In the distance, to the north, Aemond could make out the silhouettes of nine riders. They were in the midst of the Lands of Discord, literally waiting for the three people he had designated as counselors to arrive.
He had ordered the erection of a small red tent to serve as a meeting room while they were there. This would be, officially, the first audience of the Triarchy of the Dragon, as Aemond had named it, just to give it a personal touch. From Myr, Rylon was expected to arrive with Alario, whom he could already see approaching. From Tyrosh was Syranio, already seated at his designated spot at the table, along with Phiorna, a loyal pirate whom Aemond had met some time ago and who now represented Lys.
The king, seated at the head of the table, awaited Alario's arrival to finally start the meeting. However, to Aemond, the table felt incomplete. It was not a council worthy of a king.
"You know what?"—he would probably regret what he was about to do, but he had been thinking about it for some time, and it had to be this way—"Someone bring Connington. He is the new Hand of the King."
"What?"—everyone wondered, alarmed.
"He was once Hand of the King; he will know how to do his job,"—he explained confidently, giving a stern look to anyone who might oppose his choice, prompting the guards present to quickly fetch the prisoner.
He was very sure it was a good idea because Jon was a noble man, and he would not betray the king he served. He prayed to the gods to be right because, if not, he would probably be making the grave mistake that would lead to his downfall.
"Your Majesty,"—Oberyn greeted as he entered the tent with a satisfied smile. He walked to one of the empty chairs and sat down, receiving inquisitive looks from everyone except Aemond, who silently thanked him for the support.
Of course, this council was only applicable to the Lands of Discord because, despite having some affection for them, Aemond would never bring mercenaries, merchants, and pirates to his royal council. With the exception, of course, of Herrath and Rylon, whom he would undoubtedly make lords as soon as he had the power.
"Well, while we wait for Jon's presence, I will start by saying that we will create roads in the lands between the three cities, connecting here with a trade route to Volantis,"—he indicated the location on the map where he planned to do everything, but was interrupted by the arrival of the guards with the prisoner—"Just in time. Sit down, Jon."
"What?"—Jon asked, confused, after all, he had been sleeping when the guards arrived at his tent.
"You are the new Hand of the King,"—the platinum-haired man explained with no hint of emotion on his face, wanting the other to know he was serious—"Take your place at the table,"—he ordered, gesturing to the chair that a servant had placed at the other end.
Slowly, and not knowing what was happening, the Westerosi complied, sitting where he was instructed, and continued to look at the others, who seemed just as confused as he was. Oberyn would have killed all the gods just to understand what was going on in the dragon's head.
"As I was saying, the trade routes,"—he pointed them out again on the map—"are the best way to obtain resources. We need to have a close relationship with Qohor if we want wood for our ships, of which, by the way, I want construction to start immediately,"—Phiorna knew she was responsible for this, so she would write a letter to her husband Vincant, one of the most renowned pirates, that same day.
Aemond was not stupid; he would obviously form relationships with people who benefited him, and having two great pirates on his side was quite advantageous. Vincant, who resided in the Stone Steps, was the leader of a fleet of over 40 ships, while Phiorna commanded just over half of them. Then there was Syranio, that astute man who once worked at the Iron Bank but ended up becoming the archon of Tyrosh. He was one of the most intelligent people Aemond had ever met, so having him in the Triarchy council was unquestionable.
It would take time to make everything work, but it wouldn't be impossible. He needed to leave everything in the best condition before he departed because he could not control a revolt while on the Iron Throne, and he could not afford to lose his relationship with any of the three cities. The Triarchy of the Dragon had to work.
When the meeting ended, everyone left the tent, and Aemond ordered its immediate dismantling, as they needed to reach the camp before nightfall. They all dispersed towards their horses, not before bowing to the king, who was gradually getting used to such formalities.
"Give a horse to Ser Jon,"—he ordered, mounting his black steed as he saw his Hand being dragged by the guards—"Escort him to the camp."
"Yes, Your Majesty,"—they agreed, taking the knight by the arms to lead him to one of the extra horses they had brought. It was no secret the resentment of the Essos mercenaries, nor did they bother to hide it.
The company's camp was several kilometers southwest of the meeting point, so, just as Aemond had anticipated, they arrived riding with the sun in their faces, setting in the east. Their legs ached from the training they had undergone that morning, though more than training, it had been a competition between the king and Herrath on who could run longer, with Herrath victorious by a few seconds. Despite the discomfort, Aemond insisted on staying awake.
He was in the command tent, his penetrating gaze fixed on the map of Westeros laid out on the table. The dim light of the place was soothing, so he had to blink occasionally to stay alert.
With his thumb, he caressed the figure of a wooden dragon that he had not yet placed on the board. That was him.
He let out a faint sigh when he decided that he wouldn't conquer the continent just by looking at it. He turned around and sat in the only chair at the table. He had left Blackfyre resting on the wooden surface just to give his arm a break while he was there. After all, he could not afford to lose the only thing left of his ancestors.
He drummed his fingers briefly against the armrest of the chair until he felt the breeze from the entrance of the tent as Herrath and Rylon entered.
"Your Majesty,"—they both said, bowing to the platinum-haired man, who simply laughed with irony.
"I never thought you two would bow to me,"—he commented, amused, though with a tired face.
"Neither did I,"—the blonde admitted, moving to one of the side tables to pour himself a glass of wine. Rylon and Aemond had concluded that, sooner or later, Herrath would fall into alcoholism—"But when you think about it, you realize it's worth kneeling for the right king,"—he approached the map table, leaning on it.
"Thank you, Herrath,"—Aemond said with a smile.
He still remembered the day Herrath became his friend. The young dragon, probably seven years old, was walking the streets of Pentos. His father had left no more than three full moons ago, and walking alone was all he had done since then. At one point, a man approached him and began to judge him by his hair color, calling him "monstrosity," "murderer," and all those names Targaryens were often given in the streets of the Free Cities. However, he stood up to the man, telling him he was not a Targaryen but the last descendant of the great Aemond Blackfyre and that he would not be compared to crown thieves. The man just laughed in his face, pulling out a dagger from his belt. At that moment, a teenager with golden hair approached, putting one of his swords to the man's throat, demanding that he leave and never again bother a Blackfyre, or he would feel the steel of his sword.
"And what did you do to get Myr to agree?"—Aemond asked Rylon.
"Well, I made them believe that Tyrosh and Lys had already agreed, and if they didn't agree, we would make them,"—the Dornish explained with pride, crossing his arms—"But that's not the most important thing, Your Majesty,"—he said, approaching the table with a serious expression—"I think I know where Aegon is headed,"—the other two men looked at him inquisitively, prompting him to continue—"When we were in Myr, one of my spies claimed to have seen an army of perhaps a thousand men heading northeast."
"That number of men was what was missing from the Sons of the Wind in Lys,"—Herrath recalled, adjusting himself for better communication—"But what would they do in the northeast? Does he want to meet his aunt?"
"Daenerys is in Qarth,"—Aemond said quickly, accepting the information that Edavro had given him—"He must be heading towards Norvos or Qohor. He needs men, and in Qohor, there are over three thousand Unsullied,"—he said with concern.
"Our troops outnumber them four to one,"—the brown-haired man added.
"Numbers don't win battles,"—the king replied. That lesson had been taught by those battles he had lost due to his pride, believing that quantity would be enough to achieve victory—"He knows the Free Cities' internal conflicts; he's going to use it against us. That's why we need to act fast."
"What should we do, Your Majesty?"—Herrath asked.
"Have them send a letter to all cities in the Free Cities,"—he instructed Rylon—"And also to Volantis. I want everyone to know that Daenerys Targaryen is the queen, and that Aegon intends to usurp the throne with the help of the Sons of the Wind,"—he added firmly—"If I were him, I'd attack from the northeast and enter the continent through the north. If he's already in Qohor, he would be preparing to advance and gather more troops. We need to stop him before he has a chance to."
Rylon and Herrath exchanged worried looks, and although neither of them liked the prospect, they nodded in agreement. It was not going to be easy to defend the continent from an invading force, especially one as formidable as the Sons of the Wind.
"We will act immediately, Your Majesty,"—Rylon said, preparing to leave the tent.
"I'm going with you,"—Aemond decided, standing up and picking up Blackfyre. The sword's weight was reassuring in his hands. He was not about to stay behind while his plans and dreams were put to the test. This was his fight, his destiny to fulfill. He would not shy away from it.
As they prepared to move out, the reality of the coming battles weighed heavily on them. They knew that the future of the continent—and the fate of the dragon's legacy—hinged on their actions. Each step they took was a step towards an uncertain future, but one they were determined to face with courage and resolve.
The night was dark, and the moon cast eerie shadows over the camp, but the fire of determination burned bright within Aemond and his allies. The Triarchy of the Dragon had been formed, alliances were set, and now they had to act swiftly to secure their place in history.
As Aemond rode out into the night, leading his men, he felt a sense of purpose that he had not felt in years. The path ahead was fraught with danger, but he was ready to face it head-on. The dragon's fire would not be extinguished; it would only grow stronger.
