"What? You're calling me cousin? The son of Rhaegar and Elia? Are you trying to scam me?"
Quentyn, whose face bore an honest, guileless look, stared skeptically at the eager silver-haired man before him and bluntly voiced his doubts.
The joy on Aegon's face—the joy of reuniting with kin—froze over in an instant, like spring water caught in a long winter's wind. It cracked, flaked away, and left only shame and awkwardness behind.
If Aegon hadn't reminded her, the Dragon Queen might have completely forgotten about Quentyn and his companions in the quarantine zone—small boats had been delivering food there on schedule.
The greyscale plague was a mutation of the original greyscale virus. According to modern medical standards, different viruses would require different cures.
But this was a fantasy world. What made both plagues so terrifying was their high viral potency, rendering them nearly impossible to kill.
Though the greyscale plague was a mutated form of the original, the energy level of the virus likely remained unchanged.
Therefore, the medicine used to treat greyscale was still effective against the plague.
After spending more than half a month on a desolate rocky shore fifty kilometers west of Astapor, Quentyn was finally cured and discharged.
He and his companions had been wondering why the Queen hadn't come to fetch them now that they were healthy.
Then someone came to get all three of them.
Upon arriving at the Queen's Great Pyramid, they hadn't even had time to pay their respects when a young man rushed up, grabbed Quentyn's hand excitedly, and affectionately called him "cousin."
Aegon released the black-haired, honest-looking young man's right hand, stepped back two paces, and said dryly, "I really am Aegon, son of Prince Rhaegar and your aunt, Princess Elia. I didn't die—Lord Varys saved me."
"This is so fantastical, it's hard to believe," murmured the pillar-like youth beside them as he rubbed his shiny bald head and shook it hard.
The blond also muttered, "Who trusts Varys anyway? And he didn't even inform Prince Doran."
Aegon's face flushed red, then turned pale. Inwardly, he swore he would become a dragonrider. Only atop a dragon would his words carry true weight.
Once Big Black returns from his mission, I'll work harder—try communicating with him every night and strive to become his rider.
Hmm, since Big Black understands humans and can speak their language, could I move him with a tale of misery?
For instance, I could talk more about my current pitiful situation—my own cousin won't even acknowledge me. Isn't that tragic enough?
Maybe Big Black would pity me then...
He pondered.
After setting his sights on Big Black, Aegon persevered. Every night, when the dragon lay sprawled on the wall asleep, Aegon would spend an hour or two with him.
Knowing Big Black could understand speech, he'd ramble about things like "I am the true dragon," "I am the son of Rhaegar and Elia," and "I am one of the prophesied three heads."
Dany didn't stop him from these seemingly pointless actions—in fact, she welcomed them.
Still, Aegon wasn't foolish. Now that he realized the "three heads" prophecy wasn't convincing anyone, he considered changing tactics.
Hmm... selling misery?
"Your Majesty, what's this guy's deal?" Quentyn's question broke Aegon's train of thought.
"He's pretending to be my aunt's child. Don't be fooled. Any rational person would know that if Varys had saved my aunt's child, he would've informed my father!" Quentyn said firmly.
Dany almost nodded in agreement. This Dornish prince might look simple, but he clearly wasn't stupid.
Aegon nearly coughed up blood.
"Aunt Dany, you tell him," he said grimly.
Dany couldn't be bothered and shot a glance at Tyrion.
After Clinton recovered his right hand, he officially became Dany's military advisor for the western expedition and also served as the commander of the cavalry, essentially fulfilling the role Ser Barristan once held.
—Once Hand of the King, once matched Robert six to four (Robert being the six), and once the acting leader of the Golden Company, Clinton was certainly qualified.
Now, he was busy helping the Queen overhaul military preparations and train cavalry officers.
Ser Duck, Ser Duckfeld, had also joined the cavalry and become Clinton's personal guard captain.
After the Green Saintess was executed, Lemore became the High Septon of Meereen's Seven Faith and left for Meereen long ago.
Even "Scholar Maester" Haldon became Clinton's scribe.
Only Aegon remained idle and unemployed.
"Prince Quentyn, Prince Aegon is most likely your cousin," Tyrion said.
"Most likely? Imp, what do you mean by most likely?" Aegon's expression darkened as he demanded loudly.
He couldn't stay calm when it came to matters of principle.
"That was poorly worded."
The Imp slapped himself on the mouth. That's what you get for being honest!
"Prince Aegon is your cousin," he corrected.
"Imp, you're a kinslayer, a patricide, a regicide—your words can't be trusted!" the ever-blunt Quentyn replied bluntly.
"See this?" Tyrion pointed his right thumb to the three-headed dragon emblem on his chest. "You recognize this, right? A second-rank official under the Queen, with the right to sit in her small council.
No matter what I've done in the past, I'm now the Queen's most trusted advisor."
"Enough," Dany interrupted their nonsense with a wave of her hand. "Prince Quentyn, please introduce your companions first."
If Quentyn's two companions had just been ordinary guards, introductions would've been unnecessary.
But based on how they treated Quentyn, it was obvious they were both nobles.
And nobles must be treated with courtesy—that's tradition in this world.
"My apologies for the oversight,"
Quentyn bowed to the Queen, then gestured to the handsome, proud-looking blond youth. "Ser Gerris Drinkwater of House Drinkwater of Dorne, my close friend."
"Your Majesty, you're more enchanting than the violets of the Water Gardens," Gerris said with a light bow and a charming smile.
"Greetings, Ser Gerris."
"This is Archibald Yronwood, my foster father's nephew," Quentyn continued, indicating the bald, pillar-like young man.
"Your Majesty, my warhammer is at your service," Iron Pillar declared, raising his spiked mace.
"Greetings, Ser Archibald."
After the formal introductions, Dany led them from the solemn great hall to a warm and comfortable sitting room. Once everyone was seated, the maids brought in tea.
"Aegon's identity is vouched for by Ser Clinton and Lady Asha. You should trust them."
Dany didn't vouch for Aegon directly; instead, she recounted the journey that brought Aegon and his companions to Astapor.
"During the War of the Usurper, Dorne always stood with House Targaryen. And my father was a cautious man. If Varys had approached him, he would never have risked exposing Prince Aegon's identity. It simply doesn't add up," Quentyn said, shaking his head.
Aegon's face darkened completely.
He still remembered Tyrion's warning: Don't be so eager to usurp your aunt's place. Even if she acknowledges your superior claim, a vassal's vassals are not your own—and she's not even your vassal yet.
Only Dorne is a truly trustworthy ally.
That was why he had paid such close attention to Cousin Quentyn's condition, waiting for him to recover so they could meet his aunt together.
If I had known it would come to this, I'd have left them rotting on that rocky shore!
"Your Majesty, did you know about Prince Aegon before this?" Quentyn asked.
"No," said Dany.
"This sort of thing should be kept from as many people as possible," Aegon argued, his face flushing red.
Quentyn stared into Aegon's eyes. "Your Highness, I speak plainly, so don't take offense. Think about it—my father and Queen Daenerys are your closest kin. Isn't it strange that neither of them knew?"
"Whether it's strange or not, we'll ask Varys when we find him! Prince Quentyn, why don't you tell us how you ended up in Slaver's Bay?" Tyrion asked curiously.
"I…" Quentyn hesitated, then pulled a square-folded parchment envelope from his pocket.
He carefully opened it, solemnly withdrew a sheet of vellum, and stood to approach Dany. The honest young man blushed as he handed her the paper.
"What is it?"
The imp craned his neck—what little he had—but still couldn't see a thing.
The Dragon Queen frowned as she studied the vellum, her moonlit beauty now distant and imposing.
Quentyn squeezed his sweat-damp palms and said softly, "Fifteen years ago, my uncle, Prince Oberyn Martell, secretly slipped into Braavos and, under the witness of Sea Lord Ferrego, signed a pact with Ser Willem Darry."
"Which Willem Darry?"
Tyrion had barely asked the question when realization struck him. He exclaimed, "Willem Darry of Darry Hall? Seven hells! My old man was right after all!"
Dany folded up the contract and asked curiously, "What did Duke Tywin say?"
"Aunt, what does the contract say?" Aegon asked eagerly, staring at the parchment.
"See for yourself." Dany handed him the vellum.
"When it came to Princess Elia, many said Doran Martell was weak and indecisive. But my father believed Doran was deep-thinking and would never let the matter rest easily.
So, in truth, he never put much stock in an alliance with Dorne. He believed the two sides could never truly unite," Tyrion said with a complicated expression.
He still remembered that night—when he had lost his nose, his title as Hand of the King, and raged at his father: I bled for House Lannister, for Joffrey's Iron Throne. You can't treat me this way.
When he listed his accomplishments, the first one he mentioned was betrothing Myrcella to Trystane—Quentyn's younger brother—to win Dorne's support for the Iron Throne.
Tywin had only sneered: The living lion will never earn the forgiveness of the dead cripple.
"Viserys is dead," Aegon said, frowning as he held up the contract. "According to this agreement, Viserys Targaryen was to marry Arianne Martell, and in return, when he landed in Westeros to reclaim the Iron Throne, Dorne would support him fully."
"Viserys is dead. That sacred contract is void. Quentyn, why show us this now?"
At this point, even Aegon stopped calling him cousin.
"Don't tell me…" Tyrion glanced at the blushing Quentyn, then at the stunningly beautiful Dragon Queen, and snorted, "If the second son couldn't marry the first daughter, then the first daughter's brother can marry the second son's sister? Clever cripple, that Doran!"
"You dare insult my father?!" Quentyn roared, springing to his feet to grab Tyrion by the hair.
"I apologize! Boy, don't be rude in front of the Queen," Tyrion yelped, shrinking back with an awkward laugh.
Quentyn shot a glance at the Queen, then angrily sank back into his chair.
"It's fine. No need to worry about me," Dany said with a soft chuckle.
"I apologize," Tyrion repeated. "That 'cripple' bit—that was my dead father's phrase. I got carried away reminiscing and slipped."
"But I wasn't wrong, was I?" he said with a mischievous smile toward the Dornish prince.
"You weren't. That is exactly my father's intention—for me to marry Your Majesty as a continuation of that pact. Dorne will still support your claim to the Iron Throne. Your Grace, what is your view on this?"
Quentyn clenched his fists at his sides, sweat beading on his brow. Though his voice trembled, his tone remained sincere.
"I—object—completely!"
(End of chapter)
Want to read the chapters in Advance? Join my Patreon
https://patreon.com/Glimmer09