Tyrosh, the castle and palace, were enveloped in the enervating heat of late summer.
Hugh sat in the high-backed chair that had originally belonged to the Lord of Tyrosh. It was a magnificent chair, inlaid with ebony and ivory, carved on the back with the totemic emblems of the free city of Tyrosh, though some of these emblems had been crudely scratched out. In their place, a hastily nailed bronze Targaryen three-headed dragon had been added—crudely made, with one of the heads nailed on crooked, as if mocking a man with a twisted mouth. But Hugh did not care.
Hugh held an infant in his arms. The short, sparse silver-grey baby hair clung tightly to its head; its eyes were pale violet. Jacaerys Velaryon's posthumous child, Sara's son. The baby slept restlessly, its tiny fingers unconsciously clawing at the air, its lips moving.
Hugh looked down at him, his rough hands gently cradling the small head, his thumb softly stroking the child's cheek.
But Nafas knew that the envoy from Volantis standing below was not a gentle man. This despicable bastard had brazenly staged a coup. And he had succeeded—he had kept the Blacks from acting rashly and forced them to recognize him as Lord of Tyrosh.
"Lord Hugh," Nafas said quietly. "On behalf of the Black Wall Council, I am raising this matter with you for the third time. According to the agreement we reached, you were to hand over control of Tyrosh's port to our fleet. And Sara, and Silverwing... the Bronze Fury... You promised this yourself."
Hugh looked up and glanced at Nafas. "I said that?" Hugh waved his hand. "I don't remember."
Nafas clenched his fists beneath his sleeves. He drew a deep breath, suppressing the rising anger, and continued in a calm tone. "We have an agreement. Lord Hugh, you will remember this... Volantis is not a free city that forgets its promises."
"Oh," Hugh replied, then looked at the child in his arms. He suddenly laughed. "An agreement?"
Hugh raised his head and smiled. "Lord Nafas, are you teaching me?"
Nafas's face froze.
"Then what do you want to do?!" Nafas was about to speak when Hugh interrupted him.
"I want to do a great many things!" Hugh laughed, his laughter growing louder. "Lord Nafas, you are standing in my palace and questioning the current ruler of Tyrosh! Who do you think you are? Who do you take me for?"
He slowly rose and handed the infant in his arms to a waiting servant. The servant lowered her head, took the child with trembling hands, and retreated to a corner.
Hugh approached him. The Volantene guards in the hall instinctively placed their hands on their sword hilts. Meanwhile, Hugh's bastard guards also watched these men warily.
Hugh stopped before Nafas. He was half a head taller than the Volantene envoy, with broad shoulders and thick arms; muscles built from years of hammering and forging bulged beneath his rough linen shirt. He looked down at Nafas, a faint smile on his lips.
"Do you know what I can do right now?"
Nafas met the giant's gaze without flinching, but his Adam's apple involuntarily bobbed.
"Lord Hugh, I must remind you that the Volantene fleet is anchored outside the port. Three elephant-class warships, twelve tiger-class warships, and two thousand support vessels. Your city walls cannot stop incendiary bombs; your people cannot stop..."
"Silverwing and the Bronze Fury," Hugh interrupted.
Nafas's words caught in his throat.
"Silverwing and the Bronze Fury..." Hugh repeated the names. "Have you heard of them? Those two dragons. How old are they?"
He extended his hand and slowly clenched it before Nafas, as if squeezing something.
"You have a fleet," Hugh said. "I have dragons."
Hugh extended a finger and tapped Nafas's chest.
"Listen, Nafas. I am now the Dragon King of the eastern continent. The Blacks can do nothing to me, nor can the Iron Throne. And you, Volantis? You are not even close." His voice suddenly rose, echoing through the hall. "I can hang your head on the city wall whenever I want, and I can burn your paltry fleet to ash whenever I want."
Dead silence fell over the hall. Nafas stared at Hugh, his chest heaving heavily.
"Do you dare threaten Volantis?" Nafas finally spoke, his voice icy with rage. He even laughed; his laugh dripped with mockery. "A bastard? Do you know who you are talking to?"
"Of course I know," Hugh laughed. "I am talking to a man who thinks he is above me."
He suddenly reached out and grabbed the index finger Nafas was pointing at him.
Crack.
The sound was sharp, like a dry branch snapping.
Nafas's face instantly lost all color. Unbearable pain made his body involuntarily arch, and a hoarse cry of pain escaped his throat.
Commotion broke out in the hall. The Volantene guards drew their swords simultaneously; Hugh's guards stepped forward at once, crossing their blades. The tension in the air became extreme; at the slightest command, blood would stain the magnificent stone floor crimson.
"Don't move," Hugh said calmly.
Hugh still held Nafas's broken finger.
Nafas gritted his teeth; cold sweat beaded on his forehead, but he did not utter another cry. He stared at Hugh, deep-seated hatred in his eyes.
"That's better." Hugh loosened his grip, letting Nafas's finger fall to the floor.
Hugh smiled, looking at Nafas, whose eyes burned with hatred.
"Do you know? A dragon lives inside me now..." He paused. "From that moment, I understood that there is nothing in this world I cannot have."
He returned to the high-backed chair but did not sit. Hugh placed one hand on the back of the chair, leaned forward slightly, and looked down at the people below with arrogance.
Nafas stood in the center of the hall, his broken finger hanging limply at his side. He took several deep breaths, as if trying to calm the storm of emotions, and finally spoke in a hoarse voice.
"We of Volantis recognize you as Prince of Tyrosh."
Hugh looked at him, smiled, but said nothing. That bastard's smile left Nafas helpless; the bastard was far more cunning than they had imagined.
"Do I need your recognition?" Hugh finally asked. "Tyrosh is already in my hands. Whether you recognize it or not, I am the king here. Your recognition changes nothing."
He extended his hand and gently waggled his index finger in the air.
"However... I will consider your proposal."
"Consider?" Nafas frowned.
"Consider," Hugh repeated, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "Go back and tell the Black Wall nobles that Tyrosh welcomes Volantis's trading vessels and friendship. If you are willing to trade with me on equal terms, then we can talk. If you want to make me your vassal..." He waved his hand. "The dragons will answer for me."
Nafas was silent.
Hugh indeed had dragons... Now Hugh controlled Tyrosh, Lucerys Velaryon, and the two Targaryen princesses. These trump cards were enough to force the Blacks to sit at the negotiating table with him.
"I will convey your message to the council," Nafas finally said. "But I must remind you... Today, you have broken our agreement..."
Hugh smiled. What can you do to me?
Nafas said no more. He bowed slightly to Hugh—a gesture that was neither disrespectful nor contemptuous, then turned and walked toward the entrance of the hall. His guards sheathed their weapons and hurried after him.