Chapter 702

“Mace Tyrell must be kept alive. And once you take Storm’s End, you will destroy this document in my presence. Until then, I trust it will offer you some peace of mind.”

Lyon narrowed his eyes at the sellsword captain—a look he had often seen his own commander give to subordinates who had disappointed him. Even though that gaze was not directed at himself, he felt its weight.

Harry cursed inwardly but forced himself to push back. “Plenty of people want to claim Storm’s End, but under the Golden Company’s protection, I can assure you none of them will succeed. Meanwhile, across the Narrow Sea, the slavers are desperate for a Targaryen they can back against the Queen. If Prince Aegon were to escape from Oldtown and reach Essos, well… that would be quite the headache for you, wouldn’t it, Lord Hand?”

The man impersonating Aegor was Lyon, the vice-captain of his personal guard—one of the trusted men handpicked in King’s Landing. Though he could never match his commander’s natural authority, he had at least memorized the lines Aegor had written for him.

They stared each other down for several tense seconds before Harry caved first, flashing a sycophantic grin. “Lord Hand, you misunderstand me. When I said, ‘This is difficult,’ I only meant that I was considering how Her Majesty wishes this matter to conclude. Should I ensure Prince Aegon and Jon Connington… disappear? Or—”

It wasn’t difficult at all. In fact, the plan was entirely feasible.

“Difficult?” Lyon cut him off without hesitation. “Then don’t do it.”

Their commander had anticipated this exact ploy. Lyon, well prepared for a mercenary’s greed and bargaining tactics, immediately rolled up the map and adopted an icy tone.

“There’s no shortage of men eager to claim Storm’s End. But you, Captain, have no good way out of this war. Tell me—how do you plan to extricate yourself from this mess?”

“I’ll be direct.” Lyon clasped his hands behind his back, lifting his chin and speaking in a firm but measured voice. “Jon Connington’s identity is unquestionable. But the legitimacy of his so-called ‘Prince Aegon’ has never been proven. Her Majesty does not believe he is her nephew, yet she has no desire to stain her reign with kinslaying. Therefore, she has granted him clemency—but under the condition that he takes the black and renounces all claims.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “The Baratheon lands encompass far more than just Storm’s End.”

Looking up from the royal decree, Harry noticed that the Black Hand had produced a small jar of ink and was pressing his thumb into it.

Harry nodded, quickly understanding what Aegor meant by “one more option.”

“No shit. But does ‘that man’ truly believe that murdering for the Queen will wash away his sins and grant him the full wealth and power of the Stormlands?” Lyon scoffed, his tone carrying a touch of Aegor’s natural arrogance. “Completing this task is worth only this much. If he wants more, he’ll have to earn it in the war against the Free Cities.”

Harry was tempted—but he wouldn’t ignore the traps hidden in the offer.

“Apart from the castle, how much land comes with it?”

Below the text, two seals were pressed clearly onto the parchment—the Queen’s and the Hand’s, affirming its legitimacy.

Before Harry could fully process the implications, Lyon, as a gesture of good faith, motioned for his retinue—including the Red Priestess—to take a step back, creating the illusion of privacy.

Unlike Harry, who had spent his life managing finances, the Queen’s Hand had once been a ranger of the Night’s Watch. Even if the rumors about him slaying White Walkers were exaggerated, his time in King’s Landing had proven his lethality.

Harry had heard how, even after taking an arrow to the shoulder, he had still managed to kill multiple assassins.

Lyon produced another rolled document—this one of much finer quality, thickened with gold-embossed trim. A lower-tier royal decree.

Selling Aegon to the Free Cities might earn Harry some coin, but the slavers would never give him a castle and land.

The Queen needed a clean hand.

“So?” Harry understood now—but he also knew better than to overstep his role.

“Nothing but admiration,” he lied smoothly. His mind raced with contingency plans, but he kept his expression neutral. “Some minor… disagreements have arisen within my army. We are having what one might call a ‘spirited discussion.’ But rest assured, within three days, you will have everything you desire. I must say, however, that it is quite the effort for the Queen’s Hand to personally ride all these miles to visit a mere sellsword captain. What brings you here?”

Saying nothing more, “Aegor” pressed his thumbprint at the bottom of the document.

How dramatic.

“If I lead the pursuit and he vanishes, wouldn’t that reflect poorly on my ability to capture him?” Lyon exhaled. He had no contingency plan for a stubbornly defiant Harry Strickland. “With the peace treaty now in effect, the Golden Company—excluded from any official settlement—will inevitably demand compensation from Prince Aegon and his inner circle. Should their ‘reasonable requests’ be denied, tempers will flare, and in the ensuing chaos, some enraged mercenaries might storm the command tent and kill their former king and a few Reach lords.

“It would be unfortunate. But hardly implausible.”

Lyon smirked.

“Of course, as Captain-General, you would swiftly restore order, execute the murderers, and personally ensure the prince’s body is delivered to Her Majesty.

“The Queen, moved by your respect for her kin, would surely grant you clemency—and perhaps even a small reward.”

“Afraid this is a trick?” Lyon retrieved another item and handed it to Harry.

“I’ll give you another guarantee.”

For half a second, Harry felt his blood run cold—then his instincts, honed by years of experience, forced him to reassess.

Lyon handed him the second document.

“And what does the man doing the Queen’s dirty work get in return?” Harry asked, though he already suspected the answer.

Lyon extended a hand, but his index finger was too thick. With a somewhat dainty gesture, he switched to his pinky and traced a section of the map.

“The dashed lines.”

“A black cloak is just fabric—it won’t silence those who covet the throne. So long as Aegon lives, he remains a threat to Her Majesty.” As the conversation deepened, Lyon grew more confident in his delivery, gradually slipping into the role of the Black Hand. “The Queen needs someone to take care of this matter for her. Someone who is not yet bound to her service.”

Harry nodded—but a troubling thought crept into his mind.

He was getting ahead of himself.

“If the Queen changes her mind afterward? If she decides to eliminate me as well?” Harry demanded. “I need something to put my mind at ease.”

Could he defeat this man in combat?

Unlikely.

And even if he did, the Red Priestess would not stand idly by.

And even if she did, would the dragon-riding Queen let him live?

And even if she did, his supposed “allies” would likely view his actions as reckless and inconvenient.

Harry Strickland’s heart pounded. He was no fool—whatever they were about to discuss, it would be nothing good.

And when it came to dirty work, the pay was always generous.

This man might not have the overwhelming presence of legend, but he was no less difficult to deal with.

Harry quickly quelled his thoughts, suppressing any hint of condescension or carelessness. He gestured for his own men to stay behind and walked a few steps alongside Aegor, separating themselves from the others.

He unrolled the parchment.

It was written in the Common Tongue.

There were no explicit mentions of murder.

But the message was clear.

Harry Strickland was officially pardoned and sworn into the Queen’s service as of this day, granted Storm’s End as his fief.

If the Queen ever turned on him, he would have evidence.

Harry finally relaxed.

It all made too much sense.

Westerosi nobles valued power above all else.

Stormlands, huh?

Still, he might be able to negotiate for more.