A few days later.
King's Landing, the Queen's Chambers.
"The Sea Serpent's invitation... are you going?" Alicent asked, a worried look in her eyes.
"He is far too arrogant," Viserys said, his face gloomy.
"You are the king. Of course you cannot risk sailing across the Narrow Sea for a mere betrothal party," Rhaenyra said, holding her father's hand, her tone firm.
Besides, the situation was turbulent. Who knew what the Sea Serpent was truly planning?
Viserys agreed, then asked, "Aemon, what do you think?"
He wanted to hear his nephew's insight.
"Uh..." Aemon was stunned, a half-eaten pastry in his mouth.
Go? Of course, he had to go.
Laena was in Tyrosh, and his aunt Rhaenys, who knew how to exercise restraint, was there as well.
What's more, the letter clearly invited the "royal family" and the "Regent," treating them as two separate lines of authority.
Only Aunt Rhaenys would be so meticulous, hoping that her true kin would be present for her son's betrothal.
"From the look on your face, you are planning to go," Viserys saw through him at a glance.
"Yes, I have to go," Aemon said, swallowing the pastry, his eyes smiling.
Staying in King's Landing and working behind closed doors would get him nowhere.
He needed to get out, to observe the movements of the Sea Serpent and the Three Daughters, and find the right time to strike.
"You may go, but do not get involved in their war," Viserys warned seriously.
He hesitated for a second. "Lord Cameron of Tarth has refused to attend this party. When you pass by Tarth, help him if you can."
Aemon's eyes flickered.
An internal conflict in the Stormlands? It was very likely.
A vassal's loyalty was never absolute. Lord Borros of Storm's End openly supporting the Sea Serpent was pushing boundaries.
Corlys had taken Tyrosh but had yet to share any of the substantial rewards. It was only natural that some of his allies were having second thoughts.
"You will know more when you arrive," Viserys waved his hand.
"And if there is trouble?" Aemon didn't want to work for nothing.
Viserys replied grimly, "You are the Protector of the Realm. You have the right to mobilize the lords of the Vale, and you are permitted to command half of the royal fleet."
"Leave it to me," Aemon's expression shifted.
The Vale was rich in cavalry, but its navy was small.
Good steel should be used on the blade. Using another lord's soldiers would allow him to flex his power without risking his own.
The Isle of Tarth.
A large island off the coast of the Stormlands, rich in valleys, plains, and mineral resources.
Because of the clear blue waters surrounding it, it was also called the Sapphire Isle.
Today, the tides were turning.
Lord Cameron Tarth, a man over fifty, rode his warhorse at the head of a patrol along the island's edge.
The former Archon of Tyrosh had lost his city and the loyalty of his mercenaries.
Bands of them now roamed the seas, looting islands along the way. Tarth had suffered greatly.
"The king's letter said the Prince Regent might come," Lord Cameron told his maester.
The old scholar pondered this. "If you renounce your promises to Lord Borros and the Sea Serpent now, I believe the king will recognize your loyalty."
"I hope so," Lord Cameron sighed.
Tyrosh was a crucible of war. Lord Borros was old, and his health was failing. He could serve his liege, but he would not lead his family down the path of treason.
He remembered the power of dragons.
BOOM—
Suddenly, the misty clouds were torn apart, and a huge bronze monster rushed out.
"Dragon!" Lord Cameron screamed.
Instantly, the warhorses neighed in terror, bucking wildly. The knights dismounted, their eyes fixed on the bronze dragon in the sky.
"Hiiisss—"
The dragon roared, folding its wide brown wings as it passed low over their heads.
Lord Cameron ducked instinctively. A powerful gust of wind stung his face.
The dragon circled once before landing on a patch of flat grass not far away.
"Quiet, Vermithor."
A gentle voice sounded, like a babbling brook.
"Roar!" Vermithor rumbled, lowering his right shoulder to the ground to allow his rider to dismount.
Lord Cameron gripped his horse's saddle rope, staring at the scene in a daze.
That was the giant dragon of the Old King, Vermithor, the Bronze Fury. When had his temper become so mild?
The next second, his shock deepened.
A silver-haired figure walked down the dragon's back and landed lightly on the grass.
The man had silver hair that fell to his shoulders, an extraordinarily handsome face, and wore a black tunic trimmed with gold thread.
Over it, he wore a red cloak, upon which a three-headed dragon was embroidered in red-gold silk.
"Are you Lord Cameron?" Aemon asked as he approached.
"Ah, yes. I am," Lord Cameron responded hastily, his mind in a trance.
He looked so alike! So much alike!
For a fleeting moment, he thought it was Prince Aemon Targaryen, the lost heir, returned from the dead.
The same handsome features, the same tall stature. Even the voice, as smooth as polished jade, was uncannily similar.
"Take me to Duskfall Hall," Aemon said.
This man was looking at him as if he had seen a ghost. Aemon also didn't mean to speak so gently, but after his voice had broken, it had settled into a naturally easy-going tenor.
He felt it lacked the cold authority a ruler should possess.
"Your Majesty! Please, this way," Lord Cameron said, waking as if from a dream and hurrying to entertain his guest.
Aemon narrowed his eyes slightly. Interesting. This man calls me 'Your Majesty'.
Aside from the people of the Vale, most now called him 'Prince Regent' or 'Your Highness'.
"Why do I feel like a devout follower meeting a resurrected god?" Aemon shook his head, dismissing the strange thought.
He pulled up the hood of his cloak and followed them. The weather was cold, and Alicent had sewn the warm cloak for him by hand. Targaryens might have the blood of the dragon, but they were not immune to the cold.
This simple action, however, sent Lord Cameron into another fit of stunned disbelief.
Except for the eye color, they were nearly identical. The man before him was younger, with more agility in his eyes, but the majesty he carried was no less than that of the other prince.
That night.
Evening fell, and the great hall of Duskfall was lit with torches.
"Your Majesty, you must try this foie gras. I guarantee it is so delicious you will swallow your own tongue," Lord Cameron said, his old face forcing a sycophantic smile.
His wife and children, seated beside him, were shocked by this fawning behavior. Was this the same decisive, serious man they knew?
"That's quite enough, Lord Cameron," Aemon said from the lord's high seat, waving his hand helplessly. "Let's talk business."
After a brief interaction, he had pieced together the reason for this special treatment.
This man was the same Lord of Tarth who had requested aid from the Iron Throne all those years ago, which had led to the accidental assassination of the first Prince Aemon. He had deeply admired that prince, conquered by his charisma.
The Seven Gods had a dark sense of humor. Under his watch, Prince Aemon was shot through the throat by a Myrish pirate. Though Baelon the Brave had avenged his brother, the scene of that night haunted Lord Cameron like a nightmare.
Seeing this new Aemon today was like meeting an old friend reborn. And they even shared the same name.
Lord Cameron had thrown all caution to the wind, wanting only to show his heartfelt loyalty.
What a strange case of mistaken identity, Aemon thought, rolling his eyes inwardly. He couldn't resist, so he would accept it. He would treat it as a legacy left to him by the great-uncle he never met.
"...And so, Your Majesty," Lord Cameron finished his report.
The Sea Serpent and Lord Borros were in collusion, intending to support Rhaenys's claim.
Daemon had an ambiguous relationship with the Rogare family of Lys.
A Dornish fleet had been burned recently, likely a warning to Sunspear.
The former Archon of Tyrosh was losing control of his mercenaries and was desperate to retake his city.
Lys was consumed by infighting to select a single ruler.
Myr was raising soldiers, preparing to attack its sister city-states.
"It sounds like it's not chaotic enough," Aemon murmured to himself.
"In truth, the chaos is about to boil over," Lord Cameron said seriously. "It is only a matter of which side strikes first."
Whoever moved first would become the target for all the others.
"Not enough," Aemon shook his head, whispering softly. "It lacks a fire to ignite the whole damn thing."
"Your Majesty, are you attending Ser Laenor's betrothal?" Lord Cameron asked cautiously.
"I am. My own betrothed will be there as well," Aemon chuckled.
"Lady Laena?" Lord Cameron had heard the rumors. But with the Prince Regent and the Princess recently engaged, could the King and the Sea Serpent tolerate such a match?
In Aemon's eyes, that was a foolish question. Neither Viserys nor Corlys had dragons; they could not control the small details if the grand scheme was already in motion.
"You will accompany me," Aemon declared. "When I return, I will help you solve the problem of the mercenaries plaguing Tarth."
"Your Majesty, they are Tyroshi sellswords. My own men are vastly outnumbered," Lord Cameron worried.
Aemon smiled faintly. "There was an Aemon on Tarth before, but I am not him. I have a larger dragon, and a more vigilant heart."
"Yes, Your Majesty!" Lord Cameron's blood boiled with excitement.
Aemon's eyes flashed with a successful smirk.
His help would not be free. He coveted Tarth's strategic location and its small fleet of warships.
Many nobles and magisters from across the Narrow Sea would be at the betrothal. Who knew if the former Archon of Tyrosh might use the opportunity to start a war?
He would control the shipping lanes. He would become a legitimate pirate, collecting tolls from all who passed.
He would pluck every passing goose and skin every passing beast. It was time to find a base of operations and make his fortune.
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