Lys.
A wealthy Free City, a breeding ground for perfume and silk, a paradise of lust and gold coins.
It produces the finest lace, the sweetest mead, the women who best know how to please men, and the most calculating merchants.
Only, it does not produce warriors.
The clumsy performance of the garrison the night before was the best proof.
They might be able to squander their energy at banquets and in bed, but when swords are drawn, the softness in their bones is laid bare.
Conscripting soldiers here? A flock of sheep whose legs go weak at the sound of a horn and who vomit at the sight of blood; putting armor on them is just a waste of steel.
Aegon's fingers unconsciously stroked the cold stone surface of the windowsill.
Although the news of Lys changing hands was suppressed, how long could it be hidden? Tyrosh, Myr, and even Volantis—those greedy vultures would eventually catch the scent.
Blockading sea lanes, extortion, or even a direct attack.
He could, of course, command Ghidorah to burn cities and destroy fleets with magnificent dragon might.
But then what?
If he did everything himself, putting out fires everywhere, how would he be different from a sharper sword or a more powerful thug?
What he wanted was not a throne for one person.
But the iron throne of the Targaryen dynasty.
He needed an army.
A ready-made, organized army that had seen blood and knew how to kill.
To pioneer for him, to guard for him, and to turn his will into a flood sweeping across the land.
The Golden Company.
A ten-thousand-man legion that fought under his banner but served someone else.
A trace of cold mockery flickered deep within Aegon's purple eyes.
According to Sa Melis's intelligence, those leading the Golden Company's loyalty to Xiao Griffin were the remaining Blackfyre faction officers within the group. As for the rank-and-file soldiers?
Those exiles from Westeros, bastards, bankrupt knights, and pure mercenaries fighting for money... what they followed was the gold, land, and the slim hope of ending their exile and returning home that the Targaryen name could bring.
Since they came for profit, as long as a higher price, a more genuine legitimacy, and a more powerful force were offered... why couldn't they pledge loyalty to the true Targaryen?
As long as the core members entrenched within, those die-hard loyalists to the Blackfyre bloodline... were cleared out.
Aegon's gaze shifted to the open space in the courtyard.
Ghidorah's massive pale-gold body lay quietly prostrate, its three heads resting on overlapped dragon wings, and its six molten-gold eyes half-open and half-closed, as if dozing.
A cold flash of inspiration, like lightning cutting through the mist in the dark night, suddenly lit up in Aegon's mind and was instantly gripped firmly by him.
Since that impostor could use his name to steal his identity and claim.
Then why couldn't he, using this stolen name, turn it around... and take away the army that never belonged to the other party in the first place?
Go to the Golden Company in the identity of "Aegon Targaryen" and hold a meeting.
An oath of fealty that all officers loyal to the Blackfyre bloodline must attend and cannot refuse.
Then, the dragon descends from the sky.
Using destructive thunder to completely erase that area, along with all the Blackfyre loyalist officers within it, from the world.
What would the remaining Golden Company soldiers see?
A silver-haired, purple-eyed Targaryen riding a legendary dragon.
A true dragon willing to pay double the commission, promising more land, and likely to lead them truly back to Westeros.
What reason would they have to resist? What reason to be buried with the Blackfyres who have already turned to ash?
He would gain a ten-thousand-man legion with its cancer removed, its structure intact, experienced, and ready for war at any time.
This was much faster and more efficient than slowly tempering a new army from scratch in blood and fire.
Of course, they could also refuse?
Aegon's gaze fell once again on the pale-gold mountain in the courtyard.
Then, the thunder would tell them the price of refusing the true dragon.
Slowly exhaling, the cold calculation in his chest became increasingly clear and hard.
This plan could save him at least a year, or even several years, of training and integration time, allowing him to strike back when Westeros was at its most chaotic.
He didn't absolutely need the Golden Company.
But since there was a faster path, why take the long way around?
And this plan needed a key.
A key that would allow him to enter the Golden Company's camp without hindrance, make everyone believe his identity, and assist him in stabilizing and commanding this legion afterward.
Aegon's gaze turned toward the azure sea outside Lys, as if he could pierce through the endless waves to see the ship sailing toward the city.
The key was on its way.
Jon Clinton... the former Hand of the King to the Targaryens and the die-hard friend of Rhaegar Targaryen.
And now, the foster father and guardian of Xiao Griffin.
"Clinton..." Aegon whispered the name, his fingertips tapping lightly on the windowsill, producing a rhythmic and clear 'thud-thud' that echoed in the silent room.
"Which kind are you exactly, right now?"
His thoughts began to deduce rapidly, a light of analysis that was calm to the point of coldness flickering deep within his purple eyes.
How did this former friend and loyal minister of Rhaegar Targaryen view the "Aegon" he had carefully raised for nearly twenty years?
Perhaps he was truly deceived.
Illyrio's gold, Varys's lies, and the obsession with raising an orphan during a long exile were enough to make an old knight gnawed by guilt see a perfect fake as the only remaining meaning and redemption in his life.
Or perhaps he knew perfectly well but was willing to deceive himself.
A Blackfyre was better than having no chess piece at all.
The "Son of Rhaegar" had to exist; someone had to hold high the Targaryen banner.
As for whose blood was under the banner, in the face of the thirst for revenge and desperate calculation, it perhaps no longer mattered.
Regardless of which truth it was... Aegon's tapping stopped.
As long as Clinton stepped onto Lys, onto this land already controlled by the true dragon, everything would be revealed.
"Hearing the chaotic, half-true, half-false news of Lys changing hands, do you still dare to come?" Aegon whispered to the void, his voice so soft only he could hear it.
No.
They must come.
The value of Sa Melis's intelligence perhaps lay right here.
He could use her, or some of the contact methods she knew, to ensure that Xiao Griffin's party would not turn back because of the rumors upon arrival.
Once they entered Lys... Aegon's plan completely took shape in his mind, interlocking, cold, and efficient.
Use a grand, deceptive welcoming ceremony to invite them into the Governors Mansion.
Control Xiao Griffin.
Then, confront Clinton face-to-face.
Or... more directly.
Aegon's gaze was as sharp as a blade, as if it could pierce the sea level and lock onto the ship currently sailing.
Find out their route.
He would go there personally.
If you choose me—
"If you believe that I am the true son of Rhaegar." Aegon's thoughts continued to extend, as if conversing with an invisible Clinton.
"If your loyalty to Rhaegar transcends your attachment to a specific 'child,' if what you seek is the true restoration of the Targaryens..."
"Then, you are my best key."
"You, Xiao Griffin's foster father, the Golden Company's recognized guardian, Jon Clinton, with sufficient prestige and credibility, will personally lead me into the Golden Company's camp."
"You will announce to all the confused officers and bewildered soldiers: the one you were loyal to before was a sophisticated fake."
"And I, I am Aegon Targaryen, the one who flows with true dragon blood and commands the celestial beast."
Those middle-ranking officers will trust your judgment.
Those exiled nobles will respect your experience and choice.
Those mercenaries... as long as the bounty I promise is generous enough and the future bright enough, they won't care who stands under the banner.
Then, in the name of swearing fealty, Clinton would step forward to summon all the officers of the Blackfyre faction.
When they are gathered in one place, defenseless... that cold and cruel light flashed in Aegon's eyes again, even clearer.
Ghidorah will descend from the sky and complete the purge.
Clean and thorough.
Next would be taking over the legion, reorganizing the forces, and firmly grasping this sword named the "Golden Company" in his own hand.
If you don't choose me—
Aegon's right hand slowly rose, resting on the cold hilt of dark sisters at his waist.
The familiar, heavy touch came through, suppressing all redundant emotions, leaving only clarity and sharpness.
"Then..."
His voice, in the silent room, was as low as a sigh yet as heavy as a thousand pounds.
"There is no longer any need for you to exist."
"A loyal minister who cannot be used by me, a puppet who takes my name to confuse the public..."
"Keeping you is merely a disaster."
"Better to just kill you."
The sunlight moved, illuminating half of his face.
Silver hair like snow, deep purple eyes reflecting the awakening market and the boundless blue sea outside the window.
There was no longer any hesitation or tenderness deep within that gaze, only cold decision and a naked desire for control over power.
The key is about to be delivered.
Whether to open the treasury or, along with the box—
Smash it completely.
The right to choose was never in the hands of the deliveryman.
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