As Hugh watched Nafas leave, the smile on his face gradually faded. The air in the hall began to circulate again. The subdued Tyroshi nobles started whispering among themselves, exchanging uneasy glances.
Hugh's bastard guard captain, a burly man with a scar on his face, stepped forward and asked quietly, "My lord, shall we send someone to watch them?"
"No need," Hugh waved his hand. "They can't cause any trouble in Tyrosh."
The guard captain added, "The Volantene fleet is anchored outside the harbor."
Hugh stood, walked to the window, and pushed open the carved wooden frame. The afternoon sun flooded his weathered face. He squinted toward the harbor. Indeed, more than a dozen massive warships lay at anchor. Their black hulls glistened in the sun; the Volantene banner fluttered from their masts.
Hugh smiled. "They wouldn't dare."
The guard captain replied with a smile. "My lord, we have dragons and city walls. No matter how many troops Volantis sends, it won't matter."
"Send someone to inform the Volantenes," Hugh said calmly. "If they don't want those toy boats to catch fire, get them out of my sight by today."
The guard captain nodded, accepted the order, and left.
Hugh turned, his gaze sweeping across the hall and finally stopping on the servant holding the child beside him.
"Give me the child," Hugh said.
The servant quickly handed the infant over, and Hugh took the baby. Hugh carried the child back to the high-backed chair, sat down, and placed the infant on his lap. His large hands gently cradled the tiny head; his rough fingers softly stroked the fine layer of silver-grey baby hair.
"You know?" Hugh said to the child. "Your father gave me hope... In truth, I have always been very grateful to him... But... I am a son of Jaehaerys the First..."
The child in his arms let out a soft whimper and waved its little hands desperately in the air.
Hugh fell silent.
The man he had sent to the Iron Throne, Ulf, should be returning soon. This was his last bargaining chip. The Greens. Aemond Targaryen, the ruler of the Iron Throne. If this young Regent was willing to recognize his status, grant him a Targaryen name, and make him King of Tyrosh... Then he would not hesitate to side with the Greens.
The Blacks? The Triarchy members probably wanted to tear him apart right now. He had killed Simon Velaryon, seized control of Lucerys and the two princesses, and taken Tyrosh. The first person Rhaenyra would want to kill was probably not Aemond, but Hugh. Therefore, he needed the Greens. He needed the Iron Throne's recognition. Even if it was just words. With the Iron Throne's recognition, he could rule Tyrosh legitimately, transforming from a traitor into a loyal subject.
But deep down, he knew all of this rested on one condition: he had to truly possess a dragon.
Vermithor.
He had tried three times, and each time he had failed and nearly died.
But he could not live without a dragon. Without a dragon, he was just a paper tiger. The Volantenes would see through him sooner or later. He must have a dragon—a dragon that truly belonged to him.
Otherwise, once the Targaryen civil war ended, his death would be inevitable...
"Your Grace!"
His thoughts were interrupted by a hurried voice. Hugh looked up and saw Ulf entering through the hall's entrance. Ulf's face was flushed; his forehead was covered in sweat.
Hugh looked at his face and already knew the answer.
"Speak," Hugh said calmly.
Ulf stopped, licked his cracked lips, and after a moment, spoke.
"My lord," Ulf said in a hoarse voice. "I went to King's Landing as you ordered."
"I know you went to King's Landing," Hugh said, a note of impatience already in his voice. "My question is: did the Iron Throne agree to my terms?"
Ulf opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
"Speak," Hugh lowered his voice.
Ulf drew a deep breath. "The Regent said..."
He stopped, as if the words were stuck in his throat.
"He said," Ulf finally said. "Any bastard who steals a Targaryen dragon will come to a bad end."
"He will not recognize bastards. Sooner or later... sooner or later..."
"What can you do?" Hugh asked involuntarily.
"I will trample you to death, sir," Ulf answered cautiously.
Dead silence fell over the hall.
Hugh stood motionless before the high-backed chair.
"He wanted to trample me to death," Hugh repeated the phrase without emotion.
Ulf lowered his head, not daring to look at him. Silence reigned in the hall for a long time.
"I don't need much," Hugh muttered to himself. "Just a little. One Tyrosh. Two giant dragons. I will declare war on the Blacks as soon as the Iron Throne recognizes my identity. I will help the Iron Throne..."
Hugh's gaze swept over everyone present in the hall.
"How dare he..." Hugh said angrily. "How dare he refuse me!"
He struck the chair with his fist, sending splinters flying. No one dared utter a word. The Tyroshi nobles bowed their heads; Hugh's guards looked away; even Ulf unconsciously stepped back.
Hugh paced back and forth before the chair, like a wild beast trapped in a cage. His breathing quickened, his chest heaved more strongly, and anger and grievance showed on his weathered face.
"I have Silverwing!" he suddenly roared; his voice echoed through the hall. "I have the Bronze Fury! I have two dragons!"
No one answered. Hugh was somewhat deflated; he had thought his bargaining chips would win over the Greens. But this Regent looked down on him...
After a while, Hugh sat down again. His gaze swept across the hall and finally stopped on the Tyroshi aristocrats.
"You," Hugh said in an even voice, "go and prepare a wedding for me."
The nobles exchanged bewildered glances.
"A wedding?" an elderly noble asked cautiously. "Whose wedding?"
"Mine," Hugh said. "I want to marry Sara. I want to make her my queen."
The nobles exchanged glances, then all lowered their heads.
"Yes, Your Grace," the elderly noble replied.
Hugh nodded, then turned his gaze to Ulf.
"Go to Dragonstone at once," Hugh said. "Tell Rhaenyra that I am willing to return her son Lucerys and the two princesses. The key is that she must be willing to recognize me as a member of House Targaryen."
Ulf's expression changed. "My lord, the Blacks now desire..."
"I know," Hugh interrupted. "But the Blacks have no choice. No matter how good Daemon is, he cannot stand against Aemond's two dragons. She needs an ally now, even if that ally is me."
He paused; a cold gleam flickered in his grey eyes.
"Tell her that I can use Vermithor and Silverwing to help her fight the Greens. If she gives me Tyrosh, gives me a Targaryen name, I will help her reclaim the Iron Throne."
Ulf nodded.
---
Hugh sat alone in the high-backed chair, watching the sun gradually set in the west through the window. He wanted both the Blacks and the Greens to be severely weakened; it would be best if Daemon and Aemond were dead... By then, even if the war ended, the Targaryens on the Iron Throne would be powerless against him...
"I will win," Hugh said quietly to the empty hall, as if trying to convince himself. "I have always been the winner."