"Your Grace, even if you intend to leave, you should at least wait until you've defeated the allied army and won the Battle of Meereen," Ser Jorah said in a low, steady voice.
See? Now that is a knight. A true knight.
Someone like him is worthy of trust.
"What was Aegon thinking? You didn't even go with him. How does he expect the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms to swear allegiance to him?" Dany asked in confusion.
Winning the Iron Throne isn't as simple as taking King's Landing.
You can ignore the will of the common folk, but you must have the recognition of the nobles. A king's rule stands on the foundation of his lords.
Aegon—a prince who, in name, has been dead for eighteen years—would find it difficult enough just to prove he belongs to Rhaegar and Elia's household, let alone earn the loyalty of Westerosi nobility.
If Clinton were there to campaign for him, he might be able to rally some lords to his cause.
Clinton's reputation across the Seven Kingdoms might not match Barristan's, but he is still a respected and renowned man.
Among Westerosi knights, he is recognized as upright and honorable—a true knight.
Undoubtedly, Tyrion is more capable than Clinton, but his reputation is utterly ruined. Staying by Aegon's side would only drag him down.
"He has the Golden Company's support, a dragon, and your approval," Clinton said, his expression complicated.
Dany realized she was too close to the matter to see clearly.
That fifty-meter-long wyvern of Aegon's alone would make everyone across the Seven Kingdoms believe one thing: whether Aegon is truly Rhaegar's son or not, the Dragon Queen believes he is.
Otherwise, even if she didn't behead him, she would never have given him a dragon.
That was one of the reasons why Illyrio and Varys sent Aegon all the way to Slaver's Bay—to gild him with legitimacy.
"Tell me, what should I do? I swore an oath, and I'll never break it. But allowing Aegon to fight for the Iron Throne in my name would mean betraying that oath."
Dany tossed the dilemma to the two honest men before her.
Aemon was still frowning in thought when Ser Jorah immediately replied with conviction, "Your Grace, you are right. A sacred oath cannot be broken.
Prince Aegon is your kin, and though he is not your vassal, he has received your aid and kindness. He must not sully your honor for his own selfish desires."
See that? That's a man of honor and conviction.
A true knight always speaks with reason!
Dany once again felt that the chivalric code of Westeros wasn't entirely without merit.
"Ser, what do you think I should do?" she asked warmly.
"I don't know," Ser Jorah replied bluntly.
The Dragon Queen froze.
"But I know what I must do," Jorah continued quickly.
"What will you do?" Dany asked, expression stiff.
"I'll go to Pentos," Jorah said. "I'll try to persuade Prince Aegon to abandon this reckless path, to ensure your oath remains unbroken and your honor unstained."
Had she not known Jorah's character, Dany might have thought his previous escape attempt had failed and now he planned to make a one-way trip instead.
"You couldn't talk him out of it before. What makes you think you can now?" she asked skeptically.
Jorah's tone turned solemn. "Whether I succeed or not is one matter. Whether I try is another.
I raised the prince for over ten years. I cannot stand by and watch him make a mistake. He is my foster son, and I must at least try to bring him back."
At that, old Aemon finally spoke up, saying, "Persuasion may not work. The temptation of the Iron Throne is too great.
Ser, tell Aegon this: if he refuses to act in accordance with Her Grace's oath, he must not drag her name through the mud."
"How should I do that?"
A glimmer of light flashed in Aemon's eyes as he said gravely, "One house, two branches."
"One house, two branches?" Jorah exclaimed.
"Yes. Like the Daynes of Starfall and High Hermitage," Aemon nodded.
"Maester Aemon, are you suggesting we make Prince Aegon a cadet branch? He won't agree to that!" Jorah objected immediately.
He didn't approve of Aegon's actions, but neither did he want the 'Silver Prince' to be relegated to a 'lesser' Targaryen.
Indeed, both lords of Starfall and High Hermitage bear the name Dayne, yet for centuries, High Hermitage has remained a vassal of Starfall.
There's an even clearer example—the Starks of Winterfell and the Karstarks of Karhold.
Obviously, Jorah didn't want Aegon to end up as "Aegon Kar-Targaryen."
"There needn't be a main and a cadet branch," Aemon replied. "Like the Fossoways of the Reach."
The Fossoways were another example—two houses of equal standing, one bearing a red apple, the other a green.
Much like the Targaryens' red and black dragons.
Yes, after Aegon's flight, Aemon had already decided to see him as the black dragon.
Whether or not Aegon was truly descended from the Blackfyres, Aemon had resolved to treat him as one from now on.
"I'll do my best to persuade the prince to return," Jorah finally agreed, albeit reluctantly, to Aemon's suggestion.
If the house split in two, the Dragon Queen would no longer be held responsible for Aegon's actions, and Aegon could do as he pleased.
But that would harm Aegon far more than it would help.
He was fighting for the Iron Throne, not sitting on it yet.
Right now, he still needed the Dragon Queen's support—at the very least, the weight of her name.
At this point, Jorah could only hope his foster son had enough sense to return to Slaver's Bay with him and live as a proud dragonrider once more.
Daenerys was discussing Tyrion's defection, while Tyrion himself was tormented by guilt over his actions.
Since the day he killed his father, the once carefree "Imp" had ceased to exist.
If there truly was a hell of eternal torment, he had been wandering in it ever since.
By day, sound, color, touch, and scent could numb his senses; but by night, in sleep, every emotion surfaced vividly from the depths of his soul.
A man who lives in regret may seek drunken oblivion, yet he never wishes to fall asleep sober.
"Your Grace, my queen, no—please, don't take Tysa from me! I beg you! I can help you mix wildfire, I can find paths for you through the rainforests, I can also—"
The dwarf knelt before the queen, pleading desperately.
"The dragons are mine. You betrayed me, so I'll take Tysa back," the Dragon Queen said coldly. She raised her foot and kicked him away, sending him rolling several times like a leather ball.
The dwarf struggled to his feet, wiped the blood from his brow, and looked up—only to see his father staring at him with a stern gaze.
Upon his head gleamed a golden lion helm. He wore gold-plated armor of dark red enamel, with elaborate golden spirals on his chestplate and gauntlets, and a sunburst of gold on each wrist guard.
Two golden lionesses crouched on his shoulders, dragging a thick, heavy cloak woven of pure gold thread.
He was majestic and resplendent—until Tyrion looked down and saw that Duke Tywin's lower body was naked, his groin drenched in blood, with a crossbow bolt protruding from it.
"Father, I'm sorry!" Tyrion wept bitterly, sobbing, "You were a bastard, but I shouldn't have killed you."
Tywin regarded him with cold blue eyes, his thin lips pressed tightly together.
"Tyrion, you killed me!"
When Tyrion wiped his tears away, his father had turned into Uncle Kevan, gazing at him with sorrowful reproach.
His uncle wore a fine velvet robe of deep red embroidered with golden lions, a crown upon his head, and sat upon the Iron Throne bristling with blades. His neck, however, was empty—his severed head was tucked beneath his left arm, eyes full of reproach as his mouth opened and closed to speak.
"Tyrion, you said you were a Lannister. You said you would secure a bright future for the Lannisters of Casterly Rock.
I believed you—and paid for it with my life. And now you regret it? What's in Slaver's Bay?
Do you plan to free slaves? Hahahahahahaha!"
"No, I don't regret it! I'll return to King's Landing! I'll correct Cersei's mistakes and regain control of the Seven Kingdoms before the Dragon Queen intervenes—"
Tyrion let out a howl, sat upright, and awoke with a start.
He looked around. The room was as grand as a palace. Sea wind blew in through the balcony, carrying the cries of seagulls, the warmth of sunlight, and the salt of the ocean.
He lay naked in a featherbed so soft it felt as if he were wrapped in clouds.
Perhaps it wasn't only the mattress—
The dwarf glanced at the blonde slave girl beside him and asked, "Did I go mad? Did I say anything?"
"You were shouting, 'Dragon Queen!' and also 'Cersei' and 'Jaime.' You even called out 'Tywin' and 'Kevan.' Calling the queen's name is one thing—but Tywin, isn't he your father?"
"Get out!" Tyrion snapped.
The girl obeyed quietly and left without protest.
When he was done, Tyrion took a bath, then staggered out of his bedchamber.
In the palace's rear garden, by the fountain, he found Aegon and Illyrio.
The fat magister was seated under a cherry tree, savoring date-and-rice cakes. Spotting the dwarf, he waved a sausage-like finger and called out,
"My friend! Come sit! I've had a cherry pigeon pie prepared for you. I was about to find you to discuss our next move, but at your door I heard—ah, youth! Going at it until noon, were you?"
The dwarf flushed slightly, pointed at Aegon—who was by the pool ordering craftsmen to paint a wyvern—and asked, "What's the prince doing?"
Tyrion wobbled on his seat, adjusting his rear for balance.
The chair was absurdly large for him, clearly made to accommodate Illyrio's vast backside.
Its seat was broad and deep, making Tyrion feel as though he had wandered into the land of giants.
"Can't you see? They're painting it black," the fat man said, twisting the oiled tip of his yellow beard.
"I see that. But why paint it at all?" Tyrion shifted to the armrest, turning the oversized chair into a makeshift couch.
Illyrio furrowed his brow, then relaxed and sighed. "A wyvern sounds a few tiers below a dragon. Fortunately, Prince Aegon's 'Balerion' is large enough to inspire awe.
But its scales look like weeds from a foul swamp."
"Think about it—don't the nobles and smallfolk of Westeros respond more strongly to a black dragon?" Illyrio said with a cheerful smile.
"So you even changed the name?"
Tyrion lifted the lid of a sealed bronze pot, pulled out a pigeon pie, and bit in heartily.
The fat man's small eyes narrowed, and as he spoke, he casually glanced toward the stone statue at the center of the pool. "Clearly, 'Elia' doesn't carry the same sense of destiny as 'Balerion.'"
In the middle of the marble pool stood a nude statue of a young swordsman—graceful, agile, and unmistakably modeled after a young Illyrio.
Indeed, even this mountain of flesh had once enjoyed a time when his looks could earn him a living.
Chewing his meat pie, the dwarf muttered, "But 'Elia' would surely please our Dornish uncle more.
You've already summoned the prince back early without even informing the Dragon Queen in person—that's offense enough. If you lose Dorne's support as well…"
(End of chapter)
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