Chapter 7: The Diplomacy of Blood and Fire

Blackfyre arrived at the command tent and stopped in front of a massive table, on which was spread out the entire map of Essos, obtained from the best pirates. His eyes darted quickly across the Free Cities to Vaes Dothrak, where he suspected the Targaryen girl and the khalasar were. He couldn't afford to underestimate her as a threat and mentally cursed himself for having no spies within her khalasar, feeling the need to know every one of her movements and keep her under control. Then he noticed that, of the Free Cities, Myr was the closest.

"Your Majesty," Roman Butterwell greeted as he entered the tent with four other commanders. Blackfyre acknowledged him with a nod.

After a while, all nine commanders were gathered around the map table.

"I assume you all know we can't afford to stay here. The Targaryen knows we have Connington."

"What shall we do, Your Majesty?" asked Herrath, standing with his arms crossed at one end.

"Well, I was thinking that the recent pretenders to my house barely posed a problem for the Iron Throne," Blackfyre continued, "except for Aemond I Blackfyre. Why?" he asked, not waiting for an answer but providing one himself, "Because none of them had sufficient support, either in Westeros or here in Essos. However, we will never have sufficient support from Westeros, so our only option to return to our lands is to subdue Essos. Starting with Myr," he said, pointing to the city on the map with his index and middle fingers.

"Shall we plunder it?" Rylon guessed, approaching the conversation.

"No, it would be too simple to take the city by force, and we would lose what Myr offers us: the best crossbowmen of Essos, crossbows, ships. It is not necessary to shed blood to win a battle like that, because with things like fear, it is easier to defeat men who have something to lose, and Myr has a lot to lose."

"And then?" they asked, much more intrigued by Blackfyre's proposal.

"Then, Lys," he moved his fingers to the archipelago in the southeast of the continent. "It will be easier. The Lyseni are bankers, traders, and prostitutes, not warriors. They will know, the moment the Golden Company knocks on their doors, that they will not be able to withstand the supposed pillaging they will see approaching," he placed both hands on the edge of the table, leaning his weight on them. "We must win the Disputed Lands."

"And if diplomacy fails?"

"Blood and fire," Blackfyre replied with a glint in his eyes, though his penetrating violet gaze never softened. "If they refuse to cooperate, we will set aside diplomacy and burn the cities to the ground."

"Your Majesty," Harry Strickland approached him, not taking his eyes off the map. "What if we avoid conflict with the major cities and head to Pentos? You have acquaintances there."

"We won't win the Disputed Lands with Pentos, Harry," Blackfyre responded with neutrality. "We need ships, and for ships, we need gold, and for gold, we need to plunder, but we will do it in a more subtle way," he explained, stepping away from the table to turn his back.

"How do you plan to maintain control once you have it?" Royland asked, arms crossed. "They won't be loyal just like that."

"I will restore the Triarchy," Blackfyre said, and everyone looked at him as if he were mad to think the cities would accept such a term. "I will offer them a deal they cannot refuse. It is the only way to keep the three cities in order without me being there."

"And what about Connington?" Herrath asked. "He is a deserter, he killed the Captain-General; there are rules to follow."

"I will deal with him," Blackfyre intervened. "We don't know if he was the one who killed Myles, but I will make him confess."

"When will we depart?"

"When the camp is ready," he answered, still with his back turned. He knew it was early and that the soldiers would barely be ready, but he didn't want to give the enemy more time to learn of their plans and prepare. "That's all," he concluded the meeting, listening to the sound of the commanders' leather boots leaving the tent. He didn't realize that two had stayed behind until one of them spoke.

"Are you sure about this?" Rylon asked, sitting on the table. "The other Free Cities will find out what you're doing and will not want to submit."

"Of course, I'm not sure," Blackfyre admitted, turning around to see not only the Dornishman but also Herrath still present. "I don't like the idea of a conflict with the Free Cities, but it is merely the first step to reaching the Seven Kingdoms."

"And where will we land in Westeros?" Herrath inquired, picking up a large rolled-up map from the side and then unrolling it on the table, revealing the vast western continent.

"Well," Blackfyre approached the map, "it would be most prudent to land at Dragonstone," he pointed to the island in Blackwater Bay. "That is where Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters settled after the Doom of Valyria. Now it is where the Usurper's brother, Stannis Baratheon, resides."

"How many men are there?" the brown-haired man wanted to know.

"I don't know exactly," Blackfyre cursed mentally. "I need spies in Westeros. I need to know what is happening there."

"I'll send some," Rylon added. "Children, women, and old people are harmless to many eyes but lethal for a bit of gold."

"Good. Also, send men to Pentos. I want to know what Blackheart wanted to discuss with Mopatis," Blackfyre said, removing the Westeros map from on top of the Essos map. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go speak with Connington."

"Goodbye, Your Majesty," both bowed their heads slightly, watching him leave through the tent entrance.

He walked from the center to the other end of the camp, stepping heavily because the sand impeded smooth movement. He could hear the soldiers already spreading word about Blackfyre's plans. Some were already preparing the elephants for the short sea journey to the Disputed Lands.

When he reached his destination, he found four soldiers at the entrance of the tent, "guarding" the prisoner. The quartet bowed to the platinum-haired man as soon as they saw him and opened the way for him to enter, finding Jon Connington on the ground, tied to the post that supported the tent's roof.

"Jon Connington, eh," Blackfyre said, sitting neutrally on a barrel in front of the prisoner.

"Aemond Blackfyre," Connington pronounced his name with a somewhat hesitant tone, but his face immediately became melancholic, as if he knew the reason for the captain's visit. "Are you here to interrogate me?"

"You only need to confess your crimes, Jon," Blackfyre advised with a sorrowful look, as he had always seen Connington as a noble and wise man, and seeing him in that situation made him feel strangely, almost indescribably. "Don't make it harder."

"Do I have another choice?" Connington asked rhetorically before letting out a long sigh of surrender. "I stole gold from the storehouse, poisoned Blackheart's wine barrel, causing his death along with his crew, conspired against the Captain-General of the Golden Company, and incited the escape of the suspect. I read the regulations when I joined the company; theft is punished with exile, but conspiracy and murder are punished with death, right?"

"Yes, that's correct," Blackfyre nodded weakly.

"And you have to do it," what he said seemed more like an order than a question, and Blackfyre noticed it. "I'm sorry to put you in this situation, young pr... well, young king."

"It is my duty. I am the captain, I must do it," Blackfyre assured. "It will be tomorrow morning," he informed, giving him one more night of life, but before leaving, he wanted to clear a doubt. "Jon, why the Targaryens? Why Aegon?"

"Because I failed them, Aemond," Connington answered in a raspy voice. "I served them, and although I had the chance to end the Usurper's Rebellion, I didn't, and that led to the fall of House Targaryen. Supporting Aegon is my way of apologizing; it's my... redemption. I failed the father, and now the son as well." He lowered his face with anger, and it was noticeable that he muttered a curse before quickly lifting his gaze to meet Blackfyre's. "Aemond, please, don't kill me. You could join forces, fight together, reclaim the Seven Kingdoms side by side, and then fight for the Iron Throne. You are the best fighter I've seen, and he is the wisest person I've known; together, you would achieve great things."

"Jon," Blackfyre stopped him, "are you important to him?" he asked, momentarily pretending to change the subject, though that was far from Blackfyre's intention. "Are you important to him?" he repeated.

"I—I think so, yes."

"Then, starting tomorrow, when he learns that I beheaded you for helping him, he will hate me more than he has ever hated anyone. He will never forgive me, even if I make him an ally," Blackfyre explained. "Our relationship will be irreparably damaged."

"That's why you must let me go," Connington's voice was trembling. "I swear that if you do, I'll support you. I'll work for you."

"Don't worry," Blackfyre said, standing up. "It will not be necessary. I do not need your support. I don't need anyone's support."

"I'd rather have my head," Connington responded, "even if it's for a noble cause." The final words sounded like a prayer, hoping that Blackfyre would understand the true meaning of them.

"Well, it is not your head that I want. It's your confession," Blackfyre replied coldly. "Good night, Jon," and with that, he left, closing the tent's entrance behind him, trying to ease his mixed feelings of relief and discomfort.