Tyrosh.
Inside a luxurious villa beside the castle.
The long table was covered with roast suckling pig, honey-glazed ham, fresh fruit, and every variety of fine wine.
More than a dozen people sat around the table, raising cups and trading toasts as laughter rang out without end.
Today was one of the routine gatherings held by the Tyroshi garrison. Present were the commanders and officers of the Velaryon forces stationed behind the lines, along with Hugh and the officers of the Targaryen bastard guard under his command.
Everyone had gathered together in one hall.
"Come, another drink!"
Ser Symond Velaryon, commander of the Velaryon garrison force, raised his wine cup and drained it in one gulp.
He was a man in his fifties, with neatly combed silver hair and sharp blue eyes that gleamed with worldly cunning.
A distant cousin of Corlys Velaryon and a cadet noble from Driftmark, he was hardly considered part of the Velaryon inner circle. Still, because he handled matters steadily and reliably, Lord Corlys had entrusted him with command over the five hundred Velaryon soldiers left behind in Tyrosh.
"Excellent tolerance, Ser Symond!" Hugh said with a broad smile as he raised his own cup. "Come, come, let me offer you another toast!"
Symond looked at him, the corners of his mouth curling into a faint smile.
But beneath that smile lingered unmistakable condescension.
He drank, set down his cup, leaned back in his chair, and spoke in a lazy drawl.
"Hugh, do you know how many soldiers Tyrosh has now?"
Hugh immediately put on a respectful expression.
"I ask for your guidance, ser."
"Four thousand." Symond held up four fingers. "Four thousand former Tyroshi soldiers. All seasoned fighting men."
"And another two thousand mercenaries recruited from across the Narrow Sea."
"That makes six thousand troops in total, all ready to fight for Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen at any moment."
He paused, sweeping his gaze across the others seated at the table.
His eyes lingered briefly on the bastards before withdrawing again.
"With those five thousand men, plus the Velaryon fleet, Tyrosh is impregnable."
"And once orders arrive from Dragonstone, these armies will sail there and begin planning the counterattack."
"You speak truly, ser," Hugh said with repeated nods.
"Queen Rhaenyra is the rightful ruler. For lowly men like us to have the chance to serve Her Grace is already a blessing."
Symond glanced at him, and a trace of contempt flashed deep within his eyes.
These bastards.
They had clawed their way out of the mud thanks to Prince Lucerys Velaryon's favor. Now that they wore silk and velvet, they actually thought they were figures of importance?
Hugh—a blacksmith's bastard with the blood of gods-knew-what whore running through his veins—actually thought himself worthy of sitting at the same table drinking with him?
That was what Symond thought in his heart, though none of it showed on his face.
After all, Hugh belonged to Prince Lucerys. Proper courtesy still had to be maintained.
"Hugh," he said slowly, "how is the training of your men progressing?"
Hugh smiled as he answered, "Thanks to your concern, ser, they've all been training hard."
"His Highness instructed us personally to forge this guard into an army of iron."
"Mhm." Symond nodded.
"Keep up the good work."
"His Highness values you people highly. Don't disappoint his expectations."
"Yes, yes, of course," Hugh replied with a smile plastered across his face, though inwardly he sneered.
Values us?
What good is being valued?
Can being valued fill his stomach?
Can being valued let him ride a dragon?
Can being valued place him upon the Iron Throne?
For twenty years, he had lived as a bastard blacksmith.
He had watched these highborn nobles bask in glory all his life, all for the sake of one day rising above the rest himself.
Prince Lucerys Velaryon had given him a knighthood and the position of castle commander, and for that, Hugh was grateful.
But gratitude could not fill a man's stomach.
He wanted more.
He wanted a dragon.
He wanted power.
He wanted that seat.
He was the son of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen himself—so why shouldn't he have the right to contend for it?
Symond raised his wine cup again, about to speak, when Hugh suddenly interrupted.
"Ser, there's something I must report to you."
"Oh? What is it?"
Hugh beckoned with one hand.
The doors to the banquet hall opened, and two soldiers from the bastard guard dragged a man inside.
The man appeared to be in his forties. He wore a dull gray robe, his silver hair hung in a tangled mess, and terror was written all over his face.
"Who is this?" Symond frowned.
Hugh rose to his feet and walked over to the man. Resting one hand on his shoulder, he put on an expression of deep anguish.
"Ser, this man's name is Ulf. He serves in our guard."
"Last night, he came to see me…"
He hesitated, as though the matter were difficult to speak aloud.
"What did he come to you for?" Symond asked suspiciously.
Hugh let out a sigh.
"He tried to persuade me to betray Prince Lucerys and betray Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen."
The banquet hall fell silent for a moment before erupting into uproar.
"What?!"
"Betray the queen?!"
"That dog-born bastard!"
Symond's face darkened. He stared at the man named Ulf, his gaze sharp as a blade.
"Speak. What is the meaning of this?"
Ulf trembled violently as he stammered, "Ser… I-I was forced…"
"Forced?" Hugh sneered. "Then tell us. Who forced you?"
Ulf lowered his head and said nothing.
Hugh turned toward Symond, his expression grave.
"Ser, Ulf told me the Volantenes bought him off."
"They wanted him to persuade me to betray His Highness the prince, seize Prince Lucerys, then open the city gates and let the Volantene army into the city."
Symond shot to his feet, disbelief written across his face.
"The Volantenes?!"
The Volantenes?
Weren't they supposed to be allies now?
"Yes." Hugh nodded. "The Volantenes are plotting something."
"They want to seize the Targaryen dragons."
"And they plan to take Prince Lucerys and the two princesses hostage…"
"They don't intend to spare a single one of them."
Hugh turned toward Ulf and barked sharply, "Ulf! Say it yourself. Isn't that the truth?"
With a thud, Ulf dropped to his knees and began kowtowing frantically.
"Mercy, ser! Mercy!"
"I was forced into it!"
"The Volantenes gave me money, gave me women, said that if I helped them, they'd make me a noble!"
"I lost my head for a moment, I—"
"Enough!" Ser Symond roared, one hand already gripping the hilt of his sword. "You bastard! Betraying the queen and the prince—your crimes deserve death!"
He drew his sword and stepped forward, ready to cut Ulf down on the spot.
"Please wait, ser!" Hugh stopped Symond before he could strike.
"Ser, Ulf certainly deserves death, but some parts of his story still need to be verified."
Symond was so furious his beard practically quivered as he glared at Ulf.
"What is there left to verify?"
Hugh looked at Ulf, something meaningful flickering in his eyes as he spoke.
"Ulf, just now you said those Volantenes promised you something."
"Say it again."
"Let the ser and the others hear it clearly this time."
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