Sansa's sapphire-blue eyes dimmed slightly as she said softly, "You once planned to marry me off to Ser Harrold Hardyng. You told me to seduce him. Now, I've completely bewitched him."
She had always known he would never marry her.
Even after taking her body, he insisted on marrying her to Harrold Hardyng—the heir to the Vale and cousin of Robert Arryn.
To ensure her success, he had even taught her how to properly use her delicate beauty and the graceful curves of her maturing body.
She had succeeded. She had seduced that man.
"But things have changed."
Littlefinger sighed and explained, "Robin—Robert's nickname—won't live to adulthood. If I want to keep control over the Vale, I must first control its next heir, which was Harrold.
But now the Targaryens have returned. They don't care whether the lord of the Vale carries Jon Arryn's bloodline. In fact, they'd be pleased to see the Vale take a new name.
So I no longer need Harrold.
Or rather, Harrold is no longer the best choice.
If you marry Aegon, he'll give me the rightful title of King of the Vale at no cost to himself.
And you—by marrying the true dragon—the enmity between Stark and Targaryen will naturally be resolved.
You even share a common enemy: the Lannisters.
Once you become queen, the Freys and the Boltons will no longer be a problem. You could even ride a dragon alongside Aegon and witness with your own eyes how dragonfire burns Harrenhal and the Dreadfort to the ground."
Littlefinger never hid his thoughts from Sansa.
Sometimes, when she didn't understand, he would even explain things to her himself.
In Littlefinger's heart, Sansa was his daughter, lover, and apprentice all in one.
Watching her grow in political cunning under his guidance brought him a strange sense of satisfaction.
Yes—Sansa had once learned the art of court intrigue from Cersei, and now she played the game of power with Littlefinger. Taught hand-in-hand by two masters, she was arguably the most promising player in the entire Game of Thrones.
"Ride a dragon and burn down Harrenhal and the Dreadfort? Just like Aegon rode Balerion and burned Harrenhal."
Sansa's eyes lit up, her chest heaving with excitement, her lips breathless.
She was thrilled by that vision of the future.
For survival. For revenge. For reclaiming the North. For House Stark. She had even been willing to marry Harrold Hardyng.
Though Harrold was the nominal heir to the Vale, he came from a rather undistinguished background.
Perhaps as karmic payback for opposing the Mad King for no reason, Jon Arryn—the first foster father of the game—met a pitiful end. His son was weak and feeble-minded, unable to survive to adulthood, while his relatives died off one by one.
The closest blood relative left to old Jon was Harrold Hardyng—his sister's grandson.
The bloodline was too diluted.
And Harrold himself was no prize. Not even married yet, and he already had two bastards.
Aegon's origins might be murky, but he was the Dragon Queen's acknowledged nephew—young, promising, well-educated, no vices of gambling or whoring… well, except for Tyrion ruining his purity.
He had a dragon (the Dragon Queen scoffed: "In your dreams"), a powerful aunt who was a queen, was Rhaegar's son, and the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. No matter how you looked at it, he was leagues above Harrold.
Ten times better!
So, Sansa was more than happy to accept the new fiancé her "father" had arranged.
"Will Aegon agree?" she asked anxiously.
"Don't worry. I'm a hundred percent certain he will," Littlefinger said with complete confidence.
"But… what about us?" Sansa clung to his waist, clinging tightly, seemingly afraid.
Littlefinger's eyes flickered as he gently stroked her hair and whispered, "Don't be afraid. I'll take care of everything. That fool Margaery went to Grand Maester Pycelle for moon tea, as if she wanted the whole world to know she was keeping a lover.
The moon tea I gave you—no one knows about it. Because I brewed it myself."
"Hmph. If I really had to take the Citadel's exams, my chain would be longer than that old coot Pycelle's," he said, smiling with confident pride.
Just as he'd taught Sansa before—without family background or martial power, he could only study hard.
But unlike Sansa, he hadn't had the benefit of a good teacher guiding him step by step.
He could only learn from books, absorbing the wisdom of those who came before.
Even while serving as Master of Coin, constantly scrambling to find funds for Robert, Littlefinger always carved out time to read and improve himself.
Reading changed his fate.
Hidden beneath her thick auburn hair, Sansa's eyes were clouded with emotion as she murmured timidly, "I can't bear to leave you."
"Heh. You studied under Cersei for a long time, didn't you?"
Littlefinger pressed his lips into her soft, voluminous hair and whispered, "Cersei married Robert, yet kept her relationship with Jaime and even bore him three children. My sweet girl, how many will you bear for me?"
Sansa only replied coyly with a "You're awful," refusing to answer directly.
Littlefinger, aroused by her teasing, pressed her head downward and said, "I've been studying Valyrian texts and learned nine different arts of springtime moans—two more than even the maesters of Qohor.
Come, let me teach you… teach you how to make a man utterly obsessed, how to become the purest virgin in his eyes once more. Fool even me, and I'll be satisfied—how hard could it be to charm a naïve little prince after that?"
Sansa was obedient.
Uncle Finger was Westeros's top brothel magnate, and his skills and experience in training bed slaves surpassed even 99% of the Qohorik masters.
In King's Landing, one of his most important daily duties was personally instructing beautiful girls and boys, molding them into his trump cards.
Now, Sansa was gradually becoming his newest ace.
Oldtown, the Citadel.
In the same meeting room as before—
Only this time, nearly a quarter of the attendees were gone.
"It's confirmed. Acetate Velyn has gone completely dark. After they caught him the night before last, the hired knights immediately fled, taking him away from Oldtown," Archmaester Galado said with a defeated tone.
"Serves him right. Who told him to go out for a piss in the middle of the night?" Dr. Nolen grumbled furiously.
"Sigh… This world is so dangerous now you can't even take a piss after dark without risking your life," one of the archmaesters lamented.
"Pissing at night isn't the danger. The danger is going out without leather armor, steel gear, or a crossbow. A thousand gold dragons for one man—those hedge knights have gone mad.
Starting today, no one is to spend the night anywhere but the archmaesters' quarters. The dorms have private baths," the head of the Citadel said coldly.
In the silence, one archmaester muttered, "The Dragon Queen has gone back to Dragonstone again."
The silence deepened. Dead silence.
"Let her do whatever she wants. We're already past caring," the head sighed after a long pause.
Bang!
Suddenly, the doors burst open, and daylight spilled into the dim meeting room alongside a shadowy figure.
Before the archmaesters could begin cursing, the newcomer burst out laughing and shouted, "Good news! Archmaester Osric from Braavos has succeeded!"
"Fantastic!"
The scholars were overjoyed. The sunlight streaming through the door seemed to sweep away both the gloom inside the room and the darkness in their hearts.
Dorne, the Water Gardens.
Red blood oranges hung thick among the lush green branches. In the sunlight, the pool shimmered with emerald waves as barefoot children laughed and played.
"What is she thinking? She's come to Westeros so many times but has never once tried to contact me."
In the shade by the pool, Prince Doran of Dorne sat in his wheelchair, sighing as he spoke.
"Father, you should take the initiative. Sending a raven to Dragonstone isn't that difficult," said a short, olive-skinned woman beside him.
She was Dorne's heir, Doran's eldest daughter—Arianne Martell.
After her failed attempt to rebel by abducting Myrcella, which led to her arrest, Doran shared his secrets with her. Father and daughter reconciled and made peace.
Unfortunately, the beautiful young lady Myrcella became collateral damage and was disfigured by Darkstar.
"Just look at what's become of the Citadel now, and you'll see the maesters are not to be trusted. How could I dare entrust them with something so dangerous?" Prince Doran shook his head.
Ravens were managed by the maesters; delivering messages almost always required going through them.
Even if Doran trusted his own maester, he couldn't trust Maester Pylos at Dragonstone to handle the message securely.
"Then send someone close to us. My sisters would be happy to serve as envoys," Arianne suggested.
"The Sand Snakes?" Doran gave a strange look and nodded slightly. "They're trustworthy, yes, but their identities are well-known. If someone at Dragonstone were to see one of them, how do you think King's Landing would react?"
Arianne frowned. "You want to make contact with Daenerys, but you're also afraid of being discovered by King's Landing. Isn't that being too hesitant?
And you blame Daenerys for not coming to see you? Since the War of the Usurper ended, Dorne has done nothing to oppose the Iron Throne.
If I were her, I'd think you resented Rhaegar for betraying Aunt Elia. Or worse, that you don't even want revenge for her."
"That's called prudence! Just look at the Seven Kingdoms now—House Stark of the North is gone, House Tully of the Riverlands is gone, House Baratheon of the Stormlands is gone. In the Vale of Arryn, Jon's bloodline is nearly gone as well. House Tyrell in the Reach offended the Dragon Queen and met a bad end. Even the Lannisters have suffered great losses."
"Only we of Dorne remain intact. Our people live in peace, and we have ample food reserves. Even if the Long Night truly comes, Dorne will not be afraid," Doran said in a deep voice.
Intact?
You've already forgotten about Uncle Oberyn?
Arianne grumbled inwardly but comforted him aloud, "Then continue being prudent. Why the sudden urgency?"
"I'm worried about your brother! The Dragon Queen has gone to Dragonstone but hasn't come to see me—that means she hasn't met Quentyn. But it's been nearly a year since he set off," Doran said with a sigh and a shake of his head.
"If we'd known the Dragon Queen would come to Westeros riding a dragon, we wouldn't have let him depart so hastily. Look at Sarella—disguised as a man and studying at the Citadel, yet somehow she's ended up as the Dragon Queen's apprentice in magic and got to Slaver's Bay before Quentyn," Arianne said with a puzzled tone.
Doran gave a bitter smile. "We can't count on Sarella—she's too far away. Go ask the Sand Snakes who's willing to take a trip to the Stepstones.
Sarella said the Dragon Queen has mastered Valyria's long-distance magical communication. I suspect she can correspond with Ser Barristan from afar.
The Stepstones are right next to Dorne. Even if someone discovers the envoy, we can claim it was out of concern for the safety of our coastal waters."
Arianne's eyes lit up, and she smiled. "Why not let me go myself? It'll show more sincerity—after all, it's Ser Barristan we're talking about!"
Doran looked her over and nodded. "Very well."
In truth, Doran no longer needed to worry about his son.
Over the past two weeks, Quentyn and his companions had fully recovered.
For the first time, Daenerys saw firsthand the brilliance of Kuai Xi's genius.
The title of "foremost of the younger generation" was clearly well-deserved.
Though Kuai Xi herself greatly disliked the nickname, which had been sullied by someone from Lys, it remained the general consensus among the supernatural circles of Asshai.
Using only Daenerys' vague ramblings about yin-yang and the five elements, combined with incomplete information provided by Butian, she developed cures for both greyscale and grey plague. What better proof could there be of her talent?
However, once Daenerys returned from Dragonstone, Kuai Xi and Butian would be leaving.
"You really won't stay to help me?" In the garden atop the Great Pyramid, Daenerys looked at the red-masked, blue-robed priestess.
"You don't need me to win. But the seal project in the crypts of Thunder Isle can't wait," Kuai Xi replied calmly.
"Very well. Take care of yourself."
Daenerys nodded, then turned to the necromancer. "Master Butian, thank you for everything."
The mage from Yi Ti glanced solemnly at the black dragon napping on the wall with its eyes closed, his expression complicated. "Thank me? You allowed His Majesty the Black One to accompany me to Yi Ti to treat the plague. I don't even know how to repay you!"
Daenerys, ready to offer another polite remark, suddenly froze. "You noticed? You called him 'Your Majesty'?"
"Yes. Your black dragon is a demigod. My old eyes didn't see it at first. It took more than half a month to realize."
Butian sneaked a glance at Kuai Xi. Seeing that she didn't react, he finally breathed a sigh of relief.
He hadn't figured it out on his own—Kuai Xi had told him.
"I see…" Daenerys thought of the inactive High Sparrow, and a thought sprang to mind.
She rubbed her smooth little chin and murmured, "I want to make a deal with you."
(End of Chapter)
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