"The only thing I hope for…"—Herrath began as he finally caught up with Aemond and Rylon at the front of the army—"…is that this brat is Aegon fucking Targaryen." The blond was exhausted from the unbearable heat.
The Golden Company was riding towards Qohor, the city of priests, where Rylon's spy had reported Aegon and his reduced army were heading. They had been traveling for several days now, taking a secondary route to avoid being seen, despite it not being easy to hide twelve thousand men.
They had all the provisions they needed for the journey, but that didn't make it any less grueling. Aemond wanted to waste no time, so nightly rests were always around three to five hours, depending on how hard the day had been, and they would then resume their march before the sun began to rise on the horizon.
Herrath looked to his right after speaking, hoping for some response from the platinum-haired man, but Aemond seemed not to have heard him at all. He glanced at Rylon, who was on the other side of Aemond, but the brown-haired man shrugged, unsure of what was going on.
Again, Herrath observed Aemond. The Blackfyre was atop his black stallion, which wore the colors of his house, while the king, due to the heat, wore a lightweight black tunic that left his chest exposed. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, with no expression, as if he were waiting for something to appear magically. After all, they were in the middle of the desert.
His platinum locks flew in the wind with every gallop of the black steed, but he seemed to simply go with the flow. His two friends exchanged glances again but decided to ignore his behavior, as they usually did when he was in a bad mood. However, what they didn't know was that a bad mood was the last thing the young king felt. His mind couldn't stop mulling over the dream he had so many times since that night on the beaches of Tyrosh, where he appeared shouting at the gates of a castle in the snow and then a flame took him to the Iron Throne.
Daenerys... Somewhere in Slaver's Bay...
Daenerys, with Drogon on her shoulder, tried to understand what Ser Jorah was explaining about the news he had heard regarding Essos, but she, like the platinum-haired man miles away, couldn't shake off the vision she had in the House of the Undying in Qarth. After spending time in a Dothraki tent with her late husband and young son, the Khaleesi had been drawn to cries from outside, which alarmed her since it had been snowing cruelly before she stepped out. However, upon exiting, she found herself in a long corridor of solid black stone.
The place was cold but cozy, with torches on the walls leading her to a room, the only one in the corridor. Hesitantly, she pushed open the slightly ajar oak door and entered. She found a common room with a huge bed, a library, a desk, a large balcony, and a cradle from which the cries were coming.
Frightened, she approached, thinking the baby might be suffering. But when she peeked in, she found two small infants, perhaps days old. They were embracing each other but wouldn't stop crying, in unison, inconsolably. It pained her; she didn't know why, but hearing them caused a sharp pang in her chest, in her heart.
Daenerys tried to comfort them by caressing their bodies; she didn't want to see them suffer, but they seemed relentless, when suddenly, she heard a man's agonizing scream from the balcony. Thinking that this man might be the cause of the babies' cries, Dany, with courage, ran towards the balcony, only to find a male figure on the ground, kneeling, with both hands bloodied at his sides. He was suffering, just like those babies. Could they be his children?
She wanted to approach him to ask what was happening, but that was when she saw the immense winged creature flying away from the balcony. It was a dragon. It flew with a beating that shattered the air with a roar that made everything tremble, so much so that soon the babies' cries subsided, and Daenerys realized the male figure had disappeared.
"Do you understand, Khaleesi?"—the knight asked calmly, pulling her quickly out of her thoughts.
"What?"—she asked, turning to look at him in confusion.
"Are you feeling well? We can stop if you want,"—suggested Ser Jorah, now concerned for his queen's well-being.
"No, I'm fine,"—Daenerys assured, adjusting herself in the saddle—"I was just thinking about something else. What were we talking about?"
"Aemond Blackfyre has united Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh into what they call the Triarchy of the Dragon"—he continued, avoiding the vulgar nickname he'd heard from some merchants, "the three whores of the dragon"—"As far as I know, he now controls the Lands of Discord."
"The best thing he can do is stay there and be what he truly is, a mercenary,"—the young woman said disinterestedly, frowning at the idea of a Blackfyre as competition for the throne—"With luck, those lands will be the only thing he rules."
"His twelve thousand men would make a big difference, if you ask me,"—the Andal added—"They are probably the second most lethal army in all of Essos, after the Unsullied."
"Why would I want twelve thousand men who could betray me for a few extra coins?"—she replied, smiling as she saw Drogon trying to climb onto her head—"That company was created based on a lie told by people too ambitious. Nothing more." Her proud words only made Ser Jorah nod in agreement, though he didn't truly share her opinion. He was a warrior, and he had seen the Golden Company in action to know that if his Khaleesi had them, the Seven Kingdoms would be even closer.
Aemond... On the way to Qohor...
Another night passed, and another night where the soldiers had taken advantage of the opportunity to sleep, without even having a drink of wine. His Majesty's pace was wearing them out, but they couldn't complain. They understood the reason for such urgency and preferred that their king made jokes during the journey rather than vent his frustration on them for questioning him. Of course, that hadn't happened yet, but everyone knew what dragon's wrath looked like, and it wasn't pretty.
The rays of the eastern sun began to rise, decorating the still-starry sky with warm colors like orange and red. This, along with the cool dawn breeze, allowed Aemond to relax, especially since he hadn't had that snowy dream the night before.
Yes, he had grown accustomed to it, but he couldn't avoid a shiver whenever he heard that roar followed by a flame that transported them to a completely different place.
He shook his head slightly to push those thoughts away, at least for the moment.
He took a sip of water and refocused on the road. It was pure sand and dirt. Occasionally, they would come across some poor grove that had survived the heat by mere luck. He had to admit it; Aemond fervently believed Essos was a dismal and horrible place to which he didn't belong. Yes, he had been born there on a stormy morning, but he never saw himself as an Essosi. Over time, and perhaps thanks to the resentment instilled by his father, he had begun to develop a certain disdain for every city, custom, and religion of those lands. Of course, he learned to live with them inevitably, and like any man, he had adopted certain traditions involving drink, feasts, and women. But this was not his place.
He was a foreigner in his birthplace.
Time had made him more of a mercenary than a knight, more of a captain than a king. But despite having grown up among the ranks of the company, he always returned to his small home to hear Westerosi nannies tell stories of his homeland. He always went to Haldon to ask how it was possible that dragons had become extinct.
He was a master in politics, as well as in war. He could handle a meeting of khals in Vaes Dothrak just as well as a royal council meeting. Perhaps he wasn't as cunning or intelligent as Aegon, but he knew very well what blood ran through his veins, he knew what fire burned in his heart.
Yes, his father was an eccentric and arrogant man who wanted to sit on the Iron Throne without doing anything, but before he died, he had taught him what no one else could. He taught him to be a Blackfyre. He taught him the best and worst of his family. Of course, his father also had his moments of rage and could be violent when he remembered the death of his wife, but over time, Aemond had grown accustomed to it and knew when to hide and when not to.
"What's got His Majesty so thoughtful?"—Rylon inquired, appearing beside him on his brown mare.
"Home, Rylon, home"—he sighed, calm as the sunlight began to illuminate his serene face—"You were born there, and I never asked you what it's like."
"Well, it's not like I had a life much different from this"—he commented with a nostalgic smile—"I'm from Dorne, and the farthest I was from the summer was when I traveled to Palosanto with my father. I'm sure the northern part of Dorne is more picturesque."
"Have you never been to the Crownlands?"
"I think when I was on the ship here, I passed by the Blackwater Bay, but I don't remember well"—he replied simply—"I was too young to remember now."
"Rylon, I need you to send an envoy to my grandfather on the Isle of the Claw"—he requested, remembering that he was also part Celtigar—"He needs to know my plans and that we need his support."
Aemond had never met his maternal family, but he knew that Westeros's blood laws were strong, and Lord Ardrian Celtigar would be on his side. It couldn't be otherwise. And with his grandfather on his side, he would also have the Velaryons, and thus, a safe landing in Blackwater.
"Do you think your grandfather would want to get involved in your war?"—the brown-haired man asked after giving his horse a nudge with his heel, as it seemed to be slowing down.
"It's no longer a matter of whether he wants to or not"—the platinum-haired man replied vaguely, so he proceeded to explain—"The alliance with the Celtigars is something Maelys planned for a long time. When my grandmother gave birth, they met at the port of Pentos and arranged the betrothal between my parents."
"Why didn't Maelys choose someone of higher standing?"
"Because, I suppose, he wanted to keep the Valyrian bloodline. And, although it might not seem so, the Celtigars and Velaryons have been very helpful when it comes to fleets"—he explained with certainty—"Having them gives us the entire Blackwater Bay, and we might even control maritime trade without King's Landing noticing."
"Do you think all this is your own idea?"—Rylon asked with a teasing tone.
"I would love to say they are my ideas, but most are plans my grandfather wrote in his journals"—the platinum-haired man admitted, his gaze fixed ahead. He recalled the legend he once heard, which said that the second head emerging from his grandfather's neck used to whisper things to him—"He was a shrewd man, but too greedy."
"I suppose when you have too much, you can become greedy."
"I won't be"—he held the reins of his horse tightly, promising himself—"Maelys thought being king was his right."
"And isn't it?"
"To be king was his duty, Rylon"—he responded with confidence—"He was supposed to be king for all those who believed in the Blackfyre promise. He owed them his home. But, like all the kings in recent times, he thought otherwise. In his journals, he said it was the Golden Company that should give him his kingdom. And, out of fear, everyone told him yes."
"The Blackfyres and Targaryens aren't so different, truth be told"—the Dornish pointed out with raised eyebrows—"Throughout history, there have been both good and bad ones. Maybe this generation will be the good ones."
"Make sure the two Targaryens are the bad ones"—he sighed, trying to keep his irritation with members of that house in check. Aemond looked towards his friend, who nodded with a grimace, signaling agreement with what was said.
Time passed, and the desert disappeared as they got closer to Qohor. Little by little, they encountered more trees, where they would rest when the king allowed it.
They were half of the company, while the other half flanked the city of the sorcerers with Herrath at the front.
Everything had been meticulously planned by the three of them, for this time Aegon couldn't escape their grasp. So, with the crossbowmen from Myr, the blond was tasked with surrounding the army that the false Targaryen would have, while Aemond's army awaited them at the front.
It couldn't go wrong; after all, they were the best warriors in all of Essos.
