Targaryen Dawn: Dragons in the Mediterranean

by Mtle232

Aegon Targaryen and his sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys, wake to find their fortress, Dragonstone, mysteriously transported to the Mediterranean during Xerxes' invasion of Greece. Struggling to understand their new surroundings, they prepare to conquer this unfamiliar world with their dragons.

5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Shadows and Whispers

The morning after the feast dawned bright and clear over the city of Pella. The sun's rays glinted off the marble columns of the palace, casting long shadows across the courtyard where servants bustled about, clearing away the remnants of the previous night's revelry.

Inside the palace, in a small but richly appointed chamber, Aegon Targaryen stood by the window, his violet eyes scanning the awakening city below. The soft rustle of fabric announced Visenya's approach, her footsteps silent on the mosaic floor.

"Well, brother," she said, her voice low and measured, "it seems our first foray into Macedonian politics has borne some fruit. What do you make of King Alexander?"

Aegon turned, his expression thoughtful. "He's a man of ambition, tempered by caution. The Persian yoke chafes at him, but he's not one to act rashly."

Visenya nodded, her hand resting habitually on the hilt of Dark Sister. "And what of this Artaphernes? His presence complicates matters."

"Indeed it does," Aegon agreed. "We'll need to tread carefully. Where's Rhaenys?"

As if summoned by her name, the door opened, and Rhaenys entered, her cheeks flushed from the morning air. "The marketplace is abuzz with talk of our arrival," she reported. "The common folk seem divided – some are excited by the prospect of change, others wary of anything that might upset the delicate balance with Persia."

Aegon nodded, unsurprised. "We must win their hearts as well as their minds. Rhaenys, I want you to continue your efforts with the scholars and artists. Their influence on public opinion cannot be underestimated."

"Of course," Rhaenys agreed, a smile playing on her lips. "I've already arranged to meet with a group of poets this afternoon. They're particularly interested in our Westerosi ballads."

"Good," Aegon said. "Visenya, I need you to focus on the military leaders. They respect strength – show them what our dragons are capable of but be careful not to appear threatening."

Visenya's eyes glinted with anticipation. "Perhaps a demonstration is in order. Nothing too ostentatious, of course. Just enough to stir their imaginations."

"And what of you, brother?" Rhaenys asked, settling into a nearby chair.

Aegon's expression hardened slightly. "I'll be meeting with King Alexander again. We need to discuss the details of our proposed alliance – and address the Persian elephant in the room."

As the Targaryens continued their discussion, across the palace, Princess Stratonice was engaged in her own early morning ritual. She sat at her dressing table, her handmaiden carefully arranging her dark hair in the intricate style favored by Macedonian nobility.

"My lady," the handmaiden said hesitantly, "there's talk among the servants about Lord Orys. They say he spent much of the feast in your company."

Stratonice met the girl's eyes in the polished bronze mirror. "And what do you make of such talk, Thais?"

Thais blushed, focusing intently on a particularly stubborn lock of hair. "It's not my place to say, my lady. But... some wonder if there might be a match in the making."

Stratonice allowed herself a small smile. "Politics makes for strange bedfellows, Thais. But tell me, what do the people think of our Targaryen guests?"

"Oh, they're the talk of the agora, my lady," Thais said, warming to the subject. "Some say they're gods come down from Olympus, with their silver hair and purple eyes. Others whisper that they're demons, here to lead Macedonia to ruin."

"And what do you think?" Stratonice pressed, genuinely curious.

Thais paused, considering her words carefully. "I think... I think they're people, my lady. Powerful people, to be sure, but people, nonetheless. And people can be reasoned with, negotiated with."

Stratonice nodded approvingly. "Well said, Thais. Remember that wisdom – it will serve you well in life."

As Thais finished arranging her hair, Stratonice rose, smoothing the folds of her chiton. "I'll be breaking my fast with my father this morning. See that we're not disturbed unless it's a matter of utmost importance."

With a respectful bow, Thais left the room, leaving Stratonice alone with her thoughts. The princess moved to the window, her mind racing with the possibilities and dangers that the Targaryen arrival had brought to Macedonia.

In the king's private dining chamber, Alexander was already seated at the table when Stratonice arrived. The room was modest by royal standards, its walls adorned with hunting scenes and maps of the known world. A spread of fresh bread, olives, figs, and honeyed wine lay before them.

"Good morning, father," Stratonice said, taking her seat across from the king.

Alexander looked up from the parchment he'd been studying, a tired smile crossing his face. "Ah, Stratonice. I trust you slept well after last night's festivities?"

"Well enough," she replied, helping herself to some bread. "And you, father? I imagine your mind was too full of our guests' proposals for much rest."

Alexander chuckled, setting aside the parchment. "You know me too well, daughter. Indeed, Lord Aegon's words have given me much to ponder."

Stratonice leaned forward, her voice low despite their privacy. "And what have you decided? Will you accept their offer of alliance?"

Alexander's expression grew serious. "It's not so simple, my dear. The Targaryens offer power beyond our wildest dreams – their dragons alone could shift the balance of power in the entire known world. But with such power comes great risk."

"You fear Persia's response," Stratonice stated, more than asked.

Alexander nodded. "Artaphernes is no fool. He's already suspicious of the Targaryens' true intentions. If we align ourselves too closely with them, we risk bringing the full might of the Persian Empire down upon us."

Stratonice considered this, absently twirling a fig between her fingers. "But father, isn't that precisely why we should seize this opportunity? With the Targaryens at our side, we could finally throw off the Persian yoke. Macedonia could be truly free, perhaps even become an empire in its own right."

Alexander's eyes sharpened, studying his daughter intently. "You've given this much thought, I see. Tell me, does your newfound enthusiasm for Targaryen alliance have anything to do with a certain Lord Orys?"

Stratonice met her father's gaze steadily. "My feelings for Lord Orys, whatever they may be, do not cloud my judgment, father. I speak as a princess of Macedonia, concerned for our people's future."

Alexander nodded slowly, a hint of pride in his eyes. "Well spoken. And you're not wrong – the Targaryens do present an unprecedented opportunity. But we must be cautious. One misstep could spell disaster."

"Then what do you propose?" Stratonice asked.

Alexander leaned back, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "We'll accept their offer of alliance, but on our terms. We'll start small – cultural exchanges, trade agreements, perhaps some limited military cooperation. Nothing that could be construed as an overt threat to Persian authority."

"And in the meantime?" Stratonice pressed.

A sly smile crossed Alexander's face. "In the meantime, we watch and we learn. We gauge the true extent of Targaryen power, and we prepare. The day may come when we can make our move, but it must be on our terms, not theirs."

Stratonice nodded, a mixture of excitement and apprehension churning in her stomach. "And what of Lord Orys? I believe he seeks a closer tie between our houses."

Alexander's expression softened slightly. "Ah, yes. The proposed marriage alliance. It's not without merit, but we must tread carefully there as well. A betrothal, perhaps, with the wedding to take place at a later date. That would give us time to see how events unfold."

As father and daughter continued their discussion, planning the delicate dance of diplomacy and alliance, elsewhere in the palace, another conversation was taking place.

In a secluded corner of the palace gardens, Orys Baratheon found himself face to face with Artaphernes, the Persian observer. The two men eyed each other warily, like circling wolves unsure whether to attack or retreat.

"Lord Orys," Artaphernes began, his Greek tinged with a subtle Persian accent. "I trust you're enjoying your stay in Pella?"

Orys nodded, his posture relaxed but alert. "Indeed. The hospitality of King Alexander and his people has been most generous."

Artaphernes smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Yes, the Macedonians are known for their hospitality. Though I must admit, I'm curious about the nature of your... extended visit. Surely a man of your station has pressing matters to attend to back home?"

Orys met the Persian's gaze steadily. "My duties lie where my lord brother commands, good sir. And for now, that is here in Macedonia, strengthening the bonds between our peoples."

"Ah, yes," Artaphernes said, his tone deceptively light. "These 'bonds' you speak of. I couldn't help but notice how close you've grown to Princess Stratonice. A charming young woman, is she not?"

Orys felt his muscles tense, but he kept his voice even. "Princess Stratonice is indeed charming, and a credit to her father and her people. But surely you didn't seek me out merely to discuss the princess's virtues?"

Artaphernes' smile faded, his expression growing serious. "You're direct, Lord Orys. Very well, I shall be direct in turn. The Great King watches Macedonia with great interest. He values the friendship between our peoples and would be... most distressed to see anything disrupt the harmonious relationship we've cultivated over the years."

Orys raised an eyebrow. "Is that a threat, Lord Artaphernes?"

"A friendly warning, nothing more," Artaphernes replied smoothly. "The world is changing, Lord Orys. New powers rise, old alliances shift. But some things remain constant – the sun rises in the east, sets in the west, and the might of Persia endures. It would be wise for your people to remember that."

With a slight bow, Artaphernes turned and walked away, leaving Orys alone with his thoughts. The implications of the Persian's words were clear – Persia was watching, and they were not pleased with the growing closeness between Macedonia and the Targaryens.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the palace grounds came alive with activity. Servants scurried about their duties, nobles gathered in small groups to discuss the latest gossip, and the clang of metal on metal rang out from the training grounds where Macedonian soldiers honed their skills.

It was to these training grounds that Visenya made her way, her purposeful stride drawing curious glances from those she passed. As she approached, she saw a group of Macedonian officers gathered around a sand table, deep in discussion over some tactical problem.

One of the officers, a grizzled veteran with a scar running down his cheek, noticed her approach. "Ah, Lady Visenya," he called out, his voice carrying over the din of practice. "Come to see how real warriors train, have you?"

A ripple of laughter ran through the group, but Visenya merely smiled, a predatory glint in her eye. "Actually, good sirs, I thought I might offer a demonstration of my own. If you're not too busy playing with your sandcastles, that is."

The laughter died away, replaced by a tense silence. The scarred officer stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Bold words, my lady. Care to back them up?"

Visenya's smile widened. "With pleasure. Shall we say... you and your two best men against me? Unless you fear that wouldn't be a fair fight."

A murmur ran through the gathered soldiers. The officer's eyes narrowed, studying Visenya intently. After a moment, he nodded. "Very well. Cleitus, Ptolemy – with me. Let's show this Targaryen what Macedonian iron can do."

As the three men took up positions around Visenya, a crowd began to gather. Word spread quickly through the palace, and soon a sizable audience had formed, including several members of the royal court.

Visenya stood calmly in the center of the training ground, Dark Sister held loosely at her side. Her opponents spread out, trying to flank her. For a moment, everything was still.

Then, with a roar, the scarred officer charged, his sword flashing in the sunlight. Visenya moved like lightning, Dark Sister singing as it met the officer's blade. The clash of Valyrian steel against bronze rang out across the courtyard, followed by a collective gasp as Dark Sister sliced clean through the bronze sword as if it were nothing more than butter.

As the other two soldiers moved in, Visenya spun, her blade a blur of motion. She parried Cleitus's thrust, Dark Sister effortlessly shearing through his weapon, leaving him holding nothing but a useless hilt. Ptolemy's wild swing met the same fate, his bronze blade severed mid-strike.

The fight was a whirlwind of steel and skill, but it was clear from the start that the Macedonians were hopelessly outmatched. Visenya moved with a grace that seemed almost inhuman, her every motion fluid and precise. Dark Sister cut through their bronze weapons with terrifying ease, reducing the proud Macedonian swords to scraps of metal.

In a matter of minutes, it was over. The scarred officer found himself disarmed, Dark Sister's point resting lightly against his throat. Cleitus lay groaning on the ground, nursing a bruised rib where the flat of Visenya's blade had struck him. Ptolemy stood frozen, staring in disbelief at the remnants of his sword.

A hush fell over the courtyard, broken only by the heavy breathing of the combatants. Then, slowly, the scarred officer began to laugh. "By the gods," he wheezed, "I've never seen the like. Lady Visenya, you fight like Athena herself, and your sword... it cuts through our blades as if they were made of cheese!"

Visenya lowered her blade, offering the officer a hand up. "You fought well," she said, her voice carrying to the stunned audience. "All of you. The reputation of Macedonian warriors is well-earned. It's not your skill that failed you today, but rather the limitations of your weapons against Valyrian steel."

As the crowd began to disperse, buzzing with excitement and awe over what they'd witnessed, Visenya noticed a familiar face watching from the shadows of a nearby colonnade. Artaphernes stood motionless, his expression a mixture of shock and calculation. Their eyes met for a moment before the Persian turned and melted away into the palace.

Visenya allowed herself a small smile. The demonstration had served its purpose – the Macedonians had seen firsthand the skill and power the Targaryens could bring to an alliance. And Artaphernes... well, he had seen it too. Let him report that back to his masters in Persia.

As the day wore on, the palace buzzed with activity. Servants rushed to and fro, carrying messages and preparing for the evening's entertainment. In the great hall, a group of musicians tuned their instruments, their melodies drifting through the corridors.

In a secluded corner of the palace library, Rhaenys found herself surrounded by a group of eager Macedonian scholars and artists. Scrolls and tablets lay scattered across the table before them, a mix of Greek texts and hastily scribbled notes.

"Lady Rhaenys," one elderly scholar said, his eyes bright with excitement, "you mentioned a form of poetry from your homeland – sonnets, I believe you called them? Could you tell us more?"

Rhaenys smiled, warming to the subject. "Of course. The sonnet is a form of verse consisting of fourteen lines, typically with a specific rhyme scheme and meter. In Westeros, it's often used to explore themes of love, beauty, and the passage of time."

She paused, considering for a moment, then began to recite:

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date..."

As she finished the sonnet, a hush fell over the group. Then, a young poetess spoke up, her voice filled with wonder. "It's beautiful! The structure, the imagery – it's unlike anything in our tradition. Lady Rhaenys, would you teach us more?"

Rhaenys beamed, her violet eyes sparkling. "I'd be delighted. Perhaps we could arrange a cultural exchange? I could teach you the forms of Westerosi poetry, and in return, you could introduce me to the intricacies of Greek verse?"

The scholars nodded eagerly, already reaching for fresh parchment and ink. As they began to discuss the finer points of meter and rhyme, Rhaenys couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. This was how alliances were truly forged – not just through political maneuvering, but through the sharing of knowledge and culture.

Meanwhile, in the palace's central courtyard, Aegon found himself in deep conversation with King Alexander. The two men walked slowly among the carefully tended gardens, their voices low to avoid being overheard by the ever-present servants and courtiers.

"Your sister's display in the training grounds has caused quite a stir," Alexander remarked, a hint of admiration in his voice. "I've never seen my men so thoroughly outmatched."

Aegon nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "Visenya has always been formidable with a blade. But I assure you, Your Majesty, her skills are but a fraction of what House Targaryen can offer Macedonia."

Alexander's eyes sharpened with interest. "You speak of your dragons, I presume? I must admit, I'm curious to see these beasts with my own eyes. The tales that have spread through my court seem... fantastical, to say the least."

"I understand your skepticism," Aegon replied. "Words can scarcely do justice to the sight of a full-grown dragon. Perhaps a demonstration could be arranged? Nothing too ostentatious, of course. We wouldn't want to alarm your people unduly."

Alexander stroked his beard thoughtfully. "A demonstration... yes, that could be arranged. But we must be cautious. The Persian eyes watching us grow ever more suspicious."

Aegon's expression hardened slightly. "Artaphernes. Yes, I've noticed his increased scrutiny. Tell me, Your Majesty, how much influence does Persia truly hold over Macedonia?"

Alexander sighed, his gaze drifting to the distant mountains. "More than I'd like, but less than they believe. We pay tribute, yes, and nominally acknowledge the Great King's supremacy. But Macedonia is not a satrapy to be ruled directly. We maintain our own customs, our own laws."

"And if that balance were to shift?" Aegon pressed gently. "If Macedonia were to find itself with powerful allies, allies who could challenge Persian dominance?"

Alexander turned to face Aegon directly, his eyes searching the Targaryen's face. "You're proposing more than just an alliance, aren't you, Lord Aegon? You're talking about rebellion against Persia itself."

Aegon met Alexander's gaze steadily. "I'm talking about freedom, Your Majesty. The freedom for Macedonia to determine its own destiny, without fear of Persian reprisal. With our dragons at your side, the armies of Persia would be no match for the combined might of Macedonia and House Targaryen."

For a long moment, Alexander was silent, weighing the implications of Aegon's words. When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. "It's a tempting vision, Lord Aegon. But the risks... if we were to fail, the consequences would be catastrophic. Not just for me and my family, but for all of Macedonia."

Aegon nodded solemnly. "I understand your caution, Your Majesty. And I assure you, we do not propose this lightly. But consider the potential rewards. Macedonia, free from Persian oversight, could become the dominant power in all of Greece. Your legacy would be secured for generations to come."

As they continued their discussion, neither man noticed the figure lurking in the shadows of a nearby colonnade. Artaphernes stood motionless, straining to catch snippets of their conversation. Though he couldn't hear everything, what little he did hear was enough to send a chill down his spine. It seemed his suspicions about the Targaryens were well-founded. He would need to send word to Persepolis immediately.

As the day wore on, the palace began to prepare for the evening's entertainment. In the great hall, servants bustled about, arranging couches and low tables for the upcoming symposium. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the sound of musicians tuning their instruments.

In her chambers, Stratonice stood before a polished bronze mirror, making final adjustments to her appearance. She wore a chiton of deep blue, embroidered with silver thread in intricate patterns. Her dark hair was arranged in an elaborate style, held in place by delicate silver pins.

A soft knock at the door interrupted her preparations. "Enter," she called out, turning to see who her visitor might be.

The door opened to reveal Orys Baratheon, looking somewhat uncomfortable in the formal Macedonian-style clothing he'd been provided. "Princess Stratonice," he said, bowing slightly. "I hope I'm not intruding."

Stratonice smiled warmly, gesturing for him to enter. "Not at all, Lord Orys. I was just finishing my preparations for the symposium. I trust you're ready for an evening of wine and philosophical debate?"

Orys chuckled, running a hand through his dark hair. "I must admit, Princess, the intricacies of Greek symposia are somewhat lost on me. In Westeros, our feasts tend to involve more drinking and boasting than philosophical discussion."

"Then perhaps I can offer some guidance," Stratonice said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "The key is to pace yourself with the wine. The goal is to become pleasantly relaxed, not incapacitated. And don't be afraid to join in the debates – the Greeks value a sharp mind as much as a strong sword arm."

Orys nodded, grateful for the advice. Then, his expression grew more serious. "Princess, there's another matter I wished to discuss with you. I had an... interesting encounter with Lord Artaphernes earlier today."

Stratonice's smile faded, replaced by a look of concern. "What did he say?"

Orys recounted his conversation with the Persian observer, watching as Stratonice's expression grew increasingly troubled. When he finished, she was silent for a long moment, her brow furrowed in thought.

"This complicates matters," she said finally. "Artaphernes is no fool. If he suspects the true nature of our alliance with House Targaryen..."

"Then we must be even more cautious," Orys finished for her. "But Stratonice, we can't allow Persian threats to dictate our actions. The potential benefits of this alliance far outweigh the risks."

Stratonice met his gaze, a mixture of determination and fear in her eyes. "I agree. But we must tread carefully, Orys. One misstep could spell disaster for all of us."

Impulsively, Orys reached out, taking Stratonice's hand in his. "Whatever comes, we'll face it together. House Targaryen and Macedonia, united."

For a moment, they stood there, hand in hand, the weight of their shared purpose hanging between them. Then, with a soft smile, Stratonice gently pulled away. "We should go. The symposium will be starting soon, and it wouldn't do for us to be late."

As they made their way to the great hall, the sounds of music and laughter grew louder. The symposium was already in full swing, with guests reclining on couches arranged in a semicircle around the room. Servants moved among them, refilling wine cups and offering platters of delicacies.

At the center of it all sat King Alexander, with Aegon Targaryen to his right and the Persian Artaphernes to his left. The symbolism of their positions was lost on no one – Macedonia, balanced between two great powers, each vying for influence.

As Orys and Stratonice entered, all eyes turned to them. There was a moment of hushed whispers before Alexander raised his cup in greeting. "Ah, daughter! And Lord Orys. Come, join us. We were just about to begin a debate on the nature of power and its proper application."

As they took their places among the assembled nobles, Orys couldn't help but feel the weight of Artaphernes' gaze upon him. The Persian's dark eyes seemed to bore into him, searching for any sign of weakness or deceit.

The symposium continued late into the night, with wine flowing freely and debates growing ever more heated. Philosophical arguments blended with political discussions, each word carrying layers of meaning beneath the surface.

Through it all, the delicate dance of diplomacy continued. Alliances were tested, loyalties questioned, and the fate of nations hung in the balance. As the night wore on, one thing became increasingly clear – the arrival of House Targaryen had set in motion events that would reshape the world. The only question was whether that reshaping would lead to glory or ruin.

As the symposium finally began to wind down in the early hours of the morning, Aegon found himself standing on a balcony overlooking the sleeping city of Pella. The cool night air was a welcome respite from the heated atmosphere of the great hall.

He heard soft footsteps behind him and turned to see Visenya approaching, a cup of watered wine in her hand. "Quite a night," she remarked, coming to stand beside him at the balcony's edge.

Aegon nodded, his violet eyes scanning the horizon. "Indeed. I think we've made progress, but there's still much to be done."

Visenya took a sip of her wine, her expression thoughtful. "Artaphernes is becoming a problem. His presence here complicates everything."

"I know," Aegon sighed. "But we can't move against him directly. Not yet. We need more time to solidify our position here."

"And what of Orys and the princess?" Visenya asked, a hint of concern in her voice. "Their growing closeness has not gone unnoticed."

Aegon smiled slightly. "No, it hasn't. But that may work to our advantage. A marriage alliance between House Targaryen and the Macedonian royal family would go a long way towards cementing our position here."

Visenya nodded, though her expression remained troubled. "Just be careful, brother. We're playing a dangerous game here. One false move and we could lose everything we've worked for."

Aegon reached out, placing a comforting hand on his sister-wife's shoulder. "I know the risks, Visenya. But the potential rewards... imagine it. Macedonia as our foothold in this new world, with all of Greece to follow. And from there, who knows? We could build an empire to rival anything in our old world."

As they stood there, looking out over the sleeping city, the first light of dawn began to creep over the eastern horizon. A new day was dawning, both literally and figuratively. What it would bring, only time would tell.

But one thing was certain – the world was changing. The arrival of House Targaryen had set in motion events that would reshape the course of history. For better or worse, nothing would ever be the same again.

As the first rays of sunlight began to paint the sky in hues of gold and pink, Aegon and Visenya turned back towards the palace. There was much to be done, plans to be made, alliances to be forged and strengthened.

The game of thrones had begun anew in this strange, ancient world. And House Targaryen intended to play to win.

Author's Note:

In crafting this chapter, I aimed to weave together multiple narrative threads, showcasing the complex political landscape and the various players involved. Each section was carefully constructed to advance the plot while providing insight into the characters and their motivations.

The chapter opens with the Targaryen siblings discussing their initial impressions and strategies, setting the stage for their diplomatic efforts. This is followed by scenes featuring Princess Stratonice and King Alexander, offering a glimpse into the Macedonian perspective and their cautious approach to the potential alliance.

I then focused on key interactions: Orys Baratheon's tense encounter with Artaphernes, Visenya's impressive display of martial prowess, and Rhaenys's cultural exchange with Macedonian scholars. These scenes serve to illustrate the multifaceted nature of the Targaryens' approach to securing their position in this new world.

The chapter culminates in the symposium scene, where the political maneuvering comes to a head amidst philosophical debates and flowing wine. This setting allowed for the exploration of the delicate balance of power between Macedonia, Persia, and the newly arrived Targaryens.

Since the Targaryens are based on medieval Europe, I incorporated sonnets into Rhaenys's scene to give a bit more depth and enrich the Targaryens. As Rhaenys was written as a lover of the arts, she would likely be well-versed in poetry. This addition not only showcases her character but also provides a contrast between Westerosi and Greek cultural traditions.

I originally envisioned this chapter to be even more expansive but ultimately decided to split it into two parts. The second half will be posted tomorrow, July 4th, as a special treat for readers.

I hope everyone enjoys this chapter and finds themselves immersed in the intricate world of Targaryen ambitions in ancient Macedonia. Your engagement means a lot to me, so please don't hesitate to leave a review or comment with your thoughts, theories, or feedback. Your input is invaluable and helps shape the story as it unfolds.

Happy reading, and for those celebrating, have a wonderful 4th of July!