Chapter 69: The Dragon's Pleasure and the Elven Whispers
The scent of exotic perfumes and the lingering warmth of entwined bodies filled Maegor's chambers. A month had passed since the reorganization of his armies and the influx of Westerosi noble houses. That month had seen relentless drills on the training grounds of Noronos and Drasaho, the forging of his forces under their new commanders. It had also seen Maegor himself continue his relentless pursuit of a secured dynasty. Nights were often spent with Malora Celtigar, planting the seed of the Aegryon line, her Valyrian features and fierce spirit a perfect match for his ambition. Just as often, Allyne Connington, with her fiery red hair and vibrant energy, joined him, the fertile ground for the Grypharys line. Maegor was a man obsessed, driven by the primal need to multiply, to ensure his blood ran deep and wide, weaving loyalty through every new life. The satisfaction was profound, a dark, potent pleasure that fueled his waking hours.
He saw his armies, every day, growing in strength, cohesion, and discipline. The Myrosh Light Cavalry under Ser Rhaegar Duskryn, the Myrosh Light Infantry under Commander Brundo, the Myrosh Archers under Ser Corlys Stone, the Qehesese Heavy Infantry under Kaelan, the Northern Infantry under Ser Desmond Rivers, the Celtigar Elite Axemen under Ser Harold Celtigar, the Massey Spear-and-Shield Infantry under Ser Lucifer Massey, and the new Archery Corps under Ser Wallace Massey – all of them were transforming into formidable instruments of his will. The Blood Wyrms under Commander Maenyx, and Khal Drogo's Dothraki, remained the terrifying core of his might.
One cool, crisp morning, as Maegor sat in his solar reviewing administrative reports from Hand Aegon, a subtle shift in the air caught his attention. He looked up, and from the deep shadows in the corner, Aerion Lightstep stepped forward, as silent and graceful as a dream. The Elven Hero held himself with an ethereal calm, his eyes glowing faintly.
"My King," Aerion's voice was a soft, melodic whisper, yet perfectly clear. "My reconnaissance of the Duchy of Daarno is complete. I bring you the intelligence you requested."
Aerion unfurled a series of meticulously drawn maps, each detail painfully precise, gleaned from weeks of unseen movement and observation. His report was chilling in its clarity:
"The Duchy of Daarno," Aerion began, his voice devoid of emotion, "is divided. Magister Ghazaro, ruling Qapys and Sweetpale, is a Myrish man. He rules with a heavy hand, his garrisons drawn from Lysene sellswords who are loyal only to coin. The populace in these counties is weary of his taxes and the distant overlordship of Myr. There are whispers of discontent among their local petty lords, some of whom resent Ghazaro's imposition and the drain on their lands. They believe Myr's forces will always come to their aid, leading to a dangerous overconfidence, yet simultaneously, a pervasive fear of Myr's wrath prevents open rebellion among them."
"Their external defenses, along their border with us, consist primarily of watchtowers and patrols manned by these Lysene mercenaries. We have observed frequent skirmishes between these mercenaries and local bandit groups, and even some Dothraki scouting parties. Their professionalism is moderate, but they are loyal to pay, not to Ghazaro or Myr."
Aerion then moved his slender finger to the northernmost county. "Aenoris County, under Magister Peyos Freyna, is a different matter. He is a Rhoynish man, and his people, while nominally vassals of Daarno and through it, Myr, hold a deep-seated resentment against Myrish domination. They prefer their own customs, their own quiet way of life. Peyos Freyna is not a warrior; he is a scholar and a diplomat, ruling through subtle influence rather than brute force. His forces are smaller, consisting mostly of local levies, fiercely loyal to him, but ill-equipped for a major conflict. There are strong internal discussions, whispers of loyalty to their Rhoynish heritage over Myrish gold. Some within his court would welcome any force that could sever the Myrish chains, while others, more cautious, fear any change."
"The internal struggles within Daarno are rife," Aerion continued. "Ghazaro's harshness in Qapys and Sweetpale has created pockets of betrayal among minor landholders and even some merchant guilds, who would readily switch allegiance if a clear, powerful alternative presented itself. They are seeking liberation, not conquest. In Aenoris, the Rhoynish people harbor little love for Ghazaro, or for Myr, but they are wary of the Dothraki and any foreign invaders."
Maegor listened, his Valyrian Insight (Tier 3) processing every nuance of Aerion's report, seeing not just the facts, but the emotional currents, the deep-seated resentments, and the flicker of hope. He understood the terrain of human will. Magister Ghazaro was a hammer, easily broken. Magister Peyos Freyna was a fragile reed, to be bent, not snapped.
His goal: minimize his casualties. This intelligence was the key. He would not throw his precious Blood Wyrms and disciplined infantry against walls that could be circumvented, or against wills that could be broken by diplomacy.
The conquest of Daarno would not be a simple brute-force invasion. It would be a calculated, multi-faceted assault, combining overwhelming might with surgical strikes and psychological warfare, leveraging the internal weaknesses of his enemies. He would offer terms to the Rhoynish, and he would crush the Myrish puppet. This would save lives, both his own and those he intended to rule.
"Excellent, Aerion," Maegor finally said, his voice cold and decisive. "Your eyes see what others cannot. This intelligence is invaluable. Now, the plans begin."
He knew exactly how he would proceed. He would strike swiftly, decisively, like a shadow of fire.