Chapter 701

The flat, open fields of the Reach were good for many things—hiding was not one of them.

That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Neither side could set an ambush, sparing both parties the trouble of scheming or fearing the other’s deceit.

With the setting sun at his back, the commander of the Golden Company rode toward a lone, conspicuous tree standing several miles east of the camp, where shadowy figures awaited beneath its branches.

Dusk was falling. A secret meeting was about to begin.
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After their crushing defeat in battle, the remnants of the Golden Company and House Tyrell’s personal retinue had attempted to retreat into Highgarden, only to find their path blocked. With no other options, the beaten army fled south for several leagues. When they realized they weren’t being pursued, they veered west, hoping to reach Oldtown and regroup.

But with thousands of men in their ranks, even the most desperate flight was doomed to fail. Scouts and couriers, unburdened by baggage and with fresh mounts at their disposal, could easily outpace them.

Indeed, before their envoys to House Hightower could return, a royal messenger from Highgarden had already caught up. He bore Queen Daenerys’s decree of clemency, declaring the terms of the peace brokered between Queen Margaery and Prince Aegon. If the rebels accepted the agreement in full, their lives—including Prince Aegon’s—would be spared.

For Jon Connington, Prince Aegon, and Duke Mace Tyrell, the outcome was bitter, but not the worst they had feared.

For others, however, the terms were utterly unacceptable.

That night, the defeated army halted in the same small village where they had camped before. They did not continue westward toward Oldtown, nor did they turn east to surrender at Highgarden.

The Golden Company refused to move.

More than that—they bared their blades and drew their bows, threatening any Reachmen who attempted to break camp. Their commander, Harry Strickland, had made his decision: Aegon and Mace Tyrell would answer to the Golden Company.

From the moment he became the company’s paymaster, Harry had run the books with shrewd precision. He had never made a loss in his life, and it was that near-supernatural talent for turning a profit that had allowed a man of no martial skill to be chosen as captain-general by a band of hardened killers.

“The worst sellsword, the best commander.” That was how the men of the Golden Company described him.

The only reason they tolerated a leader with neither strength nor charisma was because he kept their bellies full and their purses heavy. His entire authority rested on his ability to ensure their prosperity.

Backing young Aegon’s claim to the throne was supposed to be the crowning achievement of four generations of Stricklands in the Golden Company. A done deal. An easy investment.

And then, out of nowhere, some damned Night’s Watchman had come marching down from the frozen wastes of the far North and shattered everything.

Losing a battle wasn’t the end of the world. But surrender? Accepting the Queen’s mercy? Laying down their arms and returning meekly to Essos, empty-handed?

Harry knew exactly what would happen. He wouldn’t even make it out of sight of the Westerosi shore before his own men hacked him to pieces and tossed him overboard for the fish.

Harry was a reasonable man. He knew the Golden Company had lost, and he wasn’t going to demand the spoils of victory.

But someone was damn well going to pay their compensation.

The fallen needed their pensions, and the survivors deserved their hard-earned travel expenses. That much was non-negotiable.

Every sellsword in the company would agree. And Harry intended to argue until he got what he was owed.

What gave him the confidence?

Simple. The shattered remnants of their army were dominated by the Golden Company—both in numbers and fighting strength.

He might not have been able to best Aegor’s Westerosi expeditionary force, but a handful of Reach lords?

Harry had already made up his mind. If Mace Tyrell and young Aegon refused to meet his demands, he would take them both hostage and drag them to Oldtown. The Hightowers would give him ships in exchange for the Duke.

And as for the Queen’s dear nephew?

The Tyrells could ransom him back.

Or better yet—Harry would sell him to the slavers.

Westeros was still at war. A Targaryen prince was an invaluable bargaining chip, a powerful claim to legitimacy. The slavers would pay a king’s ransom for Aegon, enthrone him as their puppet, and force him to wage war against his own aunt.
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After a full day of shouting and argument, Harry Strickland returned to the commandeered farmhouse serving as the Golden Company’s headquarters, his body aching with exhaustion.

Jon Connington and Mace Tyrell had neither accepted nor outright rejected his demands. They had promised to consider his terms overnight and give him an answer in the morning.

It was likely just a stalling tactic, so Harry had made sure to set up proper security. If those two old foxes tried to flee in the night, his men would be ready.

Just as he finished giving orders, his steward approached him with a new report.

Another messenger had arrived at the camp.

This one, speaking in hushed tones, had delivered a secret invitation—an offer for a clandestine meeting with the Queen’s Hand.

Harry’s years running the Golden Company had taught him one thing: if he couldn’t beat a man on the battlefield, he sure as hell wasn’t going to win against him at the negotiating table.

His first instinct was to refuse outright.

But then he hesitated.

He had nothing left to lose.

Why not hear the bastard out?
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Now, as he approached the meeting place, Harry counted the figures atop the rise.

One, two, three, four, five…

Ten men. Exactly as promised. Not one more, not one less.

That put him somewhat at ease.

But then he noticed the red robes.

A Red Priest.

His mind flashed back to that final, fateful battle—to the dark figure that had surged across the field and cut down their banner in the last, desperate moments of the fight.

This could be trouble.

How many men was a sorceress worth in a fight?

It was hard to say. But certainly more than one.

A trick.

Harry felt a flicker of hesitation. But what kind of commander would flee from a mere woman?

Nine of his best men were with him. If he turned and ran now, his sellswords might understand—he was a paymaster, not a warrior.

But after what had happened, his life wasn’t worth much anymore.

As the Golden Company approached, the men beneath the tree shifted from relaxed to wary.

Harry studied their ranks, their stances, their clothing—until he found the man he had come to meet.

A tall, lean figure (by mercenary standards) dressed in black, pale-skinned, and foreign-looking.

The Queen’s Hand.

With a smile plastered across his face, Harry halted at a safe distance, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword—though he was no expert in its use.

“Well met, Lord Hand,” he said, keeping his tone respectful without sounding subservient. “Allow me, as a defeated man, to offer my congratulations on your glorious victory.”

Harry played the part of a gracious loser well enough.

But in truth, he was filled with nothing but resentment and disappointment.

He had seen many great men in his time. Some radiated power. Others were unimposing but commanded respect nonetheless.

This man was neither.

The infamous Black Hand of Daenerys Stormborn? The conqueror of the Reach?

He was… ordinary.

Bland.

Unremarkable.

Was this really the man who had crushed the combined armies of the Reach and the Golden Company?

“Captain Strickland,” the Hand replied, his voice carefully measured.

The priestess’s sorcery had altered his features, reshaping him into the likeness of Aegor. But even as he struggled to mimic his master’s commanding presence, he knew he could not match the real thing.

“I assume you’ve read the peace terms I negotiated with House Tyrell.”

He fixed Harry with a steady gaze.

“What are your thoughts?”