Jon Clinton took one last look at the corpse that had been hastily wrapped in heavy canvas and carried away by Soldiers.
The canvas was rough, vaguely revealing the outline of a human form.
The Soldiers' movements could not be called gentle, but at a time like this, it was perhaps a form of dignity.
He stood there as the wind whipped the lingering scent of burning and a faint trace of blood from the courtyard against his face, cold and real.
He shed no more tears, nor did he make a sound.
Only his straight back seemed to have grown a fraction heavier.
Jon Clinton took a deep breath, exhaling the last bit of turbid air belonging to the past from his lungs, then turned and stepped forward, following the black silhouette that had already walked a few paces ahead.
His steps were somewhat heavy, the soles of his boots clicking against the stone slabs, the sound echoing clearly in the empty corridor... The study of the Governors Mansion was located on the third floor of the main building, well-lit with tall arched windows inlaid with stained glass on two sides.
Sunlight streamed through the glass, casting mottled yet cold shadows upon the Myr carpet.
The room was large; on one side was a massive oak bookshelf reaching the ceiling, packed with leather-bound books and scrolls, while on the other wall hung a large map of Rhis and the surrounding seas.
In the center was a wide ebony desk, its surface empty and tidy save for a brass lamp, a quill pen dipped in an inkwell, and several open letters.
Aegon did not sit in the high-backed chair behind the desk that belonged to the Governor.
He walked to the window, his back to the door, gazing through the stained glass at the city below as it gradually regained its vitality. The sunlight outlined his tall silhouette, a faint halo shimmering at the edges of his silver hair.
Jon Clinton entered the study, gently closing the door behind him to shut out the sounds from outside.
He walked to the center of the room, stopping a few paces from the desk, standing solemnly with his hands at his sides and his gaze lowered, waiting.
"Now, all of Rhis is under my control," Aegon suddenly spoke.
Behind him, Jon Clinton, standing solemnly, felt his body give a nearly imperceptible shudder.
He snapped his head up, looking at Aegon's back, a flash of belated realization crossing his eyes, quickly replaced by a deeper shock.
Of course.
They had come to Rhis to meet Governor Dorian and discuss that investment concerning the future.
But since stepping into this Governors Mansion, he had seen Sa Melis, nobles whose attitudes had shifted abruptly, and strangely empty docks and streets... yet he had not seen Governor Dorian himself.
His mind had been so shaken by the series of shocks and truths that it was only now that he suddenly realized this most obvious and terrifying fact.
Rhis had changed masters.
No wonder Dorian was nowhere to be seen; that Governor was likely already dead and beheaded, or lying in some unknown corner, slowly growing cold.
"How did... Your Highness accomplish this?" Jon Clinton's Adam's apple bobbed, his voice carrying a hint of incredulous dryness.
He forced himself to quickly assume his role, thinking about the problem from the perspective of a subordinate and military advisor.
Though his heart still throbbed from the scene in the courtyard, the instincts honed by twenty years of exile and political maneuvering had begun to operate coldly.
"Even with dragons," he paused, organizing his words, trying to comprehend this incredible conquest, "Rhis is, after all, one of the Nine Free Cities, with a long history and deep foundations."
"The various factions within are intricately intertwined; to touch one is to move them all."
"Even if a dragon possesses destructive power, to suppress, purge, and truly control such a city-state, making it restore order quickly and serve you... is not something that can be done in a short time."
"It requires the presence of an organized, sufficiently large army, an effective administrative team to take over, it requires..."
He looked at Aegon and asked the most critical question: "Did Your Highness... already have insiders and a great army lying in wait in Rhis?"
Aegon heard this and gave a soft laugh.
He continued to gaze out the window, as if talking to himself, or perhaps answering Jon's question:
"Do eight hundred men count?"
"..." Jon Clinton was stunned.
He suspected he had misheard.
Eight hundred men?
To attack and control a Free City with nearly ten thousand standing troops, sturdy walls, and immense wealth?
Aegon turned and looked at Jon.
"Rhis was in internal turmoil recently, their army was deployed elsewhere, and their defenses were lax," he said in a tone as flat as if he were discussing a trivial matter.
"I led eight hundred men in a night raid, striking directly for the Governors Mansion. When I arrived on dragonback, the nobles of Rhis were mostly inside holding a banquet."
He paused, adding a sentence.
"It saved me the trouble of inviting them one by one."
Jon Clinton's pupils constricted slightly.
Decapitation strike. Timing. Thunderous methods.
The words exploded in his mind, instantly piecing together that simple, brutal, and extremely efficient conquest.
"Your Highness's use of troops..." Jon took a deep breath, suppressing the shock in his heart, trying to analyze it with a professional eye, only to find his voice was still a bit tight, "is almost... an art."
He paused and asked another question: "Since you have taken Rhis, what are Your Highness's next plans? To use this as a foundation, build up your forces, and slowly plan for Westeros?"
This was the safest and most logical choice. Rhis was wealthy; with a base of operations, one could slowly accumulate strength.
However, Aegon shook his head.
"Although the Rhis City-State is wealthy, it is not a good source of Soldiers," he said bluntly, his tone carrying a clear sense of evaluation and choice. "The men here are skilled at showing their prowess in bed and on ledgers, not the battlefield."
"I need an army. A ready-made, battle-ready army that has seen blood."
His gaze, like a physical ice pick, locked onto Jon Clinton.
"Therefore, my target is the Golden Company."
Jon's breath suddenly hitched.
The Golden Company!
The elite Mercenary company of ten thousand that flew the banner of 'Aegon Targaryen,' driven by Illyrio's gold and guided by Varys's intelligence, which was supposed to be the greatest aid for Xiao Griffin in his struggle for the iron throne...
And now, the real Aegon Targaryen was telling him to his face, explicitly, that his target was the Golden Company.
Aegon did not seem to care about the instant change in Jon's expression or his hitched breath.
He raised a hand, gesturing to another chair across the desk.
"Sit."
Jon Clinton remained silent, walked around the desk, and sat in the chair. The leather seat was cold, sending a chill through his clothes.
Aegon also sat in the high-backed chair behind the desk, and the two sat facing each other across the wide ebony surface.
"I have obtained some intelligence," Aegon said, his hands folded on the desk, his posture relaxed but his eyes as sharp as a hawk's, "regarding the Golden Company."
Jon Clinton's face tightened involuntarily.
"The low-level Soldiers of the Golden Company—those exiles from Westeros, bankrupt knights, mercenaries, adventurers... they fight for money, for land, and for the slim hope of ending their exile and returning to their homeland."
Aegon's speaking pace was steady, like he was analyzing a military intelligence report:
"They only know that they owe their loyalty to an exiled Targaryen bloodline, someone who can bring them gold coins and a future."
"As for which Targaryen this specifically is, whether they have black hair or silver hair, whether they are real or fake... they don't care, and they have no need to know."
Jon's lips pressed thin.
This was the truth; mercenaries fought for profit, that was an iron rule.
"The ones truly directing all of this," Aegon's gaze firmly locked onto Jon, not missing any subtle change on his face, "are a few high-ranking officers. Or rather..."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering but becoming more piercing:
"It is those officers who are die-hard loyalists to the Blackfyre bloodline. Is this intelligence accurate?"
Jon took a deep breath, suppressing the turbulent waves in his heart and forcing himself to focus on the more pressing matters at hand.
"Essentially accurate, Your Highness," he answered in a low voice, his tone regaining the steadiness and caution of an old general.
"The composition of the Golden Company is complex. Its core consists of exiled Westerosi, but it has also absorbed a large number of mercenaries and outlaws from the Disputed Lands."
"What maintains them is primarily the generous commissions and... a hope that can lead them back to their homeland to obtain fiefs."
"The name Targaryen is, to them, more like a rallying banner, an employer who can fulfill promises."
"The vast majority of Soldiers and junior officers do not care, nor can they distinguish, whether the bloodline under the banner is black or red."
After Jon finished speaking, he looked at Aegon, waiting for his decision.
He had a vague inkling of something, yet he felt that thought was far too bold.
Aegon stood up and slowly paced to the giant map, his gaze falling on the vast area labeled 'Disputed Lands.'
"Since they owe their loyalty to a 'Targaryen'," Aegon's voice rang out in the quiet study, calm yet carrying an unquestionable finality.
"And the true Targaryen is right here."
He turned to face Jon, his purple eyes flashing with a cold and sharp light in the afternoon sun.
"Then why can it not be me who goes to take over this army that should have been loyal to me in the first place?"
Jon's heart gave a violent leap.
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