Aemon held a hand before his nose and asked disdainfully, "How many magisters does Myr have?"
It was a very direct question.
Gerald's mouth twitched. "There were eleven who joined the Triarchy. Now, only nine remain."
Three were missing. Aemon thought for a moment and suddenly realized.
The three Myrish magisters who had been maimed in King's Landing had likely been devoured by their rivals back home.
"What do you want from me?" Aemon asked.
As he spoke, he subtly shifted his chair to the side. The man's perfume was too strong.
Gerald's face darkened, but he swallowed the humiliation. "Your Grace, the Regent—"
He was cut off by a wave of Aemon's hand.
"It is either 'Prince Regent' or 'Your Majesty'. The Common Tongue is not so difficult," Aemon said, switching to High Valyrian.
Gerald was stunned. "I... I wish to befriend you," he stammered in the same tongue, though it was clearly not his forte.
The second half of his sentence devolved into something that could barely be called Valyrian at all.
Aemon chuckled. This so-called Magister of Myr spoke Low Valyrian mixed with the rough tongue of the sellswords.
He was either a country bumpkin or a former mercenary.
"Lord Regent, are you mocking Gerald, a self-made man?" Gerald asked, his anger rising.
His humble origins were a constant source of pain for him, not as noble as the true Myrish aristocrats.
But most of the Myrish magisters were men like him, wealthy sellswords of low birth. To be ridiculed so openly was a serious blow to his pride.
"Yes," Aemon replied calmly in High Valyrian.
"What?" Gerald was stunned, thinking he must have misheard.
Aemon repeated himself in the Common Tongue. "That's right. You are not worthy to sit at a banquet with me."
Blatant, face-to-face mockery.
Gerald drew a dagger from his belt and shot to his feet. "You damn—"
Bang!
Before he could finish his curse, a large hand slammed his head down onto the table.
In an instant, he was sprawled on the ground in a heap.
"I said you are not worthy. You should have listened," Aemon said, casually twisting one of the man's wrists and disarming him.
Clang!
The dagger Aemon had seized stabbed down, piercing the table and nailing Gerald's pale yellow palm to the wood.
"Ahhh!"
With one hand broken and the other pinned to the table, Gerald screamed in agony.
He never expected it. He had been crippled before he could even land a blow.
"If you return like this, will Myr lose another magister?" Aemon said, rubbing salt in the wound.
Gerald's face went white. He even forgot to struggle.
"In that case, you are worthless," Aemon shook his head and let him go.
A Myrish magister who only knew how to cling to others for power deserved no respect from him.
The commotion immediately alarmed the entire hall.
"What has happened?" Corlys Velaryon demanded, pushing through the crowd, his face grim.
Who would dare ruin his son's betrothal party? When he arrived, he saw Aemon standing over the groaning magister.
"My apologies. He is drunk," Aemon said, grabbing Gerald's purple curly hair and lifting his head without a hint of remorse.
Guest etiquette in Essos was not so strict. As long as no one was killed, fights between guests were often overlooked.
"Your Majesty, allow me," Lord Cameron appeared from the crowd and took charge of the whimpering Gerald.
Corlys shot him a powerful glare. This was another old acquaintance who had betrayed his liege to side with the crown.
In the crowd, Lord Boremund noticed the scene. He frowned slightly but said nothing.
Several other Myrish magisters glared at the calm Aemon but dared not speak.
"Lord Corlys, my apologies for the disturbance," Aemon said, wiping his hands, a kind smile on his face.
To the uninformed, he looked like a gentle and humble young man.
"Hmph. See that it does not happen again," Corlys said, turning and stalking away.
In the entire aristocratic circle, everyone knew that Daemon and his kinsman, Aemon, are notorious troublemakers.
No one dared to provoke a dragon rider. Especially not Aemon, who had dragons, a fiefdom, and had become a byword for someone best left alone.
The Velaryons are putting on a brave face, Aemon thought.
If Corlys were truly as strong as he pretended, he would have had him thrown out for such a provocation. But he didn't. He was trying to preserve his strength.
After the incident, the banquet continued, with one key difference.
Aemon sat alone at his table, and no one dared to occupy the tables to his left or right.
"How unsightly," Aemon muttered, chewing on a red berry as he lounged on the carpet.
His goal was to take a Free City for himself. But to do that, he first needed to control the Stepstones.
Until the former Archon of Tyrosh made his move, he would not act.
He was full. He would cause trouble for the magisters of the Three Daughters, but he would not allow them to cling to him.
A bunch of smugglers, slave traders, and parasites. Killing them was a good deed.
Once this banquet was over, they would all become his targets for blackmail.
None would escape.
As he was plotting, he caught a glimpse of a slender figure out of the corner of his eye.
Silver-gold wavy hair fell to a slender waist. A satin, water-blue, fishtail gown outlined a curvy figure, giving her an aura of dignified grace.
Even standing in a crowd, she possessed a unique and noble presence.
"Laena," Aemon said softly.
She looked over at the sound of her name and walked gracefully toward him.
"I just arrived and heard that someone was already causing trouble," Laena said, tilting her head.
"Here. It's the last one," Aemon said, ignoring her comment and holding out a bright red berry.
Laena laughed and sat down beside him. "Feed me," she commanded.
"Ahhh," Aemon did as he was told, placing the berry in her rosy mouth.
Laena stared at him as she chewed. When Vermithor had arrived, she knew Aemon was here.
But she had heard about his betrothal to Rhaenyra and was still angry. No matter how generous a woman was, she was still a woman.
"When this war is over, we will be betrothed," Aemon said, his voice flattering. "Whether on Driftmark or in the Vale, I will do as you wish."
As he spoke, he gently wiped a bit of juice from the corner of her mouth.
Laena crossed her arms, a smile playing on her lips.
"I don't know what to do with you," she sighed softly. "You must respect my father. And no matter how cold Lady Rhea is to you, you must never complain."
"I never asked you to respect my father," Aemon said, feigning injury.
"Aemon!" Laena raised a thin eyebrow.
"I'll try my best," he sighed dramatically.
Laena was not fooled. "It is time we spoke of serious matters."
"I'm listening," Aemon said, his expression turning serious.
"Simple. When will you marry me?" Laena stared at him, completely unabashed. "You and Rhaenyra caught me off guard. You must give me a definitive answer."
"My next nameday," Aemon said immediately. He truly owed her this.
"Good," Laena said. "Either Driftmark or Tyrosh will be my dowry. That is a better offer than Rhaenyra's."
"Will the Sea Serpent agree?" Aemon was stunned.
Laena's eyes sparkled. "The greatest credit for taking Tyrosh belongs to Vhagar. I deserve it."
She was supremely confident. Rhaenyra would one day have the Iron Throne. That Jeyne Arryn had the Vale. She didn't care about the latter.
She knew Aemon's character. A woman not of Targaryen blood could not win his heart.
Rhaenyra was her only real threat, but she disdained the idea of palace games and competing for favor. She would despise becoming a man's appendage.
She was a dragon rider. A high and mighty dragon rider of Vhagar, the largest and oldest dragon in the world.
If Aemon had any sense, he would choose her. Whether it was Driftmark or Tyrosh, it was only what her family owed her for her contribution.
Aemon was stunned by her. Beneath her gentle appearance was an arrogance that matched his own.
"You don't want to live off my dowry?" Laena narrowed her eyes, a dangerous glint in them.
"My mother told me I have a weak stomach," Aemon chuckled. "I must only eat the finest things."
Laena stretched out a delicate finger and lifted his chin. "If you live off me, you must serve me well."
"Don't worry," Aemon patted his chest.
"We can discuss that this evening," Laena's face flushed for a moment. "There is something else."
Aemon sat up straight.
"Daemon might come," she said, her voice low.
Aemon frowned. "What was he thinking, abandoning the Stepstones?"
"I do not know. But whether he comes or not, you cannot be impulsive."
Aemon said nothing. He could not guarantee he would not act against a man as unpredictable as Daemon.
"You are his blood, and he is your shield," Laena warned. "With him around, everything you have done seems insignificant."
Because there is always a worse man to compare him to. Aemon understood.
"The queen's children are growing up. They will inevitably compete with Rhaenyra for the throne," Laena continued. "You, me, and our families will be drawn into it."
"With Daemon alive, our family has more strength. His presence complicates things."
A living Daemon, for the sake of blood, would have to protect his family.
Aemon sneered. The bond between them was broken.
Laena played her trump card. "Kinslaying will turn this into a bloodbath. You cannot be the one to start it."
Killing Daemon, father against son, would set a terrible precedent for the conflicts to come.
"I know," Aemon said dismissively.
"Truly?" Laena was suspicious.
"Yes," Aemon nodded heavily. At worst, he wouldn't kill him. They would simply keep their distance.
"Good. You can use your strength elsewhere," Laena smiled brightly.
Aemon heard the implication in her words and glanced at the generous curves her hands were trying to hide.
"I said tonight," Laena glared, covering her chest. "Wait until the war in Tyrosh is done. You will take the Stepstones, and I will help you take Myr or Lys."
Aemon's expression was strange. Was she making him grand promises? That was his skill.
"The strife among the Three Daughters is far more cruel than it appears," Laena said, giving him examples to prove her point.
Aemon propped his chin on his hand.
She truly was his match. Their ambitions coincided perfectly.
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