The quiet banquet was suddenly interrupted by the sound of someone loudly slurping thick, viscous liquid.
Tyrion pulled his eyes back into their sockets, shut his gaping mouth just before it hit the table, and flared his nostrils wide before finally turning his head toward the source of the noise.
There, he saw the voluptuous centaur maid, Jiqi, holding a massive fish head wrapped in a napkin. Her full, rosy lips were sucking out the fish brain marrow with great enthusiasm.
Noticing everyone's gaze, the centaur maid blushed and stammered, "This is how you're supposed to eat a fish head. It's really delicious—you should give it a try."
"Uh, alright," Tyrion replied awkwardly, rubbing his nose.
Then, turning back to the Dragon Queen, who was gently sipping golden grape wine, he sighed, "I've been to Stonehall. It's nestled between river and mountain, and there are several naturally defensible spots—places where one man could hold the pass against ten thousand."
Clinton had just snapped out of his daze when he heard Tyrion's words.
He didn't even need to think hard—he could instantly name seven or eight ideal spots for an ambush.
The more he thought, the more regret gnawed at him. Regret turned to rage, and rage turned inward, toward his own incompetence.
Suddenly, he slammed his head against the heavy oak table—hard.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The solid, rhythmic thumping startled everyone at the table.
"Sir, what are you doing? Are you drunk?"
Tyrion and Young Aegon quickly reached out to stop the frenzied Clinton.
When they lifted his head, they saw two long streaks of tears running down his weathered face.
"I was so foolish. Truly. All I thought about was burning the town down. I thought if we took out Robert, everything else would fall into place. I didn't realize we could've ambushed the reinforcements from the three great dukes," the exiled Hand of the King murmured hoarsely.
"Sigh… Sir, don't blame yourself," old Aemon said, his gaze complex as he cast a glance at Daenerys, whose expression remained unreadable. "It's been sixteen years since the Battle of the Bells. Countless famed generals across the Seven Kingdoms and even on Essos have analyzed and discussed that campaign.
But they all only debated whether to prioritize personal glory or fulfill the duties of the King's Hand. None of them ever thought like Daenerys."
Everyone at the table was visibly moved. Their gazes toward the Dragon Queen now carried a new hint of reverence.
Tyrion thought for a moment, then turned to Daenerys and asked, "If Stonehall had been located on a flat plain, with no natural defenses, would Your Majesty still have chosen to burn it down?"
"If there were no natural defenses near the town, wouldn't you create them yourself?" Daenerys glanced at him coolly as she replied.
"Uh… create them? How?"
"First, seal off the town—no one in or out. Then, position archers in the most easily defended street—the one with the most and tallest towers.
Didn't Stonehall have a lot of bell towers?
The battle was called the Battle of the Bells because the whole town rang with bells during the chaos.
So you pick the district with the most bell towers, place archers on the rooftops flanking the street, crossbows at the ready, spearmen hidden in the houses, and heavy cavalry waiting at the far end of the street.
That entire district would become a killing field for the rebels, waiting for Eddard Stark and the others to charge in."
"Uh… but Jon Arryn isn't stupid. Why wouldn't he retreat when attacked?" Tyrion asked, puzzled.
"Sigh. Such a simple question."
Daenerys gave him a look of disdain. Lifting her head, she saw several other blank stares matching Tyrion's.
With a resigned sigh, she explained, "The royalists knew nothing about Robert's location. Clearly, the rebels outside the town didn't know what was happening inside either. But I had the advantage of information—because I was already inside Stonehall."
"Uh… still not quite following," Tyrion said, scratching his head.
"Post a group of soldiers near the ambush site, pretending to besiege Robert's hideout. If Eddard Stark enters the town and hears soldiers shouting things like, 'Robert is in here!' or 'Don't let Robert escape!' or 'Ah! Robert's fierce!' or even, 'Quick! He's weakening!'—what would he choose to do?"
Holy hell… Your Majesty, that's devious!
But still, as underhanded as the tactic sounded, it didn't involve burning civilians or tarnishing a knight's honor.
Tyrion and the others stared, mouths agape.
"But what if Robert really escaped and exposed the trap?" Young Aegon asked.
"Didn't I already say? Archers would occupy all the bell towers. The town would be under my control. As long as a balanced melee doesn't erupt, if Robert dares to show his face, he'd be turned into a pincushion immediately.
Then, shout 'Robert is dead!' and even put his severed head on a spear and carry it to the front lines. The rebel army would collapse. And what comes next—surely I don't need to explain that?"
Still unsatisfied, Young Aegon pressed, "What if Robert doesn't come out, and the townsfolk are made to call for help instead?"
Daenerys sighed. "The moment the townsfolk come out, the Queen would know exactly which house Robert is hiding in. Also, ordinary townsfolk wouldn't dare publicly oppose the King.
Even if someone bold enough did step forward, trying to gamble for wealth or power, Eddard still wouldn't believe them.
Because the Queen could just as easily plant her own men disguised as townsfolk to shout, 'Robert is here! Save Robert!'"
Tyrion quickly followed her logic and began drawing his own conclusions.
Daenerys continued, "If I didn't aim to defeat all three dukes in one strike, there was an even simpler method: Just ambush the town entrance with crossbowmen and armored cavalry. Wait for the three dukes to arrive with their reinforcements, and strike hard—take down one or two. No matter what, Robert wouldn't be able to hold back.
Once he raised his warhammer and charged out in a fury, the prepared crossbows would cut him down. The tide of battle would shift instantly.
From the moment Robert fled alone into Stonehall, the royalists were already in a position of guaranteed victory. The only question was whether it would be a small win—or a crushing one."
Thud. Thud. Thud.Clinton slammed his head against the table again.
"I was so foolish. Truly. I thought I only had two options: burn the town or search house by house for Robert. I never realized ambushing the reinforcements from the three great dukes could've been so simple…"
He burst into tears.
Darkfyre and Little Aegon quickly stepped forward to comfort him.
"Dany."
Aemon felt relieved at heart, pleased by the Dragon Queen's unpredictable battlefield strategies, but his expression remained one of reproach.
Dany shrugged, looking innocent.
"Ah, now I finally understand why the Ghiscari coalition lost so miserably."
Tyrion scratched the back of his head and sighed, sounding both fortunate and regretful. "If Your Grace had been the eldest daughter and born thirty years earlier, the War of the Usurper would've had a completely different outcome."
If the Dragon Queen had been born thirty years earlier, with her ruthlessness and cunning, her father would likely have long since been reduced to ashes.
And the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms—those who loved to play the game of thrones—would've bowed to reality and knelt to kiss the Queen's feet.
There would've been no War of the Usurper, no Greyjoy Rebellion, no War of the Five Kings, and no current Feast of Crows. The common folk would live in peace and prosperity, and Westeros would thrive.
That actually sounds... kind of nice?
"She can't be born thirty years earlier! Otherwise, we horsemen wouldn't have our Khaleesi!" Jhiqui, with her fish-like head, put down her bone and grumbled in discontent.
Irri nodded in agreement and said, "The dosh khaleen have spoken. The Khaleesi will fulfill an ancient prophecy, uniting the Dothraki Sea atop her dragon and becoming the strongest Khal in history."
"The Dothraki have ancient prophecies too? Like the Prince That Was Promised? Azor Ahai?" Tyrion asked in surprise.
Irri tilted her head and thought for a moment. "Maybe it's the same prophecy. After all, Khaleesi did say that there are White Walkers beyond the Wall and that the Long Night is coming. So the horsemen should have their own Prince That Was Promised!
"But it's not Azor Ahai. In Dothraki, it's called 'The Stallion Who Mounts the World.'"
"All right, enough about the horsemen's prophecy. Don't speak of it in front of outsiders," Dany said, waving her hand.
She wasn't trying to hide anything—truthfully, she simply didn't trust the dosh khaleen's prophetic abilities. Speaking of it would only be embarrassing.
Indeed, "The Stallion Who Mounts the World" was not a prophecy meant specifically for Daenerys.
Long, long ago, the Dothraki passed down a legend: that a mighty Khal would one day rise on the Great Grass Sea, with a khalasar covering the entire land, uncountable in number, and wielding an arakh sharp as grass blades.
The dosh khaleen believed Daenerys's son, Rhaego, was that prophesied one.
Clearly, if Dany hadn't traveled through time, that boy wouldn't have even had a chance to be born.
"Are White Walkers real?"
Reading the room, Tyrion shifted the subject.
He could tell the Dragon Queen didn't want to talk about horsemen prophecies, and to be fair, he was more curious about the White Walkers.
"They are real." Old Aemon's expression grew complicated as he glanced at Little Aegon, then slowly recounted Daenerys's experience at the Wall.
Few people knew that Prince Rhaegar had written a letter to Aemon on the day Aegon was born.
Rhaegar told Aemon that he himself might not be the Prince That Was Promised—and that the newborn Aegon might be the true one.
On the day of Aegon's birth, a red comet had indeed appeared above King's Landing, seemingly aligning with the prophecy from Asshai.
Until today, Old Aemon had never taken Rhaegar's words seriously.
Rhaegar and Aegon had both died sixteen years ago, and the Prince That Was Promised was not supposed to die. That alone suggested neither of them was the true one.
It was only after meeting Daenerys that Aemon became convinced she was the one.
Though she had firmly denied it from the start.
But now...
Well, under the Dragon Queen's influence, the old man no longer cared much about the prophecy from Asshai.
However, the matter of the prophecy was directly tied to Little Aegon's identity.
This was a serious issue.
If the prophecy of the woods witch was true, then the Prince That Was Promised must be born of the bloodline of Aerys and Rhaella.
This would rule out Dany—she devoutly followed the Faith of the Seven and likely would never become a believer of R'hllor. That meant she might truly not be the prophesied one.
Which left only one possibility: in addition to him and Dany, a third Targaryen must still be alive to fulfill the prophecy.
And that person must be Rhaegar's child.
Because the Long Night is coming. Viserys is dead. Dany's offspring has yet to be born and won't have time to grow into the Prince That Was Promised.
Only Rhaegar's children would be the right age.
Thinking of it this way, the chances of Little Aegon being real were quite high.
"Dany, what do you think about Little Aegon?"
After finishing the explanation about the White Walkers, it was already late. The feast came to an end, and Aegon, Clinton, and the others were led downstairs by Irri to rest.
Everyone had been shocked by the news of the White Walkers and no longer brought up the matter of Aegon's identity.
Maybe they planned to speak with Dany about it privately the next day.
Then Old Aemon made his way to Daenerys's bedchamber.
"What do you think—real or fake?" Aemon asked.
"I don't know." Dany gently stroked Little Red's wings, looking helpless.
Yes, Little Red stayed with Aemon during the day, but at night he wanted to sleep with his mother.
Dany needed to build a bond with him in preparation for future dragon-riding.
"Varys certainly has the means to swap one for another. The question is, is he truly loyal to House Targaryen? Would he be willing to do such a thing?" she sighed.
(End of chapter)
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