Chapter 15: By the Right Hand and the Left Hand

Qohor was probably the most ominous city Aemond had ever been in. And although he was by no means a superstitious man, he could feel hundreds of eyes watching him from behind, perhaps because of his silver hair, which had always signified power to sorcerers, or perhaps because they believed that, just as Daenerys had dragons, he too possessed them.

He had visited several of the city's renowned blacksmiths, searching for one capable of working with Valyrian steel. However, every one he approached insisted that they would not forge another weapon from such refined steel for a bearer of a sword that had so profaned many souls.

"Just listen, Silver King, approach your blade and listen... These are the screams of those whom this edge has slain," an old man who never left his anvil had told him.

After giving up on the blacksmiths, Aemond decided to visit the clerics and sorcerers, seeking answers about the hatching of Daenerys's dragon eggs. If he couldn't find answers in Qohor, he wouldn't find them anywhere else.

"Some say it was blood magic that brought them to life," they told him. "Three lives had to be taken to give them to the powerful winged creatures. After all, such are their gods; with the right hand, they give life, and with the left hand, they take it away."

The daring king would have preferred to mention all the sacrifices made to his foolish goat god, but offending a sorcerer in a city full of them was not the wisest move, even for a dragon.

And so, Aemond left Qohor without any answers, half of his gold gone, three thousand men fewer, but without a false Targaryen threatening his claim.

He led the journey on his black stallion, more focused on the book he had between his legs than on the road. He knew his horse would follow the path that led them southeast across Essos.

In recent weeks, the platinum-haired man had begun prioritizing reading the books he had been forced to study as a child, though now with much more intention, unaware of how annoying it was to the soldiers that their king was more focused on an old book than on the road they traveled. He had heard rumors about this, as well as being called a coward and foolish, lacking what was necessary to be a leader, but he simply ignored it. His men would never understand the weight of an entire dynasty on his shoulders.

"What are you reading today, Your Majesty?" Ser Jon asked, catching up on his gray horse. The presence of the knight had also created tension in the camp, especially since the day Aemond had sent those travelers with Aegon, and since then, Jon Connington was completely free.

"The Testimony of Mushroom," he replied seriously, incredulous about what he was reading at that moment.

The Testimony of Mushroom is a narrative based on the oral accounts of the court jester, written by a scribe whose name is unknown, who entertained King Viserys, Princess Rhaenyra, and two Aegons, the second and third before the Dance of the Dragons, with his antics.

"Who the hell names themselves 'Mushroom'?" Herrath asked with amusement, as the blonde rode to the king's left.

"The court jester of King Viserys I," Aemond said with a smile. "But I would like to know, Ser Jon, are the jokes in Westeros so bad that the court needs a jester?"

"Your Majesty, the jester serves as an excuse for making dark humor jokes," the knight, about forty years old, threw his red hair back and continued explaining. "When someone doesn't like the joke made, everyone agrees to have the jester killed."

"That makes sense," agreed the Dornishman, who was also part of the front row. "What doesn't make sense is that Your Majesty spends so much time immersed in paper and ink. Your eyes are wandering among the words."

"What's a better way to avoid my mistakes than by seeing the errors that cost my ancestors their lives?" he said seriously, though without losing the conversational tone. "I must break that endless wheel today or it will continue to turn tomorrow."

"Tell me something that so many history books have taught you that your experiences have not," Herrath asked.

"People don't give a damn; rather, they shit on the word of a king once he's gone," he responded with bitterness in his voice, remembering why he was there and not sitting on the Iron Throne. "No one cares who he named as successor; they only want a male firstborn, son of his current wife." He closed the book and put it in a leather bag hanging from his horse's saddle. "Rhaenyra Targaryen, Aemond Blackfyre were both rejected when they were named heirs."

"And both had a tragic end," concluded the Dornishman. "How amusing to compare oneself to them, Your Majesty."

"That's why I read their stories, Rylon," he said challengingly but with amusement. "Both Rhaenyra and Aemond were too proud. They let love drive them and acted foolishly."

"Who the hell is Rhaenyra Targaryen?" Herrath asked, causing Aemond to look at him incredulously, with an expression he had never seen on his friend's face before. "What?"

"How is it possible that you descend from one of the houses that was once the most loyal to the Targaryens and you don't know who the hell Rhaenyra Targaryen was?" asked the white-haired man, offended, causing Rylon and Ser Jon to laugh with amusement. "Have you never heard of the Dance of the Dragons?" The blonde shook his head, not knowing what to say.

"Should I have?"

"No," Aemond admitted, knowing that perhaps the Dance of the Dragons was a historical fact that only fascinated him. "The only thing you need to know is that on that day, the day King Viserys I married Alicent Hightower and she gave him a son, the self-destruction of House Targaryen began... and Blackfyre too. Unfortunately, our past, present, and future will always go hand in hand, just like our fire and blood."

Dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of days and nights had passed on the journey. It wasn't that Aemond didn't like riding his horse or traveling long distances, but he loathed the unbearable heat of Essos. And despite having grown up in the hot lands of the East, there was nothing he wanted more than to see snow, or perhaps a storm without needing to be near the coast.

They traveled by day and night, covering as much ground as the sun allowed. Otherwise, they took refuge in makeshift tents to rest before continuing. They had no time to lose. However, the issues within the camp were becoming more tense every day, especially because, almost daily, Herrath and Rylon brought before the king a soldier who had overstepped with his words, letting his tongue go beyond the limits when the conversation turned to his leader.

"I don't mean to offend, Your Majesty," one of them said, kneeling before him, "but you didn't show much by letting the Targaryen go."

That soldier was brave enough to say it to his face. However, other types of conversations reached his ears, infuriating him:

"I think our black king's balls were roasted when he tried to be a dragon," was the comment that changed everything. After this, Aemond ordered every man who dared to challenge his authority to be brought before him, burning the hands of those who spoke out in front of him, leaving their palms in the coals for thirty seconds. That was the merciful punishment; as for those who denied having said anything in front of him, he ordered their trousers to be pulled down and their testicles burned with a torch.

In total, seventy-seven men were punished by Aemond over a period of thirty days, significantly delaying them, but according to Jon, "it was the right thing to do," as no king should allow his subjects to think they can speak about him so freely.

"The Mad King did it for pleasure; I do it for justice," he told himself when someone, truly no one, questioned his actions. And although the king's cruelty was poorly received by the soldiers, soon none dared to mention his name alongside anything negative.

"Men are obedient when their balls are at stake," Herrath joked, seeing their frightened looks every time he passed by with a torch close to them.

Of course, the inability of those burned men to ride was a slight delay for the rest of the troops, but fortunately, the wagons were well used with them, although the screams they made when the road turned stony only irritated the rest.

When they rested, it took them less than an hour to set up camp, which Aemond allowed them to use for only ten hours, no more, no less. They had to move quickly. Therefore, it took them the same hour to regroup and continue the journey.

"We will set sail from Astapor," he would tell Jon every time they talked about the ships. "I will not return to the Free Cities," he insisted.

Every day spent with Ser Jon Connington saw the silver mercenary fading away, replaced by the black king. He wanted to become a true lord of Westeros but didn't want to sever his ties with his Essosi culture. He wanted to sit by a campfire with the other soldiers, but those men didn't distinguish between positions. So, if he did, they would treat him as an equal again and not as their king. Thus, hearing their laughter and enjoyment every night, Aemond spent his time alone in the command tent or his own tent, as he would not deprive Rylon and Herrath of the experience they could enjoy.

"If this is being a king, I wouldn't recommend it to anyone," he said to himself one night, sitting at the map table with a glass of wine in hand. He shook his head from side to side, perhaps due to the Dornish wine in his blood, or perhaps simply because he was bored.

Once again, the young silver-haired man pondered his loneliness. He was not a solitary man; in fact, he always enjoyed being in the company of others, perhaps because in those moments he could show his more charming side and not the savage one of the battles for which he was known. With women, it wasn't very complicated; they simply approached him above all others. Maybe it was his royal blood calling them or his white hair or his purple eyes, but they always preferred him, which caused envy among many.

He wasn't stupid. He could notice how some looked at him sideways when they congratulated him for winning a battle, when they invited him alone to banquets, when they showed preference simply because he bore the name Blackfyre. He hated not being able to enjoy the moments when his actions were rewarded, but he didn't want to lose the only family he had, the mercenaries of the Golden Company.

Just think about it—a young man who had grown up without a mother, without a father, without any family, thousands of leagues from his true home. His only refuge, the place where he felt safe, was with those mercenaries. Thus, learning to hide his pride and stubbornness, from a young age Aemond sought to fit into where he did not belong—a square peg in a round hole, a wolf among chickens, a dragon among sheep.