"Your Highness, do you have a marriage agreement with Arianne?" Littlefinger asked.
"It's still under discussion," Aegon replied.
In truth, it was still under observation.
Arianne was observing Aegon—testing the authenticity of his identity and judging how likely he was to claim the Iron Throne.
Littlefinger smiled faintly. "Your Grace, this is actually a very simple choice question."
"Oh? How so?"
"Imagine a knight preparing to climb a mountain to hunt a shadowcat. At his side, he has only a brave squire and a skilled but unfamiliar sellsword.
The knight carries a golden sword, something both the squire and the sellsword desire. Tell me, who should the knight give it to?" Littlefinger asked with a smile.
"I am not an object!" Aegon said angrily.
"Of course not," Littlefinger replied smoothly. "You are a king. It is your marriage that is the golden sword."
Aegon's struggle was not only internal; it was written clearly across his face.
Littlefinger saw it and felt a quiet sense of triumph. He spoke softly, "Anyone would use the golden sword to buy the sellsword's loyalty. Whether or not he gives it to his squire, the squire will still follow his knight into the hunt—that is his duty.
You are Prince Doran's nephew. His support for you is as natural as a squire serving his knight.But the Vale and the North—they hesitate.
For the Vale, the safest move is to wait and watch.
Once you defeat the Lannisters and the Tyrells and take the Iron Throne, we can then declare our allegiance. Do you think you would strip us of our titles for that?"
Aegon wanted to shout: If you don't support me now, you'll never be allowed to surrender later—and even if you do, I'll strip your titles anyway!
But he couldn't say it. He couldn't afford to.
Even if the Vale's lords joined the Lannister camp and later surrendered after losing, he would still have to pinch his nose and accept them.
Just as Duke Tywin once said: When someone challenges you, respond with iron and blood. But when they kneel, you must be the one to lift them back up.
Did Tywin not understand Prince Doran's hostility toward him?
Was he unaware of Doran's secret maneuvers during the War of the Five Kings?
Doran had been preparing to lead Dorne to Renly's side, secretly contacting Stannis's faction—only for Renly's brother to strike him down.
Yet after the war was over, Tywin not only refrained from punishing Dorne, he even approved Tyrion's decision to marry Myrcella into House Martell and reserved a seat for the Dornish in the Small Council.
One must remember—Trystane was only Quentyn's younger brother, not even the second son, while Myrcella was the crown princess, the king's elder sister!
Myrcella's marriage was entirely a political offering—a marriage of alliance.
"With your half-Dornish blood, Your Grace, your ascent to the Iron Throne already represents Dorne's success, as well as the Martell family's interests. So they will surely aid you.
But what does the Vale gain by helping you?
Without marriage, the Vale would receive the same benefits whether they supported you or not, yet the costs would be drastically different."
"Let me think about it," Aegon sighed helplessly.
"Your Grace, you are the true dragon. No one can force you. Whatever you decide, the Arryns of the Vale and the Starks of the North will not stand against you.
You can take your time—think for as long as you wish. Even if you reject me, it does not matter.
Only one thing I swear: the day you wed Sansa will be the day when ten thousand knights and thirty thousand infantry of the Vale swear fealty to you."
Forty thousand elite soldiers—enough to buy several of his aunt Daenerys, considering that Varys and Illyrio had once sold her for a mere ten thousand Dothraki riders.
Aegon almost wanted to agree on the spot.
But Littlefinger rose calmly, unhurried, smiling as he invited Aegon to attend the Vale lords' welcoming banquet held in his honor.
At the ball, Aegon and Sansa looked like a pair of figures stepped out of a painting—the tall, handsome man and the beautiful, graceful woman. The harmony between them, their aura of nobility, made it impossible for others to intrude between them.
As they danced close, he caught the faint, fresh scent of her maiden's perfume, felt the softness of her delicate skin, and drowned in her smiles—sometimes shy, sometimes pure, sometimes alluring.
Aegon suddenly realized that his heart was pounding uncontrollably.
"Tyrion, I think I've finally fallen in love," he murmured upon returning to Storm's End, gazing out the window with a wistful expression. "Now I understand what you once told me about being with Tysha.
When I look at her, it feels as though the whole world shines brighter. The air around her carries a sweetness like roses, and in my eyes, everyone else fades into a blur."
"That's a good thing," Tyrion said warmly. "If a man goes through life without ever meeting a woman who stirs his heart, it's as if he's lived a quarter of his life in darkness."
"But she…" Aegon looked guilty. "She's Sansa. You were right—Sansa truly is captivating."
Tyrion's expression twisted.
For a long time, he ground his teeth before finally speaking. "Where did you see Sansa?"
Aegon sighed. "Aunt Daenerys was right. Littlefinger took Sansa away, calling her Alayne Stone, and brought her to the Eyrie."
He did not hide anything. He recounted in full everything that had happened yesterday in the Hall of the Moon Door.
"I've been divorced… again," Tyrion whispered hollowly.
"Should I agree to Littlefinger's marriage proposal?" Aegon asked carefully, his voice low, afraid to provoke him.
He knew how deeply this question would wound the dwarf—but hiding it and acting in secret would only hurt their friendship more.
Better to lay it bare.
"Sansa is my wife!" Tyrion roared.
"I can't take another man's wife!" Aegon said firmly.
Littlefinger smiled faintly and asked, "Is that an oath to the gods, or to Sansa?"
"She doesn't love you. In fact, she hates you—and every Lannister—with a passion. She told me so herself. Even Septon Meribald believes your marriage is an insult to the Seven," Aegon replied.
Tyrion's eyes turned red with fury. "She doesn't have to love me. She can end our marriage if she wishes—but not because of you! Even if Littlefinger had ruined her beyond repair, you still couldn't take her!"
"Mind your words. This isn't some pleasure garden, and Sansa isn't a Red Priestess. She is a noble and pure maiden. My aunt's unrobed Kingsguard can testify to that," Aegon said, frowning in anger.
"Maiden?" Tyrion raised both middle fingers and sneered. "Did you ask my three little friends about that first?"
Aegon stood abruptly and shouted, "If you keep talking like that, I'll get angry."
But it was Tyrion who truly lost his temper. He stomped forward on his short legs, pushed Aegon hard in the chest, and shouted, "I betrayed my queen to leave Slaver's Bay, crossed half the world to help you, offered you counsel—not to watch you bed my wife!"
Aegon stumbled back a few steps, turned away from Tyrion's red-rimmed eyes, and sighed. "I love her, and she loves me. There's no game here, only true affection. Maybe not yet—but one day, Sansa and I will be soulmates blessed by the gods.
Our union will not only be a divine blessing but also the swiftest path to peace across the Seven Kingdoms."
"Soulmates?"
Tyrion thought of their wedding night, when Sansa refused to share a bed with him—though, in truth, it had been his mercy that spared her; she had barely been thirteen at the time. Then he imagined her last night, entwined in Aegon's arms, whispering sweet words.
A wave of bitter fire rose from Tyrion's gut to his mouth, and he spat out, "With that limp little rock between your legs? You're not even half the man Littlefinger is! You think you can satisfy her? Soulmates, my ass!"
Littlefinger's nickname, after all, came not just from his home on the Fingers, but also from his slight build.
And a small build didn't always mean small endowments—Tyrion, for instance, was short but hardly lacking. Littlefinger, however, was far less gifted than the dwarf.
"Awooooo!"
Aegon's guilt and shame exploded into fury. His eyes burned green, and with a feral roar, he lunged at the dwarf.
Caught off guard, Tyrion was knocked to the ground, his head hitting the floor with a thud.
Fortunately, the floor was carpeted with a thick Myrish rug.
But the blow sent Tyrion into a rage. He swung a fist straight into Aegon's eye.
Aegon howled. Whatever reason he had regained evaporated, feeding the wildfire burning in his chest.
Bang! Bang! Crack! Whack!
The two rolled and thrashed like children in the mud—grabbing, clawing, pulling ears, slapping faces, headbutting teeth, punching noses.
One was the Hero of the Blackwater, the other a prince said to rival Ser Zhaoyun in looks and spirit. Both were fierce and unyielding, trading blows without a clear victor.
Their shouting and scuffling soon alerted the guards, who reported the fight to Harry Strickland, commander of the Golden Company.
It took quite some time for Harry to arrive and have them separated.
When he saw the prince's bruised and swollen face, Harry nearly shouted in alarm and ordered Tyrion to be imprisoned—only for Aegon, rising unsteadily from the floor, to wave him off.
Aegon cast a cold glance at Tyrion, then mounted Black Death and rode away from Storm's End.
"…And that's how it happened."
On Dragonstone, inside the crystal tower of the magical web, Aegon sat before Daenerys, his face gloomy and swollen, pouring out his grievances.
"So? What do you want me to do about it?" Daenerys asked. She was in good spirits after hearing the juicy tale, so her tone remained calm.
This was their first conversation since Aegon's departure.
"Aunt Daenerys, what should I do?" Aegon groaned.
"Execute Tyrion," she said with a smirk. "In the old days, an emperor who coveted a minister's wife would simply send that minister on a suicidal mission first."
Aegon shook his head. "But he isn't wrong. If I were in his place, I'd be furious too. Any man would be."
"Then restrain your lust."
"I'm not driven by lust," Aegon said awkwardly, his bruised cheek twitching. "Marrying Sansa means securing the North—and winning the loyalty of the Vale and Riverlands."
"Then it's neither this nor that. You figure it out yourself."
The Dragon Queen ended the mirror connection.
Aegon stared blankly at the pale blue surface of the magical crystal for a long while. When Crab, Bronn, and others came to check on him, he finally snapped out of it.
"Where's Tyrion? Why isn't he here?" Bronn asked after a few pleasantries.
"He…" Aegon hesitated for a moment. "He's managing Storm's End for me. Too busy to come."
Seeing Aegon's bruises, Bronn would never have guessed Tyrion was the one who gave them. He chuckled and struck up conversation about the dwarf.
"When I first heard he killed Tywin, I was as shocked as anyone. But thinking of what Tywin did to him, I came to understand.
Tyrion's a good man—but push him too far, and he'll do something utterly mad," Bronn rambled.
Aegon stood still for a moment, then rose abruptly and took his leave.
(End of Chapter)
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