Chapter 704

On the open bed of the wagon, amid layers of luxurious silks and fine wool, lay a young man with silver hair, his face pale, his eyes closed in death. There was no mistaking him—this was the so-called "son of Rhaegar," the pretender Aegon Targaryen.

With the surrender of the Reach army and the massive stores of grain and supplies from House Tyrell now under their control, the Western Expedition had turned into little more than a leisurely march. The fields along the road, once desolate and abandoned, were now teeming with peasants answering their lords’ call to resume the delayed spring planting. Their heads bent low as they worked, yet every so often, one would straighten, wipe the sweat from his brow, and cast a wary, awed glance at the once-feared invaders—who had, overnight, become the Queen’s royal army.

Harry Strickland, the bumbling, soft-looking captain of the Golden Company, was the first to speak.

The surrendering delegation approached, moving close enough for their faces to be seen. Most were officers of the Golden Company—men of varied skin tones, clad in wildly different styles of armor and garb. But there was one common trait among them: mercenaries flaunted their wealth openly. They dripped with gold and silver, their belts adorned with gem-encrusted blades, their armor etched with elaborate patterns. The golden armbands on their biceps alone were worth a lord’s ransom—just as the Dornish and the men of the Crownlands had discovered when they came to blows over looting the bodies of slain Golden Company soldiers after the Blackwater. Oberyn Martell had been so ashamed of the chaos that he had personally punished men on both sides.

Daenerys narrowed her eyes at Mace Tyrell, who stood nearby, his face grimy and downcast.

She did not understand.

Why was the leader of this surrender not Prince Aegon, nor even the Lord of Highgarden? Why had the mercenary captain—who held neither title nor noble blood—been placed at the forefront of this negotiation? And what of Jon Connington?

The nearest Unsullied immediately moved in, their spears at the ready, pushing back the surrounding mercenaries. One of them knelt and touched Aegon’s wrist, confirming that his body was ice-cold, stiff with death. Only then did they step aside, allowing Daenerys to approach.

The soldiers, relieved of their battle stance, began to relax. Some drank water, others relieved themselves at the roadside. The Unsullied, however, remained in perfect order, jogging to the front lines to stand guard over their Queen, awaiting the formal surrender.

As Aegor surveyed the scene—the sunlit fields, the vast host stretching across the breadth of the road, the farmers resuming their labor in the wake of the war—an idle thought crossed his mind:

When King Jaehaerys I ordered the construction of this great road two centuries ago, did he foresee that one of his descendants would one day march down it in conquest, reclaiming the Reach for the House of the Dragon?

Daenerys flinched as the mercenaries stepped aside, revealing a simple cart drawn forward by a somber-faced driver.

And atop it—Aegon’s corpse.

A sharp blast of a warhorn cut through the air, snapping Aegor from his thoughts. The marching songs ceased, followed by a series of complex drum beats and shouted orders.

The message spread swiftly through the ranks.

An army approached from the east.

The remnants of the Golden Company and the Highgarden retinue, who had fled the battlefield three days prior, had agreed to the Queen’s peace terms. Now, they were returning along the same road—to surrender.

The Western Expedition had remained at Highgarden for two full days to gather supplies, treat the wounded, and bury the dead. The victory had been announced across the Reach, and new orders had been sent to friendly and enemy forces alike.

Aegor had left behind half the army to secure the region (and allow them to recover from their injuries), taking only ten thousand handpicked veterans for the final phase of the campaign. Unlike the slow, methodical advance they had employed earlier, they now moved swiftly along the Roseroad, pressing on toward their ultimate objective—Oldtown.

Yes, the Queen’s eastern shores were still threatened by the slaver coalition.

But Daenerys had insisted on staying with the Western Expedition rather than returning to King’s Landing.

Part of it was to help Aegor adjust to his new role as a dragonrider.

And part of it was to personally oversee Aegon’s surrender, to ensure there would be no… unexpected complications.

Aegor had yet to confirm whether his plan had succeeded. But given his position, he had no reason to conceal his contempt for the pretender prince. If Aegon had miraculously survived, he would have treated him with the same scornful disdain.

She owed Aegor a great debt for persuading him to allow Aegon to take the black—a decision he had strongly opposed. She had even abandoned King’s Landing and the eastern half of her realm to remain on the battlefield, ensuring the surrender went smoothly.

And now, in return, she was presented with a corpse.

The two of them fell silent, watching as the enemy army marched toward them.

Daenerys pressed her lips together, neither refuting nor affirming Aegor’s cold remarks.

As her Hand, he had humored her desire to spare Aegon. He had even suggested that the Unsullied be the ones to stand guard over the surrender, avoiding any pretense of favoritism.

That was more than she could ask for. She had no right to demand that he show the man any respect.

Still, as much as she had no love for the pretender, she could not deny the hollowness that settled in her chest.

Before last night, she had at least entertained the possibility that Aegon might truly be of her blood.

That possibility—however faint—was now gone.

“Your Majesty!”

The mercenary captain’s round face twisted into an expression of feigned grief.

“Last night, there was… unrest in our camp. Some men, dissatisfied with their treatment after the war, rioted. In the chaos, a group of them broke into the prince’s quarters and—”

A dramatic pause.

“—accidentally killed him.”

The news landed like a hammer.

Daenerys barely had time to process it.

“WHAT?!”

It had not been grief that filled her heart.

But fury.

She had no bond with Aegon, nor had she confirmed his identity.

She had no tears to shed.

No trembling hands to brush against his cold, lifeless cheek.

Yet, as she stood there, staring at the corpse of the last possible relative she might have had, she could not deny the weight of finality.

She was alone.

Truly alone.

The last Targaryen in the world.

Overhead, her dragons circled.

Beside her, Aegor dismounted, stepping forward to stand by her side.

On either side of the road, the Unsullied formed a solemn corridor, waiting in disciplined silence for the surrendering army to arrive.

The road ahead stretched into the horizon, golden banners rippling in the warm spring wind, the scent of earth and growing things filling the air.

But all Daenerys could taste was ash.