Chapter 8: Dothraki vs. Mercenaries

The sun rose in the east, turning the sky orange with its glow. The Golden Company seemed ready to depart. The trunk where Jon Connington had been executed moons ago still stood in the middle of the camp, home to many flies desperate for the now-dry blood. However, inside his tent, the king was preparing, putting on his doublet in the colors of his house.

"Why do you think Myr will agree, Your Majesty?" Edavro asked, handing Aemond the Blackfyre sword.

"Because they must," he replied confidently, exiting his tent. "We have a contract with them, and although our intention is to break it, they will do so first."

"Are you saying you will force them to break the contract so you don't have to?"

"Exactly. After all, I am still a mercenary," he said with a proud smile on his face.

They arrived outside the main tent, where Aemond was met by a black stallion, with a saddle alternating between black and red, and his armor modeled after dragon wings made of black steel.

"Tell Herrath and Rylon that I will go to the center of Tyrosh," he requested, mounting his horse.

"As you command, Your Majesty."

Aemond rode all the way from the beach to the rocks forming the streets of Tyrosh. He was grateful that his horse could adapt to both sand and rocks, as another would have collapsed from the effort of carrying him across the sand.

The Tyroshi looked up to see Blackfyre, that beautiful young man dressed, as always, in his crimson doublet with the black dragon embroidered on it, his silver hair shining in the sun, and his eyes a muted violet. It was unusual to see him on the streets of Tyrosh, especially without a retinue.

The dragon, for his part, did not view the city with the impression that the Tyroshi might have wished to project. On the contrary, he felt saddened to see a city with so much potential being paraded by masters with their slaves trailing behind, distressed by the sight of emaciated children, and then, as if that weren't enough, when he turned his head to the right, he saw three nobles selling slaves among themselves. He knew that if his plan succeeded, he would never see it again.

He tightened his jaw and spurred his horse to a faster pace with a gentle nudge to its ribs. After a while, his hurried gallop brought him to the mansion of the current archon of Tyrosh, Syranio Fyllos. The mansion was almost identical to Illyrio Mopatis's in Pentos, only a bit smaller and with even more garish colors.

"The great Aemond Blackfyre!" came Syranio's loud voice from the door of his home, escorted by two slaves. "Or should I say 'King Aemond'?" He was a tall, thin man, with unnaturally shiny hair, reddish skin, a charming smile, and a sharp tongue, though an unexpectedly reliable man.

"I will always be Aemond to you, Syranio," he assured with a feigned smile as he dismounted from his steed.

"After all, things never change, they say," the Tyroshi approached the silver-haired man with a smile, probably as feigned as Aemond's, but it did not prevent him from approaching him amicably. "And tell me, what brings Your Majesty to my humble abode?" he asked as they began to climb the stairs to the interior of the mansion.

"I never thought I would say this, but politics," Aemond replied, glancing at the Blood Tower in the city's harbor.

"I hope it's a diplomatic matter."

"It is exactly for diplomacy," he said, though the archon's frown indicated it was not what he wanted to hear. "Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh have been allied for hundreds of years, and it is clear that those years were the best of Essos."

"That is the stupidest idea I have heard you say, Aemond," Syranio complained, walking to a table to pour himself a glass of pear brandy.

"Is it?" Aemond asked shrewdly. "You think our friendship will stop me from reducing this city to ashes, don't you?"

"Are you threatening me?"

"No, I told you I came with terms of diplomacy; the Triarchy is my diplomacy," he clarified with a fiercely serious look. "Accept, and Tyrosh will have peace with Myr and Lys, along with better trade routes, benefits, and a portion of the Lands of Discord."

"And if I refuse?" Syranio asked, taking a sip of his brandy, deliberately not offering any to his guest.

"You won't refuse," the dragon assured him. "I know my diplomatic terms will captivate you," he turned to leave exactly the way he had come, "just hope it is not too late."

"Don't you make a bow? How improper for a king," Syranio noted with a mocking smile.

"Don't you offer brandy? How improper for a host," Aemond retorted before leaving. He knew Syranio was merely a proud talker, but behind that façade was an incredibly astute man who understood that the dragon was serious. "You will receive a message when you need to tell me your choice."

Syranio, for his part, thought about him for the rest of the day. The last time he saw him, Aemond was the hero of the Golden Company. He won every battle he engaged in, was unbeatable with a sword, and the terror of any other mercenary company. But underneath, there was always that disappointment in his eyes every time he returned from those victories. It was said that every night, he would go clean his sword miles away from the camp, remembering how that battle had not taken him to Westeros. But today, Syranio had encountered something different; he had met a king, as if Aemond had been saving that part of himself for the right moment. He had the temperament of a mercenary, that was undeniable, but his way of speaking had become much more daring, eloquent, and assured, knowing that what he said was what would be done.

After his visit to the archon, Aemond made one more stop before returning to the company's camp, House Blackfyre. That was the house where Rohanne of Tyrosh had hidden with her younger children, Aemond, Aenys, Calha, and Visenya, after Aemond I and his other children died in the first Blackfyre rebellion. Since then, it had been the determined home for the Black Dragons. It was a little-known place, where the family kept prized possessions, including the armor Aemond had stored all those years, armor he himself had commissioned to be forged for the day he would not wear gold.

On the outside, it was an ordinary house, with nothing to make it stand out among the rest. However, inside, it was fit for princes, with walls resembling carved stone, and from time to time, the figure of a dragon appeared. Clearly, this place was made to hide its inhabitants, as the door leading to the rooms was behind a curtain with the Blackfyre house emblem prominently displayed.

Since his father's death, Aemond had dismissed the servants but would pay some mercenaries to guard the entrance when he was not in the city. Of course, he preferred to sleep at the company's camp, but he enjoyed returning occasionally and spending time in his family's home, though it made him bitter to remember that he was alone. He had always wished for a younger brother, someone who would protect him from any harm, but that wish had ceased when he knew he still had his father and that together they would dominate the world. However, the day his father went to Valyria due to greyscale was the day he became the last Blackfyre alive, and he could not even embrace him one last time.

"Enough," he told himself as he walked down the hall to the main room, where the armor was stored in a chest.

All its pieces were black enamel, with dragon wing designs on the shoulders. However, on the chest, it bore a three-headed dragon with a blood-red border, leaving the dragon itself black. Of course, an armor could not be complete without a helmet, which was the same color as the rest of the pieces, with two dragon wings extending from the sides.

He could no longer wear the company's golden armor, and although he had always wanted to carry his house's colors into battle, now he had to do so, not just because he wanted to, but because of his duty as king. But he was not going to leave wearing the armor, so he quickly packed it into a leather sack and set off toward the camp once more.

With the wind blowing against his cheeks as he galloped along the shores of Tyrosh, with the intoxicating smell of the sea seeping through his nostrils, the setting sun making his violet eyes shine as much as his silver hair. But still, there was that emptiness inside him that prevented him from enjoying the magical moment. What he did not know was that miles away, in Vaes Dothrak, Daenerys Targaryen was alone in her tent. Khal Drogo had sworn to win the Seven Kingdoms for her and their unborn baby, Rhaego, but she still felt a strange sense of inadequacy in her chest. Perhaps it was due to the recent death of her brother, for yes, he was completely mad, but he was still her brother.

The khaleesi placed a hand on her belly and thought about how her child would look sitting on the throne of the Iron Throne, and she was determined to make that dream a reality.

When the dragon arrived at his camp, a rider from Myr was already waiting for him. Aemond dismounted his horse and approached the rider, handing him a parchment with the seal of the Blackfyre house.

The rider opened it and read: "I am honored to inform you that Tyrosh has agreed to the proposed terms, and we are ready to forge a new era of peace among our great cities."

"Does that mean we can begin our campaign?" Aemond asked.

"Yes, Your Majesty. The next step is to make contact with the mercenaries in the city. We will be able to deal with them and bring them under your control."

"Very well," Aemond said, turning back to his tent to begin his preparations for the upcoming campaign. He felt a sense of triumph and anticipation as he thought of the battles ahead. With Tyrosh aligned with him, his ambitions for the Seven Kingdoms seemed closer to realization than ever before.