Chapter 14: Exile

"Where is he?" Aemond asked his men as soon as he arrived at the camp in the woods outside Qohor.

He had not yet removed his armor, but he had cleaned his face. His body felt heavy; he no longer had the strength for his armor to feel light, but he could not stop. There was still much ahead.

"In Connington's tent," the soldiers responded, pointing in the direction.

He set off at a brisk pace toward the indicated tent. As he walked by, he saw his camp: men recovering from the battle, women doing everything necessary to satisfy them, blacksmiths repairing armor, cooks setting food on a table outside his tent for any soldier to help themselves, and the Blackfyre banners decorating every corner he passed. Everything that passed before him bowed, and he returned the gesture with a nod.

"Bring Prince Oberyn," he ordered the guard at the tent where the two prisoners were supposed to be.

"Yes, Your Majesty," the man nodded, while the other opened the way for Aemond to pass.

Inside, he found Jon sitting on the floor, his face hidden in his hands, and Aegon, or Griff, bound in front of him. The atmosphere was tense, so Aemond assumed that the truth had already been revealed.

"You're a bastard!" Aegon shouted as soon as he saw the platinum-haired man enter. "I thought you were dead!"

"Exactly, I made you believe I was dead," Blackfyre responded patiently, walking to one end of the tent. "I needed to get the idea out of your head that you would attack my camp to free him."

"Damn liar," Aegon muttered, looking at him with rage.

"I don't think you're in a position to call me a liar," Aemond said, sitting on a wooden box. "Or have you forgotten what you said to prevent me from killing you?"

At that moment, Oberyn appeared at the entrance of the tent, wearing his classic yellow robe with the sun embroidered on one side. His frantic and dark gaze rested on the platinum-haired man bound, as if he was trying to find any familiar trait that would let him know if this man was indeed his nephew.

"Aegon, or Griff, I don't know what to call you, this is Prince Oberyn Martell, Elia's brother, and the uncle of the true and deceased princes Aegon and Rhaenys."

"Who are you?" Oberyn asked the young man, squatting in front of him.

"I don't know," the prisoner responded sadly, as if he could see in that sharp viper's gaze the pain through which the Dornish had gone. "I only know that I am not Aegon."

"How do you know?" Jon asked from the other end of the tent, still hopeful.

"Illyrio told me in Pentos when I was seven," the other three present urged him to continue. "He told me how he made Jon believe I was Rhaegar's son, said my mother was a Lyseni named Serra, and that's why my hair is white. And from that moment, he helped me secretly. We exchanged letters via messenger pigeons or his slaves."

"But you were given to me in Westeros," the knight added.

"He said he had friends there, very good friends, and it was those friends who supposedly swapped me for Aegon and then gave me to you."

"Were those friends the ones who smashed my nephews' heads against the wall?" Oberyn asked bitterly. "Were they the ones who raped my sister over and over on the same bed where her children's corpses lay?" He got closer to the prisoner, so much so that Aemond was forced to take a step forward to show that he would not allow anything foolish. "Give me a name. Baelish? Varys? Clegane? Lannister?"

"He never told me a name. I swear."

"Your word is no longer valuable," added Aemond.

"I will take care of Mopatis personally," Oberyn declared. "What will you do with him?"

"The rules of the Golden Company dictate that he must be executed," the platinum-haired man began, but from the corner of his eye, he saw Jon shifting uncomfortably where he was, obviously not wanting the death of the child he had raised. After all, knowing the truth, it was inevitable to continue feeling affection for him.

"Aemond," said the knight, "don't kill him. Please."

"I won't," Aemond decided after thinking for a few seconds, receiving a disapproving look from Martell. "What use is it to stain my sword with the blood of a bastard?" he asked rhetorically as he stood before his prisoner. "I will give you the life you deserve, far from here. I will send you on a ship much beyond Asshai, where no one will ever know of your existence. You will not mention House Targaryen again, and if you do, I swear by the gods that I will find out and come after you." He took a breath and continued, "You will live tormenting yourself for the deaths you caused. You will dye your hair a color so dark that it will never be white again." He crouched to be at Griff's face level, no longer calling him Aegon. "Consider this an act of mercy and respect for Ser Jon. I did not cut off your head for him."

Griff simply remained motionless, threatened by those bright violet eyes staring into his own. He knew very well that Aemond tended to be fierce with his enemies, but he had never imagined what it felt like to be in that situation.

Afterward, Blackfyre stood up and left the tent, followed by the two Westerosi, leaving the prisoner lying there. Oberyn, for his part, apologized to his companions and said he preferred to prepare his things to leave for Pentos in the morning. Therefore, Aemond and Jon walked the rest of the way to the general tent alone, and when they entered, the platinum-haired man did not hesitate to act peacefully with the knight.

"Jon, sit down," Aemond kindly requested, pointing to the chair in a corner of the table, while filling two cups with wine and placing one in front of the Westerosi. "I'm sorry for what happened."

"Believe me, Your Majesty, I regret it more than you do," Jon admitted with a weary and lost look. "Seventeen years trying to raise the best king the Seven Kingdoms have ever seen. Seventeen years feeling obligated to Rhaegar, thinking I was caring for his son, when all I was doing was feeding the mouth of an orphan from Pentos." He let out a brief sigh as he took his cup. "I failed him."

"Please, Jon, we both know you are much more than a drunk lamenting his sorrows," said the Black Dragon, sitting across from him. "Don't think about that bastard. I'll send him far enough so that no one understands a word he says."

"Still, I can't help but feel affection for him," Jon added, leaning back. "I raised him since he was a baby."

"I understand," with some effort, Aemond removed his helm, unfastened the straps on the sides, and threw it aside. Edavro would clean it later. "However, Jon, I wanted to talk to you about something." The other man looked at him inquisitively. "I know that for many years you have been loyal to the Targaryens, and I'll understand if you don't want to take on the role, but I was serious when I named you my Hand."

"Even though my loyalty is to the Targaryens, I've found that being on their side out of duty is not the most profitable," Jon said with a bit of humor. "Besides, it seems Daenerys is doing very well without me."

"Let's not speak of her," the platinum-haired man requested wearily. He couldn't get out of his head that the Targaryen had three dragons.

"Nonetheless, it will be an honor to be your Hand, Your Majesty," Jon said honestly, surprising the platinum-haired man. "I spent too much time with them; perhaps I don't belong with the red dragons."

"No one belongs with them," Aemond murmured to himself, not wanting to offend him. "You can relax, Jon, I won't ask you to kneel."

"You should," said the redhead with a playful smile. "It's my first piece of advice," he clarified. "He's a king, so the people who serve him should kneel before him. Courtesies don't make you arrogant, Your Majesty, but respected. Getting used to them isn't easy, but you will."

"I don't know if I want to."

"Get used to it?" Aemond nodded. "Your Majesty, every man likes to be revered, even the most honorable of all. Having the Seven Kingdoms on their knees is when you truly judge a man. What would he do with so much power? How would he handle it? Would he be saintly or cruel?" The knight took a sip from his cup. "In Westeros, no matter how hated some may be, the silver-haired will be revered as gods."

"They won't revere me, Jon," interrupted the king, picking up a candle from the table and playing with its flame. "And even if they did, I don't have three dragons."

"The Usurper didn't either," Jon responded shrewdly, wanting to educate the new king he served. "In less than a month, Robert Baratheon became king and the Seven Kingdoms are still rebuilding. The King's Landing streets are still recovering from his tumultuous reign."

"It was a war he started."

"And I've learned that wars are necessary," the knight concluded, rising to leave. "If you want to change the Seven Kingdoms, it's going to be necessary for them to come to a standstill first. You've done well so far. You only need to start changing the Kingdoms' scenery."

"What do you mean?"

"New ruler, new rules," Jon said with a smile. "Change the Seven Kingdoms, change the way they are governed, their religion, their beliefs, their ideologies, and you'll be more feared than respected. The respect will come with time, but fear makes people bow before their ruler."

"I understand," Aemond said with a half smile, as if he were relieved. "Thank you, Jon."

"It is an honor to serve you, Your Majesty," Jon said sincerely, bowing deeply before leaving.

As the door closed behind him, Aemond remained in his place, thinking about what he had heard. He had realized that the moment he had waited for was just beginning and, in many ways, the changes would take time. It was inevitable that he would be tested and would have to make decisions to secure his position as king.

The next morning, Oberyn left, and although the news spread quickly, the respect for Aemond Blackfyre's decision was undeniable. The Targaryens had fallen from their glory, and the Blackfyres were not bound to the same destiny. The world would soon witness a new king determined to change the course of history, and no one knew what awaited them.

The Black Dragon had risen from the ashes, and with it came a new era.