In the blink of an eye, the day of the betrothal party in Tyrosh arrived.
The Baratheon family's greatship sailed across the blue sea, approaching the city's port.
"Hiss!"
Suddenly, a light-silver young dragon dove from the clouds, escorting the vessel.
Lord Boremund Baratheon and his son stood at the bow of the ship.
As they drew closer to the port, another dragon—this one scarlet—rushed out from the city.
The dragon flapped her broad, pink wing membranes, soaring up with fierce speed.
"Hiss!"
Meleys let out a long cry, circled the ship and the younger dragon, then vanished into the thin clouds.
Within a few breaths, she plunged back down, swooping over the city she now called home.
"That's my cousin's dragon," Borros said, his voice full of awe as he stared at the scarlet beast.
She was so fast, so agile; a truly mesmerizing sight.
Driftwood Hall.
The Sea Serpent's new seat of power was comprised of three slender towers of pure white stone, one large and two small.
Its outer walls were strong, and its inner gardens were exquisitely manicured.
It was originally a private manor built by a wealthy merchant, but after Tyrosh changed hands, its owner was among the first to be executed as an example.
Corlys claimed it was the will of the gods, renamed the estate "Driftwood Hall," and moved his family in.
In the banquet hall, the Sea Serpent, Corlys Velaryon, wore a blank expression, maintaining his cold and aloof persona.
"Corlys, it has been too long," Lord Boremund said, his voice deep and powerful.
"Lord Boremund, thank you for choosing my son. House Velaryon will not let you or your family down," Corlys replied, his cold demeanor replaced with a polite and welcoming attitude.
"Laenor is a good boy," Boremund praised sincerely.
He was Rhaenys's uncle and had watched her and her children grow up. They were trustworthy.
Corlys, a man of his own generation, was a far-sighted and talented commander. This alliance would leave a valuable legacy for their children.
"Please," Corlys invited. Boremund nodded and led his retinue inside.
"Cousin-in-law! We'll be seeing more of each other," Borros boomed, following closely behind. He slapped a large hand on Corlys's shoulder and gave it an unceremonious squeeze.
Corlys's expression tightened. "Please, come in," he said through gritted teeth.
"Haha, thank you," Borros laughed, quickly moving past him.
He was a reckless man, but not a stupid one. He had squeezed Corlys's shoulder to test the old man's strength.
The answer was not what he had hoped for. The muscles were hard as iron; this was no courtly lord, soft beneath his finery.
"Hmph." The Sea Serpent snorted under his breath. Borros's brashness was offensive. He only hoped the man wasn't a complete fool.
Otherwise, once Boremund died, the glory of House Baratheon would surely end.
A large cargo ship docked at the port, and a contingent of well-equipped soldiers disembarked.
Lord Cameron Tarth led them. His tall, strong figure was an oppressive presence.
Two flags were raised on either side of his party.
On the right was the sun-and-moon banner of House Tarth. On the left was the red dragon of House Targaryen quartered with the falcon of House Arryn.
Upon seeing the second flag, someone in the crowd exclaimed, "That's the personal banner of Aemon the Dragon-Slayer!"
Immediately, all eyes were drawn to the procession.
The assembled nobles, wealthy merchants, and magisters of the Free Cities all paled at the name.
The title "King in the Vale" meant little across the Narrow Sea.
But the name "Dragon-Slayer" had become infamous on both continents after his bloody campaigns.
Privately, many called him the Executioner.
"Ignorant fools," Lord Cameron snorted with disdain.
If not for the King's restraint, His Majesty would have already conquered the eastern continent. At least, that's what he believed.
The gates of Driftwood Hall were thrown open to welcome guests from near and far.
WHOOSH—
A scorching wind swept through the courtyard as the sky above the castle darkened.
A bronze dragon flew overhead, its massive body comparable to a mountain, its rock-like brown wings covering half the city.
"Hiiisss—"
Vermithor, unruly by nature, let out a thunderous roar, circling the pure white castle again and again.
The guests below screamed in panic, many fleeing in embarrassment.
Only then did the dragon slowly fold his wings and land in the lush back garden. He landed with a thud, tearing up a large patch of grass and soil.
"Show off," Aemon muttered, shaking his head as he stepped down from the dragon's shoulder.
Vermithor squinted his vertical pupils, his jaws parting in what looked like a grin, revealing jagged fangs.
Hypocritical rider!
Aemon shot him a look. Man and dragon had a silent standoff. Then, one closed his eyes, and the other snapped his jaws shut.
It would have to do.
Soon, servants and guards arrived to escort him.
Aemon took off his red hood and followed them leisurely.
He was now in Tyrosh, and his first and most powerful impression was...
It was too hot.
From Dorne to the Stepstones and the lands of the Triarchy, the climate was tropical. High temperatures persisted all year round, with no discernible winter.
Targaryens had the blood of the dragon, but the humid air was uncomfortable.
"Besides the Valyrian Peninsula," Aemon mused, "there is likely no land more suitable for our family than Dragonstone and the Vale."
Dragonstone had its volcano, and the Vale its fertile lands.
He wondered where else in Westeros had such a pleasant, spring-like climate.
His thoughts turned to the Reach, rich with grain. But even the Reach had a winter.
If only...
"Cousin! You came!"
Laenor suddenly appeared, his greeting enthusiastic.
"Cousin?" Aemon looked up, realizing he had already reached the entrance to the hall.
It was easy to lose focus when plotting.
"I thought you wouldn't come," Laenor said, grabbing his younger cousin's arm with a bright smile.
But as soon as he did, he realized something was wrong. He had to look up. His little cousin was now a full head taller than him.
Aemon smiled and gently pulled his arm back.
"Your Highness, welcome to Tyrosh," Corlys said, stepping out of the hall to greet him, his tone a mask of courtesy.
"How welcome am I?" Aemon asked in return.
Corlys's brow furrowed. What was this boy playing at?
With years of practice, he forced a light smile. "We are honored by your presence."
"How polite of you," Aemon smiled, then turned his head. "Call me Regent."
"As I understand it, you were named Regent only recently," Corlys said, his face a neutral mask.
Aemon's smile widened. "That still makes me the Regent," he said firmly.
Corlys barely maintained his smile, cursing inwardly. The boy's eyes were crinkled into smiling slits. Was he deliberately trying to provoke him?
"Prince Regent, please," Corlys said, turning his head away. Out of sight, out of mind.
"I'll take him. You can tell me how you conquered the Vale," Laenor said, trying to smooth things over.
Aemon's smile vanished.
"Come on," Laenor grinned.
At noon.
The engagement banquet began.
The traditions of Essos were different from those of Westeros, but there were shadows of Valyria everywhere.
"Hiss!"
Seasmoke and Meleys circled in the air above, their sharp cries echoing.
Through a set of huge arched windows, Aemon watched the two dragons—one silver, one scarlet—flying side by side as if in a dance.
I don't see Vhagar, he noted.
He turned and surveyed the hall. There were no densely packed tables. Instead, the vast room was adorned with tapestries and various displays, with long, low tables and stools set along the walls.
Laena was not here. He had seen her earlier, comforting her young betrothed, who had been frightened to tears by a Tyroshi nobleman who looked like an assassin.
Dong! Dong!
The bell rang, signaling the official start of the ceremony.
The crowd moved toward the center of the hall.
Aemon saw Laenor waving at him from a distance. "Here, cousin!"
Laenor sat on a low stool, holding a black-haired, red-eyed girl in his arms. She looked to be only five or six years old.
Aemon sighed and gave his cousin a look of profound disapproval. This was too much. In Westeros, the Faith of the Seven would have him gelded for this.
"Don't look at me like that. I was forced," Laenor's face fell.
"I understand," Aemon said, though he was only joking.
"Thank you," Laenor was genuinely moved. "This is Cassandra. You should call him cousin."
"Cousin," the little girl whispered, huddling timidly in her fiancé's arms.
"You're less a fiancé and more of a nursemaid," Aemon shook his head and laughed.
Laenor smiled bitterly but seemed to enjoy the feeling of being a caretaker. After all, a fiancée this young couldn't interfere with his private life for at least a decade. He was quite lucky.
"It is our first meeting. I cannot arrive empty-handed," Aemon said, rubbing the girl's head as he rummaged inside his cloak.
Before Cassandra's wary eyes, he produced a small, bright red fruit.
"What is this?" Laenor asked.
"Something good. A royal specialty," Aemon smiled mysteriously.
The spiritual plants his golden sniffer-rat had found on Tarth included less than three of these red berries. They weren't powerful, but eating one could calm the nerves, aid sleep, and improve one's health.
"Thank you, cousin," Laenor said solemnly and fed the fruit to his confused little fiancée.
He had heard from his sister that his cousin always had something "good" in his pockets.
"You're welcome," Aemon waved his hand and sat at the adjacent table.
He was truly a little afraid of this overly enthusiastic cousin.
"Your Majesty, I have long heard of your great name."
Just as silence fell, a barefoot nobleman in the Myrish style approached.
He looked to be of high status. As he sat down, Aemon frowned. He smelled a strong, pungent spice.
Seeing this, the man smiled. "My name is Gerald, a Magister of Myr."
As he spoke, his perfumed, purple-dyed beard trembled.
---------------
You can read +100 advance chapters on my Patreon
Patreon(.)com/izan24
•TIER 1 you'll get +15 ADVANCE CHAPTERS
•TIER 2 you'll get +40 ADVANCE CHAPTERS
•TIER 3 you'll get +60 ADVANCE CHAPTERS
•TIER 4 you'll get +100 ADVANCE CHAPTERS