Chapter 690

"Impossible!"

King Aegon shot to his feet, his face flushed with fury. "I will not cower behind my own Hand like some sniveling coward, begging my aunt for forgiveness!"

They hadn't even managed to salvage a single ballista.

"Shut the gates—now!" Jon Connington barked. There were undoubtedly stragglers still outside, but at this point, there was no time to care.

"All men still standing, get to the walls and prepare to fight! The enemy came too quickly to bring siege weapons—if we can hold them off until nightfall, I’ll find a way to negotiate with Aegor under cover of darkness!"
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"First, we secure the Golden Company’s pardon and a way out—whether they stay in Westeros or return to Essos. This isn’t our biggest concern, but right now, keeping the sellswords in line is our priority. A pack of starving dogs is dangerous enough—desperate ones will turn rabid."

"Second, Prince Aegon must renounce his claim to the throne. We need Daenerys' forgiveness and acceptance. Whether he is exiled to Dragonstone, sent back across the Narrow Sea, or takes the black—if he’s alive, he still has a future. He is her last living kin, and I do not believe she will kill him outright."

"And what, exactly, is the Hand of the King proposing?"

Harry Strickland tried to sound composed, but inside, he was boiling with anxiety. The entire Golden Company had staked their fortunes, their very existence, on Aegon’s claim. Now, with defeat looming, how could he possibly remain calm?

Connington knew the truth—there was no path forward.

If he forced the Golden Company and the Reachmen into a final stand against Aegor, he might as well hand them their own heads to present as offerings.
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"Do we still have the strength to fight?"

"Fight? Bullshit!"

With the tide turning against them, respect for authority had vanished. A coal-black officer from the Summer Isles, a veteran of the Golden Company, spat on the ground.

"Are you all blind, or just short? Can you not see the Queen’s dragons turning the river fleet into a sea of fire?"

"We're supposed to fight when the enemy has both artillery and dragons? Forget the cannons—let me ask you this: how many ballistae do we still have?"

"When that dragon dives for the camp, are we supposed to throw spears at it?"
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The answer was bitter.

Even if they could repair a few ballistae, it would only be five at most—hardly enough to protect an army camp meant to hold a hundred thousand men.
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"How many men do we still have?"

The gates groaned as they swung open. The remnants of the Reach army—battered and demoralized—filtered in, with the Golden Company and Highgarden forces at the lead.

As soon as defensive positions were reestablished, Jon Connington summoned the remaining commanders.

They all knew the truth.

Even if their enemy only numbered two or three thousand, the demoralized, disorganized coalition couldn’t hope to stand against them.

But at least, by some miracle, the dragons hadn’t turned westward.

And Aegor’s pursuit had been slowed by the Golden Company’s cavalry, allowing their disastrous retreat to end in relative safety within the massive camp.
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Harry Strickland's expression twisted. "So that’s it? We just ask for amnesty and a way out?"

"You think I abandoned my golden throne in Essos, marched across the sea, bled half my army dry—just to crawl back like a whipped dog?"
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Jon Connington remained firm.

"Victory and defeat are both natural parts of war."

"Aegor is a terrifying opponent, but even he failed to achieve a total victory in a single battle. Just imagine—if a force of two or three thousand had broken through and struck our camp during the fight, none of us would have escaped!"

He swept his gaze across the room, taking in the despondent nobles, the defeated king.

"But now—we still have this massive encampment. As long as we hold it, we still have power to negotiate!"
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But Randyll Tarly only scoffed, his voice cold as iron.

"Negotiation? What leverage do we have?"

His tone carried no rage, only exhaustion. He had only one concern left: whether his son was still alive.

"Months ago, outside King’s Landing, we had leverage. Even this morning, on the battlefield, we might have been able to bargain."

"But now? What do we have to offer?"
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As Connington opened his mouth to respond—

The alarms blared.

From the eastern wall, a frantic knight rushed in, panting, drenched in sweat.

"Lord Connington—disaster!"

"Enemy troops disguised with our banners mixed into the retreating soldiers and infiltrated the camp—they've taken the eastern gate! We—we can't take it back!"
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The entire war council fell silent.

Then—Randyll Tarly’s voice cut through the stillness like a blade.

"Tell me, Lord Connington—what is there left to negotiate?"

His face was blank, emotionless.

"Do you not understand?"

"We already lost."
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The eastern gate had fallen.

This meant two things:They couldn’t hold out until nightfall—their planned standoff was now impossible.If they didn’t act immediately, they wouldn’t even have a chance to surrender.
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Connington’s stomach churned.

He should have foreseen this possibility.

But now?

Now there was only one path left.

He had to surrender—on the best terms possible.
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"I still have a plan," he said, steadying his breath.

"The Queen is the ultimate victor. That means Aegon’s claim is rebellion—and someone must be held accountable."

He exhaled.

"That someone... will be me."

Connington’s voice rang clear and firm.

"When we negotiate, you will all say this:That the Targaryen claim, the alliance with the Reach, and the resistance against Daenerys were all my doing.That I—alone—led this war.That Aegon and the lords of the Reach were forced into this by my ambition."

He lifted his chin.

"As punishment, I will take the black… or end my own life."
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The war council erupted in silence.

Some were stunned.

Some… relieved.

Because they all knew—

This was their only way out.
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"Barely enough leverage," Randyll Tarly muttered.

He turned to Mace Tyrell.

"Lord Tyrell—send three squads to gather lamp oil and flint."

"If negotiations fail, or if the enemy attacks before we surrender—we burn the grain stores."

Connington nodded in approval.

"Do it. If we must surrender, then we surrender on our terms."
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Even as the enemy closed in, even as the eastern gate lay in enemy hands, Connington forced himself to believe—

That with the right words,

With the right concessions,

With one last desperate gamble—

They might yet survive.