"Stop overthinking, Daenerys."
Aedric lightly patted her slender shoulder and smiled calmly. "Those horsemen are just a minor itch—once your dragons mature, subduing them will be child's play."
"The ones you really need to watch," he added, glancing toward the council chamber below, "are the people arguing down there. They are both your arms and your greatest threat."
Since the industries of all three cities had been completely transformed, the old urban structures were no longer adequate. Reconstruction and expansion were necessary—but the massive demand for manpower in the factories left little labor or resources to spare.
At most, they could renovate one city first. The other two would have to wait.
And thus, the problem arose: which city should be rebuilt first?
Daenerys had initially wanted to decide on her own, but Aedric stopped her. He told her the Chinese parable of "Two peaches killing three warriors"—a tale of how wise rulers use limited rewards to spark competition among powerful subordinates.
Then he advised her to hand the question over to the former slave masters and let them argue it out while she watched from above.
That, he said, was the art of rule.
When faced with a problem that cannot be fairly resolved, turn your problem into theirs. Let them tear each other apart—and when the dust settles, you'll stand unchallenged, harvesting the spoils like a fisherman after a storm.
After all, a ruler whose subordinates live in harmony will soon find her own authority eroded.
The results were astonishingly effective.
As the demand across Essos grew ever greater, the porcelain workshops were overwhelmed. Orders poured in from every direction like snow in a blizzard. Deposits filled the treasuries to bursting; gold, silver, and jewels were stacked in courtyards, piling up faster than new vaults could be built.
So whichever city was modernized first—and could therefore expand its production—would gain a massive share of these advance orders.
That meant enormous profits and influence for its ruling class. None of the city lords could afford to lose.
And so, the former "Good Masters" and "Wise Masters," now the leaders of the three city-states, erupted into constant shouting matches during every council session. They fought tooth and nail, cursed, accused, even came to blows.
If not for Aedric's foresight—having Daenerys post Unsullied guards to maintain order, and forcing every participant to be searched for weapons before entering—the floor of the hall would already be slick with blood.
Even so, after each meeting, the Unsullied would drag out a dozen or more bruised and battered nobles, their faces swollen and their tempers still burning.
It wouldn't be long, Aedric knew, before those same men came crawling to Daenerys, begging her to step in and take control.
"Honestly, which city we renovate first doesn't matter," Aedric said in his usual even tone. "But making these former slave masters turn on one another and plead for your arbitration—that's very important."
"These people aren't saints. You need them, yes—but you must never trust them."
"Every so often, toss some sand into the gears. Don't let them rest easy. If they ever feel too secure, you won't be."
He turned his gaze toward the bustling city below. "We are outsiders here. Our roots are shallow. The only way we can stay above them is to make sure they're always at each other's throats—draining their own strength while you stand untouched above the fray."
"Do you understand?"
After months of political training under Aedric's guidance, Daenerys had changed completely. She nodded, comprehension dawning in her eyes—and beneath that, a growing sense of peace.
This man always had a way. No matter the dilemma, he could unravel it with effortless precision.
For someone whose life had been a string of losses and betrayals, this feeling of stability, of control, was intoxicating.
Everything she had now—her power, her prosperity, her confidence—had been built on his wisdom.
Her silver eyes softened as she turned to look at him, admiration mingled with a warmth she could no longer disguise. She was just about to lean closer when the sound of hurried footsteps interrupted.
Moments later, one of her Kingsguard—Ser Barristan Selmy, the "Bold"—strode into view.
Yes, the same Ser Barristan who, just as in the show, had been dismissed by Joffrey and crossed the Narrow Sea to pledge himself to the Dragon Queen.
Now, alongside Pyat Pree and Missandei, he formed the beginnings of Daenerys's new royal guard.
Missandei, in particular, had been a special case. When Aedric first saw her, he'd felt that having only male bodyguards around a queen was inconvenient. After testing her aptitude, he discovered that the girl's physical foundation was excellent—far above ordinary.
Not quite at Arya's monstrous level of talent, but easily good enough.
So, after confirming Missandei's willingness, he had her swear the oath of the Queensguard and assigned Arya as her combat instructor.
As for Daenerys herself, Aedric had tested her as well—then very tactfully explained that her aptitude for martial arts was… well, about on par with Arya's talent for dragon-riding.
In other words, nonexistent.
So rather than wasting time training, it was better to have a capable female guard by her side.
To her credit, Daenerys had gracefully accepted that assessment—before immediately stomping on his foot hard enough to make him wince.
He still couldn't figure out where she'd learned to kick like that. She'd never shown that skill in the show.
Maybe she picked it up along the way.
Anyway, best not to dwell on that.
~~--------------------------
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