[Chapter Size: 3100 Words.]

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Thrid Person POV

Essos, 296 AC.

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The fleet continued sailing for about a month, while news of the Artican fleet’s sighting heading east quickly spread over the weeks. No one knew exactly their objectives, and then they vanished from the known world, generating many doubts among all who knew them and were aware of their intended destination.

“You see… in the end, they fled…” said a fat man dressed in clothes meant for the heat, adorned with numerous jewelry all over his body, including ears full of gold earrings and gauges, his face pierced, and his body covered in tattoos.

This man spoke to his companion while they overlooked the city below them, atop the great pyramid of Meereen.

“That’s true… for a moment, I thought we would have a war at our gate…” his colleague replied.

“You speak as if you were afraid,” the first man mocked.

“It’s not like dealing with so many ships is a simple thing,” the second responded sharply.

“Even so, we still have our gates to protect us…” the first man said.

“I hope you’re right.”

“You know I always am. It wasn’t my idea to attack them; after all, we needed to get rid of them—they’re dangerous to our economy… but it’s a pity the attack failed in Volantis… maybe we’ll have another chance,” the first man stated.

The second remained silent… but trusted him. The two, merely slave masters in one of the most trade-heavy cities in the world, contemplated the sight of the city below them as if they were kings.

In Asshai, the woman with differently colored eyes beneath her mask was traveling east. “I must go to Yi-Ti; I will find him there,” she remarked as she moved eastward through that land, advancing toward the distant mountains, the only obstacle between the Shadowlands and the lands of the samurai.

Meanwhile, the people of Volantis were taken aback by Azor Ahai’s sudden departure from the city, as the Red Priests remained reserved about the champion chosen by their god.

In Lys, the political climate was far from good as the confusion with the Articans gave way to a power struggle within the city. No one knew the details, but one night, even as the city was restless from the threat of being attacked by a fleet that approached freely, armed conflict broke out over several days. Amidst the flames, commoners and even prostitutes took up arms, despite Zahlan Maerys’s attempts to reverse the situation his son had created. Some other Magisters were interested in overthrowing him as the top merchant, while others just wanted to ensure the city’s safety before a powerful group, eliminating all its adversaries, appeared in its waters and unleashed fire upon them.

In the end, the entire Maerys family was killed and impaled at the city gate, while their resources were divided among the other nobles.

While Lys was in chaos, Doran Martell was sitting in his chair, frowning deeply. His brother had just arrived in Dorne, and Doran wanted to ask him why he had returned without Nyra—or rather, Rhaenys Targaryen.

“There was no reason for me to take her away from there,” Oberyn said in a casual tone as Doran gave him a stern look. His children were present, so he turned to them. “Leave now, I need to have a private moment with your uncle,” he said, needing to have an unpleasant conversation with his younger brother.

Once they were alone, Doran immediately asked him, “Tell me what happened. Did you fail to reach her or simply leave her there?”

“I let her go after asking her directly, brother,” Oberyn said. “She wants this. As much as I dislike them or that Artican, I still know that Rhaenys loves him,” he added.

“Do you know what you’re doing, Oberyn? This was our chance to rise again as a family, to fight for the Iron Throne or avenge what happened to Elia with the Articans… We had a great opportunity in our hands, and now we have nothing left, all plans are destroyed!” Doran exclaimed, raising his voice in anger.

“Even so, I will avenge Elia and Aegon… But I won’t involve Rhaenys in this anymore. At the very least, let one of us live happily. Elia’s daughter must have the life she seeks; she will also be a queen,” Oberyn said, and Doran remained silent for a moment.

“I received a letter a few days ago; it says that the Articans bypassed Valyria and advanced straight into the unknown world…” he mentioned finally, while Oberyn was surprised by this. Ignoring his brother, Doran remained frustrated, but what else could he do? He could only hope to gain something from this, given that Rhaenys would be one of the queens of Artica in the future, even if she wouldn’t be the main one, and that frustrated him. Other than that, there was nothing left to do; after all, he had lost the power he could have wielded over Jon with his biological son in his grasp. In the end, the two brothers continued discussing a few more matters, particularly the whereabouts of the Targaryen siblings, since they were also an option for them, especially with his children to marry one of them.

Elsewhere, Olenna saw the letter from Essos regarding the movements of the Articans and raised an eyebrow as her granddaughter approached the balcony at that moment.

“Is something wrong, grandmother?” Margaery asked.

“Well, it seems that our former guests and current enemies are heading to unknown lands, and from what I see, they’ll stay there for quite some time,” Olenna commented calmly while sipping her tea.

“Indeed, grandmother…” Margaery murmured. “And what about the Northern troops? Will they continue advancing toward Jon Artica’s kingdom?” she asked, curious.

“Certainly, but something strange is happening here. After all, it’s quite possible that he knew there were forces heading there, yet he didn’t care and continued his journey…” Olenna muttered, glancing back at her granddaughter. “With that confidence, I can only say that out of the sixteen thousand people who went there, from various houses of Westeros, all will be dead soon,” she concluded, leaving her words hanging in the air. It wasn’t a surprise to her that the troops stood no chance beyond the Wall.

Meanwhile, in Lannisport, Tywin sat beside his brother, Kevan, reading the newly arrived letters that spoke of movements heard from Essos. Tywin was paying a hefty sum for information about this group that needed constant vigilance.

“Do you think you could speak to him?” Kevan Lannister asked.

“I don’t know; they are sailing in unknown waters. It will be difficult to handle this, and the situation is growing quite tense in Westeros…” Tywin responded in a somber tone.

“Yes… I don’t think this is a wise long-term decision…” Kevan murmured.

“Indeed… I wonder what other clever ideas that council might come up with…” Tywin said, dissatisfied.

The council had reached the decision to send a letter to Balon Greyjoy, authorizing him to rebuild his entire fleet to fight the Articans. This decision thrilled the Kraken, and he began a massive shipbuilding effort while the king had lifted taxes to aid in covering the costs, something that did not please Tywin.

Sitting in his chair, the old lion’s instincts told him that a war was on the horizon in the coming years, and it would be far from pleasant, especially with some houses having gained so much power—it seemed like shooting oneself in the foot.

In King’s Landing, a new council meeting was beginning, once again centering on the Articans, as their departure from the known world had shocked everyone. They were heading towards the unknown lands of the East. Once more, the council attempted to find a solution, but nothing seemed resolvable, merely hoping for good news from the troops that had crossed the Wall.

To the north, Ned received the letter with this information a few days later, confirming what he had already suspected. He had known after Jon passed the information to Lord Manderly in Braavos, before bringing Arya back.

He sighed and thought about the troops that had crossed the Wall over a month ago, advancing north. He wondered what would happen when they encountered the Articans. He had been stern and inflexible with his friend, the king, stating that he would not send any Northerners on such an expedition, preferring to remain neutral, even if it had been a demand from both Jon and Robert.

Back in Essos, a specific group was advancing west, trying to reach Slaver’s Bay, while the owner of that caravan rode, dressed in desert attire. Despite this, his good mood was evident as he laughed and sipped on a chilled drink, refreshing his throat.

“This ice is so revolutionary… Even in a desert, I feel a pleasure I’ve never experienced before from drinking something cold. These Articans are really good at inventing such things. It’s impossible not to like it and not to spend more gold on it!” he said, laughing, while he heard someone clicking their tongue angrily beside him. He glanced down to his side but kept smiling.

“You really don’t like those guys, do you, my precious slave?” he said, after having bought this man in the west and agreeing to take him to Slaver’s Bay to be sold.

“Don’t speak that name, you bastard! I am the king of Westeros!” exclaimed the man with dirty, platinum-blond hair, just before feeling a lash from a soldier watching over the slaves from behind.

The caravan master laughed as he watched Viserys Targaryen fall to the ground, screaming in pain, his back arching from the whip’s blow.

“Oh, great king of Westeros! But tell me, why is such an important man like you so eagerly kissing the Dorne desert at this very moment?” he laughed loudly. He found it all very amusing; despite being an angry man, he was having fun.

Viserys was frustrated, his face still covered in wounds, making him almost unrecognizable. He had discovered that he had been betrayed by Illyrio, who hadn’t said a word before putting him on a saddle and having men take him later.

“I swear, once I have my army, I’ll kill you, bastard!” Viserys muttered, spitting out sand and glaring threateningly at the man as he got up, only to fall again after another blow.

“It seems the great dragon of Westeros has a fetish for kissing the Dorne desert!” the man mocked, looking up as if he had just said the funniest thing in the world.

“My lord, shouldn’t we put him with the others?” asked the guard holding the whip, since Viserys showed no respect regardless of how many blows he received.

“No, no. Leave him where he is. He really entertains me in this boredom,” the man replied, smiling as he stretched and drank more.

“Alright…” the guard muttered, stepping away but keeping a stern eye on Viserys, ready to strike him when needed.

“My lord,” another guard approached.

“What is it?” he asked, his demeanor turning serious this time as he saw the guard approaching.

“We haven’t received any more sightings from our scout to the north so far. The soldiers are getting a bit worried about it,” the guard reported.

“The scout hasn’t returned? Well, send another one to check,” he ordered, while the guard went back to organize with the others.

The slaver’s gaze turned back to Viserys, who was standing up. “Well, in any case, we’ll keep moving. Maybe by the end of this journey, I’ll have you in my slave collection and not for sale, just to entertain myself with your mood…” he said, while Viserys growled but said nothing more, as receiving more lashes was far from pleasant.

However, after taking just a few steps forward, a sound began, small at first, but quickly growing thunderous from the desert horizon. Everyone looked in that direction, and the slaver’s eyes widened as he saw the entire horizon starting to fill with horses.

“Dothraki! We must flee!” a guard said immediately.

“Quick, quick! Let’s get out of here!” the slaver panicked and spurred his horse, striking the animal’s back, leaving even his slaves behind as he tried to escape.

Viserys was both confused and afraid as the Dothraki group approached, shouting in a strange war tone, like hyenas. He saw the men who had tortured and mocked him trying to flee, but it was useless. The Dothraki rode through them, killing them as they hunted each one down. Yet, for some reason, Viserys and the other slaves were left unharmed. He could only watch them all die in the distance, either by arrows or weapons as the riders caught up to them. Some tried to surrender, but the Dothraki showed no mercy, slaughtering them to the last man.

Viserys was deeply shocked when a Dothraki warrior approached him and the other slaves, herding them into a corner. The warrior seemed to be searching for something among the slaves, and he looked at Viserys with a fierce gaze before saying something in a strange language, pointing at him and then pulling him by the hair and throwing him forward. Viserys stumbled, trying to stand up, as someone taller and more threatening than any other Dothraki approached with a serious expression. It was obvious that this was their leader.

The man began to speak in the Dothraki tongue, which Viserys couldn’t understand, until he looked at one of his companions.

This man cleared his throat and spoke in the common tongue. “You are standing before Khal Drogo, the ‘Khal of Khals.’ You are the man of the dragon lineage, yes?” he asked in a serious tone, while they were surrounded so that all the Dothraki there could hear.

“Yes, I am the king of Westeros!” Viserys still had enough energy to declare this, trying to demonstrate confidence despite his overwhelming fear.

The man translated for Khal Drogo, who then spoke a few more words, while the others laughed at such absurdity. Viserys saw the mockery but couldn’t say anything in response.

The great leader, Khal Drogo, said a few more things, and his translator continued, “Khal Drogo wants to know why the promised wife of his, of the dragon lineage, is not with you or at the agreed location…” he stated.

Viserys raised an eyebrow, seeing an opportunity to take revenge on his enemies, and then said seriously, “It was the Articans. They took Daenerys Targaryen and are holding her as a prisoner!” he declared.

The information was translated, and Khal Drogo spoke again, while the translator turned back to Viserys once more.

“Khal Drogo wants to know where to find these Articans,” he said, as Viserys saw the Dothraki leader staring at him with intense eyes.

In the same Dorne desert, further southwest near the Free Cities, a large military camp was set up in the open desert, in an area designed to spot any enemy approaching. The banners of the Golden Company fluttered in the wind in the late afternoon.

“We’ll face that small Khalasar and collect the money,” someone was saying inside one of the tents, where a large meeting was taking place about a mission they had been hired for—to eliminate a Khalasar of a minor Khal who had raided many villages in the region, angering some wealthy patrons. The leader of the Golden Company was passing on some information to his subordinates.

“Alright, we’ll do it, but I still have a question… I want to know why this kid has been attending the meetings lately,” a mercenary said with a tone of dissatisfaction, pointing at a young man with blue hair standing beside Griff, the treasurer of the Golden Company.

“He’s in the meeting for reasons that will be disclosed in the future; for now, just accept this fact,” Harry Strickland, the leader of the Golden Company, replied. Although his men disliked having a boy who always fought alongside them—despite his skill—he had not yet proven himself as a leader. However, there was a real reason for his presence at the meeting. The men remained displeased, as it was tough to be in such a position, but they said nothing.

In any case, the meeting ended, and Harry returned to Griff and the young Griff. “It seems a package has arrived, sent by the Magister of Pentos,” he said.

The two left the tent and headed to Griff’s tent, where several chests were stored. “What is this?” the young man asked, curious. He seemed to be about sixteen, but he was quite skilled and well-known in the mercenary camp, though not yet proven as one of the leaders.

“I don’t know, it seems it was sent by Illyrio. Let’s see what’s inside,” Griff replied, approaching one of the chests and opening it. The boy was stunned at the contents once the lid was lifted, wondering if he was dreaming.

“Is this for me?” he murmured, touching inside the chest with a hopeful tone.

Griff moved to another chest and, upon opening it, was even more stunned than with the first. “Hey, come here, quick!” he called immediately upon seeing what was inside. The young man approached, curious, and was once again stunned to see a Valyrian steel sword, adorned with jewels on the hilt.

“This is…” the young man murmured.

“Yes, it’s Blackfyre. Somehow, Illyrio managed to get his hands on it,” Griff replied, equally astounded. He turned to the young man. “Take it. It belongs to you. As the future king of Westeros, this is your sword, your birthright,” he said as the young man approached and took the sword, gazing at it in awe.

“Let’s go outside,” Griff requested, and the young man nodded as he exited the tent, raising the sword and examining how the blade reflected the sunlight. This caught the attention of many nearby, who observed the Blackfyre being lifted before all the mercenaries.

“Hail to the king of the seven kingdoms, Aegon Targaryen!” Griff proclaimed, drawing his own sword and bowing immediately in front of everyone, while the mercenaries stood in shock. Inside the tent, in the chest Griff had opened first but not yet explored, lay three petrified dragon eggs.

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