Aemon's eyelids twitched.
"A two-year-old girl. I'd marry her just to change her diapers."
Qoren held his daughter in his arms and proudly declared, "This is my daughter, Aliandra Martell, the future princess of Dorne." He looked like a complete daughter-obsessed father.
"I have several engagements on my shoulders," Aemon said, shaking his head. "I have three cousins who are a better age."
"Can the king's sons and my daughter choose?" Qoren asked in surprise.
"The king's legitimate sons are more sincere," Aemon said frankly. With his support, Rhaenyra's heir status was secure. The three Aegon brothers were excellent marriage material, especially Aegon the Younger. Marrying a Dornish princess would eliminate any political possibility of her inheriting the Iron Throne.
"I will definitely consider it carefully." Qoren had never expected such a good opportunity.
"I'll inform my uncle so he can be mentally prepared," Aemon warned. He was just the middleman, and the marriage was not something he, the regent, could decide.
Qoren nodded, understanding.
"Hmm..." A soft little voice whispered.
The two looked down. Aliandra puffed out her cheeks and stretched to grab Aemon across from her. Because she was so determined, she grunted. Aemon looked up at her with inquisitive eyes. What was going on?
Qoren frowned, realizing that things were not that simple.
"White, so white..." Aliandra choked out, suddenly straightening her tongue. "Beautiful." She pounced, opening her little arms as if to hug him.
Aemon suddenly understood. Even at such a young age, she was still a face-chaser. Not bad—she had good taste.
"Woo...hug..." At an age where she could barely speak clearly, Aliandra had already understood the ways of the world. Aemon smiled calmly, stood up, and hugged the black-haired, yellow-skinned girl. There are many people with black hair and yellow skin in the world. The Martells were a mix of Dornish natives and Rhoynar. They maintained black hair and dark eyes but had a pale, yellowish complexion. He disliked the Dornish, but he was quite forgiving of young, discerning, and dainty girls.
Qoren was stunned. He watched his daughter happily throw herself into Aemon's arms, giggling like a greedy cat that had just found a treat. Aemon gave Qoren a provocative look and pinched the girl's delicate cheeks. Qoren felt as if he had swallowed a dead fly.
"If you trust me, I can take her to King's Landing. The king and queen won't be harsh on an innocent young girl," Aemon offered. He paused, then looked at the beautiful, dark-haired woman standing beside him. "The princess can come along, take care of Aliandra, and discuss the details of the marriage in person."
"Me?" The Princess of Dorne was surprised, pointing a finger at herself.
"Don't even think about it!" Qoren's expression changed instantly, and he jumped up to stand in front of his wife. Aemon was stunned. "Once you've conquered Myr, we can discuss a marriage." Qoren snatched his reluctant daughter back, his face etched with caution. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew that Lord Regent Aemon favored mature women. The Princess of Dorne, while still charming, was in her early twenties. Entrusting his wife and daughter to Aemon would be like walking into a tiger's mouth.
Aemon: ...
He seemed to understand the reason for the rejection, but he couldn't quite accept it. Who spread such lies?
After a cup of tea, Aemon, with his reputation tarnished, mounted Vermithor and flew safely away from Sunspear. Dusk was approaching. Crimson clouds shone as a bronze dragon sailed into the sunset.
"Are we really going to have a trade and marriage?" the Princess of Dorne whispered to her husband.
Qoren stood on the balcony, watching the dragon retreat. He was silent at first, then smiled. "The marriage is the bait; the trade is the key."
The Princess of Dorne was perplexed. "Hadn't we already agreed to establish a trade market on the Stepstones on the condition that Dorne refrain from interfering?"
"The owner of the Stepstones rotates every few years, and no one has truly conquered them," Qoren said, gazing deeply. "He hasn't taken Myr yet, so we can negotiate with others."
"With whom?"
"Lys and Tyrosh," he replied.
It was evening, at the turn of night and day.
Lys, inner city.
"Run!"
"Dragon... What a huge fire!"
"Guards, guards..."
Amidst the gray and white buildings on either side of the bridge, a large number of elegantly dressed people rushed about like headless flies. From the densely packed streets emerged a group of well-equipped mercenaries. They blocked the path of wealthy merchants and governors, brandishing their butcher knives.
"Hiss... Gah!"
Suddenly, a scarlet dragon streaked across the sky, accompanied by a sharp cry. Someone in the crowd looked up.
Boom!
A giant, scarlet dragon as long as a snake descended from the sky. Its broad, dark red wings crushed a small house, sending debris scattering overhead.
"Dragon Flame, Caraxes!" Daemon issued orders calmly from above.
Caraxes's pupils were sharp, his flexible neck was stretched out, and he opened his mouth and spewed crimson flames.
"No, no, no!"
"Save me..."
The dragon's flames took the form of pillars of fire, swaying back and forth as if they were free. Wealthy merchants and governors wailed and screamed as they perished in the flames.
It was night.
"Hiss... Gnaw..." Caraxes gnawed on a charred corpse and chirped warily.
Lysandra approached with a tense face and reported, "Your Majesty, all eleven governors of Lys are here, and the disobedient merchants have been eliminated one by one." Daemon and the Rogael family were planning a coup in Lys. They planned to invite all the governors and wealthy merchants to a banquet, then escort them out and capture them all. Simple, brutal, and effective.
"We don't have enough slave soldiers. We only have two mercenary companies, with 3,500 soldiers total," Lysandra said in distress. "We could have purchased a 100% loyal Unsullied army by raiding the coffers of the governors and wealthy merchants, but Astapor no longer sells slaves."
Lys was the city-state with the most funds and the weakest military in the Tri-Cities Alliance. Slave soldiers were useless, and mercenaries harbored ulterior motives. Lysandra, who favored high risk and high reward, preferred to pay a high price for an Unsullied army, even if it was only a thousand or two strong.
"Stop babbling in my ear," Daemon interrupted impatiently. "The obstacles in Lys are clear. What about crowning me?"
"Uh..." Lysandra was momentarily lost for words.
"Hiss!" Caraxes turned his head, parting his sharp snout to reveal fangs as sharp as scimitars.
Daemon remained silent, his eyes expressionless. The invisible pressure was like a mountain.
"Any time," Lysandra said quickly. "Your Majesty."
"Very good." Daemon withdrew his gaze. After patting Caraxes's back, the scarlet dragon spread its wings and took off. Lysandra held out his hand but hadn't finished speaking. He fumbled in his chest pocket and pulled out an envelope with "Sunspear" printed on it. A raven from Sunspear had delivered the message.
Time went back to before sunset.
Broken Arm Horn.
Vermithor flew out of the vast desert and changed course northward. Aemon looked disgusted and whispered, "The Dornishmen are not to be trusted at all."
Throughout history, opinions of the Dornishmen have been polarized. Positives: Unyielding, relatively egalitarian, and valuing family ties. Negatives: Ruthless, untrustworthy, and unscrupulous. Without understanding Dorne's weaknesses, no agreement is worth a single bronze star. Trade and marriage are two key factors. Who knows what kind of trouble they'll cause when the time comes?
Fortunately, he doesn't demand that Dorne abide by the agreement. All he needs is time to attack Myr. The greatest kindness the Dornish can show is not disrupting the rear.
"Return to King's Landing, Vermithor!" Aemon pursed his lips with a smile. Johanna infiltrated Myr, leaving both the Myr and Tyroshi mercenaries devastated. Myr's internal strife split the country in two. The time has come. Before the attack, he needs to strengthen his uncle's heart, lest it falter. Meanwhile, he must shoulder the royal banner and gather an army. He must leverage the advantages of his status and mobilize more people.
Hmm... He also needs to be wary of the Sea Serpent and Daemon—those two are tough nuts to crack. Then, he must recruit another army from the Vale to replace the Stepstones' garrison. The Unsullied, the Second Sons, and the Gulltown navy will be dispatched, tempered in blood and fire.
In this world of idiots, only when others fall into the pits, he can escape safely.
Three days later:
King's Landing, Dragonpit:
Rhaenyra was visiting the dragons with her siblings when a fierce wind blew in from beyond the bronze gates.
"Shh!"
Vermithor crouched low and crawled into the dome of the dragon pit.
"Cousin!" Aemond's eyes lit up as he ran over. He was only six years old, but he was a fast runner.
Rhaenyra, equally surprised, approached, holding her brothers and sisters by the hand.
"Take it down," she warned the dragon handler in High Valyrian.
"Shh!" Arrax, now the size of a sheepdog, gnawed on the charred carcass of a sheep. The dragon handler, armed with a bamboo stick, slowly drove the dragon back to its underground lair.
"Stop, Vermithor." Aemon rolled off the dragon's back.
Vermithor snorted, shook off the trembling handler, and curled up in a corner of the lair. Given its size, digging a large underground lair was unrealistic. At the beginning of the year, Vermithor enjoyed the same treatment as Balerion and Vhagar. They rested in the empty lair hall.
"Aemon, how did you come back so suddenly?" Rhaenyra couldn't help but hug Aemon's waist.
"Missing home," Aemon chuckled with her usual sweetness.
"I missed you, too." Rhaenyra rolled her eyes at him. She knew it was just a teasing remark, but she couldn't help but curl her lips.
Nine-year-old Aegon pouted at his sister's infatuated look. "Shame on you," he said.
Bang! Rhaenyra's face turned cold, and she kicked him hard on the butt. Aegon didn't dare speak, instead rubbing his butt and stepping aside. The role of the younger brother in the family was beginning to take shape.
"He deserves a beating," Rhaenyra snorted. She no longer looked at her bullying younger brother.
Aemon looked strange. Looking at Rhaenyra, it seemed as if she had gotten used to it. When he had been ill before, she hadn't been so violent. His Royal Highness couldn't help but rub his chin. Could it be domestic violence? It was difficult to fight back when a sister hit a brother.
"You came back? Is there something wrong?" Rhaenyra asked Aemon in the same tone after scolding Aegon.
Aemon was stunned.
"No, I've gotten used to it lately," Rhaenyra explained, her cheeks burning as she realized something was wrong. Aegon really deserved a beating. He was either lifting the maids' skirts or talking nonsense.
Aemon expressed his understanding. "It's not uncommon to get mad when taking care of children." He pulled Rhaenyra aside and whispered, "Do you want to go to Myr?"
Rhaenyra nodded like a chicken pecking at rice. She wanted to go so badly.
"Can you mobilize the royal fleet of Dragonstone?" Aemon asked.
Rhaenyra raised her head and chest, giving him a crooked smile. "Of course. My prestige is great."
Aemon glanced at the soft mountains. They were indeed very big, and she wanted to pinch them.
"Aemon?" Rhaenyra immediately noticed the teasing tone in his voice.
"Come with me to see my uncle." Aemon turned serious in an instant. It's human nature.
The Red Keep, the king's bedroom.
Viserys was in a bad mood. He was lying flat on the recliner, and his face was full of worry. His nephew was very good. But he was too good, which weighed heavily on Viserys's heart. It was like being coveted by sea snakes. The Vale was fine; after all, it was still within the Seven Kingdoms' territory. However, the Stepstones and the Free Cities seemed to exceed the red line in his heart.
"Oh, I wish you were my son." Viserys sighed deeply and sipped his wine, looking melancholy. He often felt ashamed of his weakness. However, he felt no pressure. A person's character was determined by the gods, after all.
Yet, when facing his nephew, he was torn between suspicion and guilt. His nephew was a good man. Engaged to Rhaenyra, he also bore the heavy burden of being regent. Turbulent times meant he didn't have to worry about it. He even sent gifts back with every victory. The liberation of Astapor and the eight cargo ships sent to King's Landing were worth over a quarter of the treasury.
Yet, Viserys couldn't help but be wary, imagining that his nephew had done something disloyal behind his back. Viserys's face darkened, and he pounded on the armrest of his chair. "Damn Daemon!" It was all Daemon's fault. If his nephew had had a normal family, he would have been well-behaved and sensible. All of this was held back by his incompetent father!
Knock, knock! Just as he finished scolding him, there was a knock on the door.
"Uncle, I'm coming in," Aemon's bright voice rang through the room.
Viserys was startled when he heard this. He sat up straight in the recliner and smoothed the wrinkled blanket on his legs. He still had some baggage when it came to his nephew.
"Come in," he said.
After waiting eight seconds, Aemon heard his uncle's deep voice come from the bedroom.
Creak!
The door opened, and Aemon walked in.
"When did you come back?" Viserys was slightly surprised and smiled kindly.
"You've worked hard, ser." Rhaenyra thanked him and followed him in, hands behind her back. Ser Harrold, who was guarding the door, met the king's gaze and smiled back. The king hadn't smiled in a long time.
Viserys was helpless. At his age, the old man had learned to read people's expressions.
"Uncle, I missed you so much." Aemon smiled and came forward.
Viserys was blocked from view and said with disgust, "You came to see me on your own initiative; it must be up to no good." He was the kind of bad boy who wouldn't do anything without profit.
"Good things." Aemon moved a chair and sat down. With a smile, he said: "I have chosen a good marriage for Aegon. As long as you agree, I will bring her to you."
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