can remain here, settle down, and become lords.”
The Golden Company had always fought for a dream of Westerosi conquest.
Now, Aegor was offering them a new dream.
And he had no intention of letting them refuse.
