It was at that moment, as he watched everyone disperse under the sunset after being named Captain-General, that Aemond realized the power he held; if he wanted to go to Westeros, he could. If he wanted to attack Daenerys Targaryen's Dothraki, he could. He had twelve thousand men at his back, who would do anything to trust his promise to return home.
But at the same time, he was alone. His two best friends had left after giving him a brief shoulder pat, just like all the other commanders. He was left alone in the command tent, with a campfire in the center and the places around it empty. Everything was so quiet that he could even hear the footsteps of people outside.
Then he decided it was the right time to leave, stepping out into the sunlight that blazed directly onto his face, blinding him until he had the sense to lower his gaze and walk toward his tent. He was completely lost in thought, contemplating that he had given that speech only to fight for the company's loyalty to the Blackfyre cause, but he also questioned whether he truly believed that. Perhaps he had only been condescending to the other commanders and actually demanded their loyalty. But his doubts were forgotten once he entered his tent and found the boy from earlier standing in the middle of the room.
"What?" the platinum-haired man asked after a long sigh, as he walked toward the table where a bottle of wine awaited.
"This message arrived for you, sir," the boy said, approaching with a scroll in hand.
"Who sent it?"
"I don't know, sir," he replied. "I was walking through the center of Tyrosh when a girl approached me and gave it to me. She also said, 'The spider greets the dragon.' I knew it was for you because of that."
Aemond frowned, puzzled by his inability to figure out who the messenger was, but hoped that perhaps the scroll would provide an answer.
"Thank you…" he began, intending to thank him by name, but he didn't know it. "What's your name?"
"Edavro, sir." At that moment, Aemond paused to look at the boy. He was of average height, thin, with sun-darkened skin, and hair that was black but faintly yellowed, slightly obscuring his eyes. He had a clear Dothraki appearance, but what was strange was that his Common Tongue seemed natural.
"Dothraki?" Aemond inquired, pouring himself a glass of wine.
"Yes, sir," the boy replied, feeling a bit more confident.
"And how is it that you are with the Golden Company and not with a khalasar?"
"When I was four, my father, Khal Rhazho, died in battle, and the other khals killed my mother, intending to kill me as well. But she placed another child in my place, allowing me to escape," he frowned as he recalled it. "A group of traders found me in the Red Waste and brought me to Tyrosh, where I've lived ever since."
"And have you never thought of returning to Vaes Dothrak?" Aemond asked again, sitting on his bed.
"I don't think being part of the Dothraki is in me," he moved some hair from his face. "When I saw the Golden Company, I knew that's what I wanted to do."
"And that is…"
"A mercenary; earning money by fighting, having brothers to laugh with, being respected."
"Not all mercenaries have money or brothers to laugh with, nor are they respected," Aemond stood up to walk toward him. "That's up to you and the kind of man you want to be."
"You are a good man and a great fighter. I've seen you fight; you've beaten the best!" Aemond simply smiled at the boy's enthusiasm, but was surprised when the boy's face fell into sadness. "But I am not a prince."
"Great men were not always princes, Edavro," he squatted to be at the boy's level. "I have only the title of prince. I didn't grow up in a castle, nor was I trained by the best masters of arms. My life made me who I am."
"Can you teach me?" the boy asked, with a strange light in his eyes that made the dragon smile. "To fight, to be a mercenary, to be like you."
"I…" he hesitated, as he truly felt unqualified to train a child, but then remembered that he was a king, and a king needed help with some things. "Do you know what a squire is?" The boy shook his head in confusion. "A squire is someone who serves a knight, a lord, a prince, or a king in exchange for something. That something can be learning."
"T-that would be fantastic, sir," he said with a smile on his face. "What should I do?"
"Well, first of all," Aemond stood up, leaving the boy at the level of his stomach, as Aemond was quite tall. "I want you to tell Haldon to start boiling the meat from Blackheart's head."
"As you command, sir," Edavro made a quick and not very well-done bow before heading out of the tent, leaving Blackfyre alone, who was still getting used to such formalities as a bow. He had always preferred a more direct and informal approach, but sooner or later, he would have to get accustomed to his new reality.
Once he was sure he was alone, he took another look at the scroll, which was rolled up, tied with a shiny golden ribbon, and sealed with wax, though it bore no emblem. Impatient, he quickly opened it and began to read the well-written script:
Your Majesty, Aemond Blackfyre.
It is not my duty to be the bearer of this information, but I fear you are in grave danger. Just a few moons ago, Daenerys Targaryen was the victim of an assassination attempt in the market of Vaes Dothrak. I am sure she will not be the only heir to the throne they wish to dispose of.
My best regards.
"Is it so hard to sign a letter?" he complained as he approached the small fire that had been burning for days, tossing the piece of paper into it without a second thought, aware of his actions.
Who was "the spider"? What did they want from him? Perhaps it was a flatterer, or maybe just a false letter sent by the Targaryen girl or Aegon to scare him. What if Aegon allied with his aunt? He would have an entire khalasar at his back, thousands of uncontrolled, bloodthirsty warriors, against thousands of mercenaries. It would be a massacre, with the Dothraki likely victorious, so he couldn't afford to risk believing such a fictitious threat simply because a letter arrived calling him "Your Majesty." It had to be better than that if he intended to rule.
To relax, he decided to go to one of his chests in a corner and retrieve one of the many books Haldon had made him read as a child, The Dance of the Dragons, a true account by Maester Munkun. He loved reading such stories, always eager to find errors in the protagonists that could make a difference. The Dance of the Dragons would probably have been the civil war that marked history; the best dragons were lost, the Targaryen women became the last in the succession to the throne, thousands of innocents died, all because of ambition.
Aemond had always wanted to make that difference. He didn't want people to fight for him, but with him. To fight for their own ambition, not someone else's. Perhaps he was a fool to trust in loyalty, but he was someone who would never break an oath, and if he swore to bring all the exiles back to Westeros, he would do it.
Yet, his thoughts prevented him from focusing on even a single word of the book. Instead, he pondered his chances of winning the Seven Kingdoms in the best way possible. Thanks to the lessons his grandfather had left in his journals, he knew that the first step was to secure Essos, and then he would have an entire continent at his back, something that Westeros would have to contend with.
However, his tired eyes began to give way, his muscles completely relaxed in his bed. His violet eyes barely stayed open. And within seconds, he lowered the book onto his chest and fell soundly asleep.
He found himself in the snow, in front of a massive fortress he had never seen before. In fact, he had never known snow, but it didn't matter; he barely felt the cold. What he felt most was the blood boiling in his veins. In fact, a warm liquid slid down his cheek. Was he crying? Probably, but at the same time, he was so tense that it felt as though the cold had frozen him.
A deafening scream erupted from his mouth, despite his desire to remain silent. The echo of his own scream reverberated through every wall of the castle. He screamed again with the same intensity, as if nothing else mattered.
Suddenly, the doors of the fortress opened before him, but what he found on the other side was not what he expected; a burst of flame shot towards him, giving him no time to react. The fire consumed him completely, and after it was extinguished, he found himself in the Iron Throne room. How did he know? It was right in front of him. A throne made of nothing but swords. It was majestic. However, all that majesty vanished when a pain invaded his chest. A pain so intense that it woke him from his trance, finding himself still in his tent, with his shirt clinging to his torso from sweat. There was no snow, no castle, no fire, no Iron Throne.
His ragged breathing made it hard to concentrate, and instinctively he placed a hand on his chest to make sure everything was okay, and it was. He collapsed back onto his bed, feeling the dampness his body had left on the blankets. He had never had such a dream, not even as a child when Royland told him scary stories about Asshai.
With a groan, he sat up, feeling dizzy from the sudden movement, and once he stabilized, he removed his clothes, tossing them aside. He noticed that every hair on his body was standing on end, as if he had truly experienced the cold of the snow. It was silly, but it also frightened him.
Minutes later, he left his tent. He needed to speak with the commanders of the company; they had to think about how to reach Westeros. He knew he shouldn't let himself be consumed by the desire to arrive, but he was too impatient to stay reading a story about Westeros, especially one where he saw Aegon II making the mistake of not waiting for Rhaenyra's attack.
"Edavro!" he called out, seeing him from afar, prompting the small Dothraki to hurry over. "Call all the commanders and tell them I want to see them in the command tent."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Edavro seemed to have already learned of the new changes. "Oh, sir, Jon Connington is in the tent between General Sylar's and Commander Butterwell's. I meant to tell you last night, but you were asleep."
"Good, Edavro," Aemond acknowledged seriously before continuing his walk to the command tent, crossing much of the camp along the way.
Some soldiers stopped to look at him, unable to believe that the boy with whom they had fought with wooden swords was now not only their captain but their king. It was something everyone would have to get used to treating him as such. They could no longer call him "Aemond," but "Your Majesty," and although he had been a prince before and everyone accepted him, they had never called him "Your Highness" or anything more formal than that. But that was no longer the case.
