Chapter 703

The moon hung high, its light silvering the land, while sparse stars flickered in the vast night sky. A gentle spring breeze rustled through the brush and grass, carrying with it the faint chirping of insects. It was the kind of night that spoke of renewal, of life bursting forth.

And yet, as Prince Aegon stood beneath the bright, round moon, staring into the night, all he felt was an inexplicable sorrow.

The taste of being cornered was as bitter as it was suffocating.

Contrary to what the soldiers gossiped about, even within the inner circle of command, no unanimous decision had been made the moment the Queen’s peace terms arrived. No one had simply nodded along and agreed to surrender and return east.

Aegon had little desire to speak ill of his father-in-law, but Mace Tyrell was, frankly, a dull-witted and indecisive man. In truth, he had long been accustomed to following the lead of his mother, the Queen of Thorns, or even his daughter Margaery in matters of importance. Stripped of the domineering women of his household, he was utterly incapable of discerning the true nature of the agreement laid before him.

His blindness was not shared by others.

The Reach lords—men like Randyll Tarly—were anything but fools. They quickly saw what the peace terms implied: House Tyrell had betrayed the entire Reach, selling out the other lords to save themselves.

So they left.

After publicly berating Mace’s “wonderful children,” the shrewder nobles gathered their men and rode out of camp without hesitation.

Those who left swiftly were the lucky ones.

By the time Harry Strickland finally grasped the full implications of the agreement and realized that the Golden Company had been left out entirely, the camp was already on lockdown. Sellswords had taken control of the exits. And from that moment on, the situation spiraled into something far more dangerous.
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“I advised Lord Mace,” came Jon Connington’s voice before his figure emerged beside Aegon, who had been lost in thought, staring at the night. “He’s agreed to have House Tyrell cover the Golden Company’s expenses for their resettlement.”

A wry smile tugged at Connington’s lips. “Soon, ‘Homeless Harry’ will receive the news. I convinced him to forget about demanding blood money for the dead. The living don’t even know where they’ll end up—who has time to worry about the fallen? A compromise on both sides. It’s the best we can offer.”

The small farmstead serving as Aegon’s temporary lodging was surrounded by flickering shadows. Sellswords patrolled with torches and lanterns, pacing back and forth—not as protectors, but as wardens, ensuring the prince, his Hand, and the Duke of Highgarden remained within their prison.

“Don’t listen to that bastard’s nonsense,” Connington continued, voice taut with barely concealed anger. “He’s only scheming because he refuses to leave empty-handed. The slavers wouldn’t make you a king—they’d drain you dry and discard you when you were no longer useful.

“And let’s not even pretend this so-called ‘anti-Dragon Queen alliance’ stands a chance against Daenerys and Aegor.”

This wasn’t just the fear of a man whose army had been shattered. Connington had analyzed the battle, replaying every moment, and he had noticed something crucial—something devastating.

The weapons that had thundered across the battlefield, launching projectiles over a mile with terrifying accuracy… those weapons would be just as deadly at sea.

If the Queen placed them in King’s Landing and Dragonstone, no fleet from the Free Cities would dare approach Blackwater Bay. If her navy was equipped with them in bulk…

He couldn’t see how the slavers could possibly win.

“Rest assured, Lord Connington.” Aegon’s voice was calm, firm. “I will not return to Essos with Harry. I will not throw myself into the arms of the Free Cities.”

It was the truth.

Not because he had made the same cold calculations as Connington, but simply because his very nature would not allow him to make such a choice.

Varys and Illyrio had crafted him like a masterpiece, surrounding him with the finest tutors, raising him as the perfect ruler. He had been designed to compensate for the shaky legitimacy of his claim with sheer excellence.

The plan was grand in scale. Aegon’s only task had been to take the throne and rule well. Conquering it, though—that had been his “fathers’” concern.

With such a division of labor, it was no wonder that his education was… lopsided.

Aegon could fight like the finest of knights and navigate the feudal hierarchy with the grace of a born aristocrat. He was fluent in multiple languages, studied history, law, music, and poetry. He understood the mysteries of faith and how to wield religion as a tool of power. He had even labored alongside fishermen to understand the hardships of the smallfolk.

But he had never been taught how to deceive.

He had never been trained in intrigue—how to accomplish much with little, how to bend morality in service of greater ambition.

And those were precisely the traits required of a conqueror who had no dragons.

The two masterminds who had schemed for decades had, with all their cunning and filth, raised a man who was… pure. Aegon was a truly noble soul, a ruler who would place his kingdom and people above all else.

His very worldview would not allow him to betray Westeros to the slavers.

No matter how bitter his defeat, he would not bring an army of slavers to ravage his home.

“Good,” Connington said, nodding. He did not pry into the prince’s deeper thoughts. Instead, he continued, “When we surrender, you and I must propose taking the black. Understand—this is a means of survival. It is a formality, a way to cleanse you of the stain of rebellion. But we will not spend our lives on the Wall.

“You are the Queen’s only living kin—her last family. The first in line to inherit the throne, should anything happen to her.

“If she falls ill, if she dies without an heir… no one can deny your claim. They’ll have to bring you back.”

Aegon exhaled a long, weary sigh.

Connington mistook the reason for it.

“Even if that doesn’t happen, as a Targaryen prince, you will never go wanting,” the old griffon assured him. “Look at Aegor—he rewrote the very rules of the Night’s Watch. He leads an army and serves as Hand of the Queen while still wearing black.

“If the Lord Commander can do it, why shouldn’t you? After a few years, once your ‘treason’ is forgotten, you could return to court, assist your aunt, and—”

“Lord Connington!” Aegon suddenly interrupted, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic sharpness. He did not turn, continuing to stare into the dark horizon. “I will surrender. I will take the black.

“But you clearly do not understand how I truly feel.”

He clenched his fists.

“I feel like absolute shit.”

And with that, the dam broke.

“I crowned myself, raised an army, fought my aunt for the throne. And now, after failing, I’m tossing the crown aside and crawling back to her like a whipped dog.”

His voice grew bitter.

“You know what this reminds me of? A child throwing a tantrum over candy, only to sulk and behave after getting spanked.

“My aunt is younger than me.

“And yet, she is the adult.”

Connington opened his mouth, then shut it.

For the first time, he understood.

And he had no words.

Aegon let out a hollow laugh.

“The Prince Who Was Promised? That’s not me.”

He turned to his Hand, eyes shining with an epiphany.

“It’s her.”