Hugh watched Nefas leave, the smile on his face fading bit by bit.
The air in the hall seemed to move again.
The Tyroshi nobles—those local nobles who had been conquered—began whispering among themselves, exchanging uneasy glances.
Hugh's captain of the Bastard Guard, a burly man with a scar across his face, stepped forward and asked in a low voice, "My lord, should we have men keep an eye on them?"
"No need." Hugh waved a hand. "They can't stir up any trouble in Tyrosh."
The captain added, "The Volantenes' fleet is anchored outside the harbor."
Hugh rose from his seat and walked to the window, pushing open the carved wooden shutters.
The afternoon sunlight poured in, illuminating his rough features.
Squinting toward the harbor, he could indeed see more than a dozen massive warships resting on the sea. Their black hulls gleamed with an oily sheen beneath the sun, and the banners of Volantis fluttered from their masts.
A smile curled at the corner of Hugh's mouth.
"They wouldn't dare."
The captain grinned.
"My lord, we have dragons and walls. No matter how many soldiers Volantis sends, it will make no difference."
"Send someone to tell the Volantenes," Hugh said calmly.
"If they don't want those toy ships of theirs catching fire, they should disappear from my sight before the day is over."
The captain nodded and departed to carry out the order.
Hugh turned around and swept his gaze across the hall before it finally settled on a maid standing nearby with a child in her arms.
"Give me the child," Hugh said.
The maid hurriedly handed over the infant.
Taking the baby into his arms, Hugh returned to his high-backed chair and sat down, settling the child on his lap. One large hand protected the tiny head while his rough fingers gently stroked the thin layer of silver-gray newborn hair.
"Do you know," Hugh said to the child, "your father gave me hope..."
"Truth be told, I've always been grateful to him..."
"But..."
"I am the son of Jaehaerys the First..."
The child babbled softly in his arms, waving its tiny hands aimlessly through the air.
Hugh fell silent.
The man he had sent to the Iron Throne—Ulf—should be returning soon.
That was his final bargaining chip.
The Greens.
Aemond Targaryen of the Iron Throne.
If that young Prince Regent was willing to acknowledge his status, willing to grant him the Targaryen name, willing to make him King of Tyrosh...
Then he would not hesitate to throw his support behind the Greens.
The Blacks?
The Blacks probably wanted to tear him apart right now.
He had killed Symond Velaryon, seized control of Lucerys and the two princesses, and taken possession of Tyrosh.
At this point, the person Rhaenyra most wanted dead was probably not Aemond, but Hugh.
So he needed the Greens.
He needed recognition from the Iron Throne.
Even if it was nothing more than words.
As long as the Iron Throne acknowledged him, he could rule Tyrosh with legitimacy. He could transform from a traitor into a loyal servant.
But deep down, he knew that everything rested on one condition.
He had to truly possess a dragon.
Vermithor.
He had tried.
Three times.
Every time he had been thrown off, nearly losing his life.
But he could not afford to be without a dragon.
Without one, he was nothing more than a paper tiger.
Sooner or later, the Volantenes would see through him.
He needed a dragon.
He needed a dragon that truly belonged to him.
Otherwise...
Once the Targaryen civil war came to an end, his own death would not be far behind...
"Your Majesty!"
A hurried voice interrupted his thoughts.
Hugh looked up and saw Ulf striding into the hall from the entrance.
Ulf's face was flushed red, and sweat covered his forehead.
The moment Hugh saw his expression, he already knew the answer.
"Speak."
Hugh's voice remained calm.
Ulf came to a stop. He licked his cracked lips, his throat bobbing once before he finally spoke.
"My lord," Ulf said hoarsely, "I carried out your orders and went to King's Landing."
"I know you went to King's Landing," Hugh replied, a trace of impatience already creeping into his voice.
"What I asked was this: did the Iron Throne accept my terms?"
Ulf opened his mouth, but no words came out.
"Speak." Hugh's voice dropped.
Ulf drew a deep breath.
"That Prince Regent said..."
He stopped, as if the words were lodged in his throat.
"He said..." Ulf finally forced the sentence out.
"Any bastard who steals a Targaryen dragon is doomed to a miserable end."
"He will never acknowledge the status of any bastard. Sooner or later... sooner or later he will..."
"He will what?" Hugh demanded.
"He'll crush you underfoot, my lord," Ulf answered cautiously.
Silence fell over the hall.
Hugh stood before the high-backed chair without moving.
"He wants to crush me."
He repeated the words without a trace of emotion.
Ulf lowered his head, not daring to meet his eyes.
The hall remained silent for a long time.
"I'm not asking for much," Hugh muttered to himself.
"Just this little bit. One Tyrosh. Two dragons."
"As long as the Iron Throne acknowledges my status, I'll declare war on the Blacks."
"I'll help the Iron Throne..."
Hugh's gaze swept across everyone in the hall.
"How dare he..." Anger crept into his voice.
"How dare he refuse me!"
His fist slammed into the chair, sending splinters flying.
No one dared to speak. The Tyroshi nobles lowered their heads, Hugh's guards looked away, and even Ulf instinctively took a step back.
Hugh paced back and forth in front of the chair like a beast trapped in a cage.
His breathing grew heavier. His chest rose and fell more violently, his rugged face twisted with fury and unwillingness.
"I have Silverwing!" he suddenly roared, his voice exploding through the hall.
"I have the Bronze Fury!"
"I have two dragons!"
No one answered.
A sense of desolation welled up inside Hugh. He had believed those bargaining chips would be enough to win over the Greens.
But that Prince Regent...
He looked down on him.
After a while, Hugh sat back down.
His eyes swept across the hall before settling on the Tyroshi nobles.
"You," Hugh said flatly, "prepare a wedding for me."
The nobles exchanged puzzled glances.
"A wedding?" one elderly noble asked cautiously. "Whose wedding?"
"Mine," Hugh replied. "I'm going to marry Saera."
"I'll make her my queen."
The nobles exchanged another look before bowing their heads in unison.
"As you command, Your Majesty," the old noble said.
Hugh nodded before turning his attention back to Ulf.
"Go to Dragonstone now," Hugh said. "Tell Rhaenyra I'm willing to return her son Lucerys and the two princesses."
"On one condition: she acknowledges me as a member of House Targaryen."
Ulf's expression changed.
"My lord, the Blacks would love nothing more than—"
"I know," Hugh cut him off. "But the Blacks don't have a choice."
"No matter how capable Daemon is, he can't withstand Aemond's two dragons."
"She needs allies now, even if that ally is me."
He paused, a cold gleam flashing through his gray eyes.
"Tell her I can use Vermithor and Silverwing to help her fight the Greens."
"As long as she gives me Tyrosh and the Targaryen name, I'll help her reclaim the Iron Throne."
Ulf nodded.
Hugh remained seated alone in the high-backed chair, watching the sun gradually sink toward the western horizon beyond the window.
He wanted the Blacks and the Greens to destroy each other. Better yet, if both Daemon and Aemond died...
By then, even after the war ended, the Targaryens sitting the Iron Throne would no longer be able to do anything to him...
"I'll win," Hugh murmured to the empty hall, his voice so soft it sounded as though he were trying to convince himself.
"I've always been the winner."