Tyrosh.
Inside a luxurious villa adjacent to the fortress, a long table groaned under the weight of a lavish feast.
Honey-glazed hams, fresh exotic fruits, and an assortment of fine vintages filled the hall with a rich, intoxicating aroma.
Over a dozen men sat around the board, clinking heavy goblets and sharing boisterous bouts of laughter.
It was a routine gathering: the commanders and officers of the Velaryon garrison mingled with Hugh and the captains of his newly formed "Targaryen Bastard Guard" within a single, echoing hall.
"Come, another glass!"
The commander of the Velaryon garrison, Ser Simon Velaryon, raised his cup and drained it in a single, long gulp.
A man in his fifties with neatly combed silver hair, his blue eyes glinted with the shrewdness of deep worldly experience.
He was a distant cousin of Corlys, hailing from a minor branch of High Tide.
While not a core figure of House Velaryon, his calm nature had earned him Lord Corlys's trust to command the five-hundred-strong Velaryon force holding Tyrosh.
"Ser Simon has a formidable capacity for wine!" Hugh said, his face plastered with a broad, ingratiating smile as he raised his own cup.
"Come, come, let me toast you once more!"
Simon looked at him, a faint, ephemeral smile touching his lips, though the expression carried a distinctly patronizing undertone.
He drank, set down his glass, and leaned back heavily in his chair, speaking in a languid drawl.
"Hugh, do you know the true strength Tyrosh currently holds?"
Hugh immediately assumed a posture of deep respect, leaning forward.
"Pray, tell me, Ser."
"Four thousand." Simon held up four fingers.
"Four thousand of the former Tyroshi soldiers, all sturdy men capable of war. Add to that two thousand sellswords from across the Narrow Sea. Six thousand men in total, ready to fight for Queen Rhaenyra at a moment's notice."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the others at the table, lingering briefly on the lowborn features of the bastards before looking away in mild distaste.
"With these six thousand, plus the Velaryon fleet, Tyrosh is as solid as iron. Once the orders from Dragonstone arrive, these troops will march out to spearhead the counter-attack."
"The Ser is absolutely right," Hugh nodded repeatedly.
"Queen Rhaenyra is the true sovereign. For lowborn men like us to have the chance to serve Her Grace is our greatest fortune..."
Simon glanced at him, a flash of nearly imperceptible disdain flickering in his eyes.
'These bastards.'
They climbed out of the mud thanks to Prince Lucerys's promotion, draped themselves in silks and satins, and suddenly thought they were actually men of importance.
Hugh, a whelp born of a blacksmith with the blood of some unknown whore in his veins, actually thought he was fit to sit and drink as an equal?
He thought this, but his face betrayed nothing. After all, Hugh was Lucerys's man; protocol demanded a certain amount of face be given.
"Hugh," he said slowly, "how is the training of your men progressing?"
Hugh smiled effortlessly and replied, "Thanks to your favor, Ser, they are all training intensely. The Prince instructed us that this Guard must be forged into a force of iron."
"Mmh," Simon nodded approvingly.
"Work hard. The Prince values you; do not fail his expectations."
"Yes, yes, of course," Hugh smiled broadly, though he sneered inwardly.
Values me? What use was being valued?
Could a prince's favor put food on the table? Could it grant him a dragon? Could it place him upon the Iron Throne?
He had been a bastard blacksmith for twenty years, forced to witness the glory of these highborn lords from the dirt; he yearned to one day stand above them all.
Lucerys had given him a knighthood and a command, and he was grateful. But gratitude does not satisfy true hunger.
He wanted more. He wanted dragons.
He wanted absolute power. He wanted that seat.
He was a seed of the Old King Jaehaerys. Why shouldn't he fight for it?
Simon raised his cup again, about to speak, but Hugh suddenly interrupted.
"Ser, there is a grave matter I must bring to your attention."
Simon lowered his wine.
"Oh? What is it?"
Hugh beckoned with a heavy hand. The heavy oak doors to the banquet hall swung open, and two soldiers of the Bastard Guard dragged a man inside.
The prisoner was in his forties, wearing a dusty grey robe, his silver hair a tangled mess, and his face twisted in sheer terror.
"Who is this?" Simon's brow furrowed.
Hugh stood up, walked over to the man, and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, his face shifting into an expression of deep sorrow and righteous indignation.
"Ser, this man is named Ulf. He is one of our guards. Late last night, he came to see me..."
He hesitated, acting as if the words were physically difficult to utter.
"What did he want with you?" Simon asked, his interest piqued.
Hugh let out a heavy sigh.
"He urged me to betray Prince Lucerys and Queen Rhaenyra."
The hall fell into a stunned silence for a heartbeat before erupting into a furious commotion.
"What?!" "Betray the Queen?!" "You-bastard!"
Simon's face darkened like a thunderhead. He stared at the man called Ulf, his gaze as sharp as a drawn blade.
"Speak. What is the meaning of this?"
Ulf trembled violently, stammering through chattering teeth, "Ser... I... I was forced..."
"Forced?" Hugh sneered coldly.
"Then tell us, who forced you?"
Ulf lowered his head and said nothing. Hugh turned to Simon, his expression grim and solemn.
"Ser, Ulf confessed to me that the Volantenes have bribed him. They wanted Ulf to persuade me to betray the Prince together, to seize Prince Lucerys, and then open the city gates to let the Volantene army march in."
Simon bolted upright, his face a mask of sheer incredulity.
"The Volantenes?!"
'The Volantenes? Were they not their sworn allies?'
"Yes," Hugh nodded firmly.
"The Volantenes are hatching a conspiracy. They want to seize the Targaryen dragons. And they intend to kidnap Prince Lucerys and the two Princesses... they don't plan to let any of them leave Tyrosh alive."
Hugh turned back to the trembling prisoner and roared, "Ulf! Say it yourself, is this the truth?"
Ulf collapsed to his knees, kowtowing against the stone floor like a man possessed.
"Mercy, Ser! Mercy! I was forced! The Volantenes gave me gold and women! They told me if I helped, they would make me a lord! I was foolish for a moment, I, "
"Enough!" Ser Simon bellowed, his hand already gripping the hilt of his sword.
"You treacherous bastard! Betraying the Queen, betraying the Prince, you deserve death!"
He drew his blade, intending to strike Ulf down on the spot.
"Ser, wait!" Hugh stepped swiftly to block Simon's path.
"Ser, Ulf truly deserves to die, but some parts of what he says still need verification."
Simon, his beard practically bristling with raw rage, glared past him at Ulf and snapped,
"What is there left to verify?"
Hugh looked down at Ulf with a dark, meaningful glint in his eye and said, "Ulf, you just said the Volantenes promised you something? Say it again, so the Ser and the others can hear it clearly."
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