The morning air in Volantis was thick with the cloying scent of syrup, spices, and the sea breeze.
...and a faint, lingering smell of something burnt. Aegon was sitting on the second floor of a street-side eatery in the port district, with several local breakfast specialties laid out before him.
Fried dough balls soaked in thick syrup, mille-feuille dusted with powdered sugar, and a cup of hot sheep's milk with excessive honey.
He speared a fried dough ball and popped it into his mouth; the sweetness instantly overwhelmed his taste buds.
It was sickeningly sweet. Most Volantene food was sweet, but compared to sleeping rough and eating meagerly in the ruins, this was already excellent.
"The Pink Dream is nothing but a shell now... the Tiger Cloaks say it was a gang war..."
"Barry hit a snag this time... even his sister couldn't save him..."
The buzzing chatter provided Aegon a measure of relief.
As expected, the incident was categorized as a gang conflict, and no one investigated further.
Either the ruby had been properly used as a bribe, or the Elephant Party Magistrate simply didn't care about the life of his mistress's brother.
Henry, sitting opposite him, was also enjoying his breakfast. He ate with the unrestrained manner of a Mercenary, yet still maintained basic etiquette.
He noticed that Aegon's food hadn't been touched much and asked with concern, "Your Highness, is it not to your liking? Would you like to try this crispbread? It's sweet, but quite fragrant."
"No need." Aegon put down his fork and wiped his mouth. "How are the men resting?"
Henry immediately set down his food and answered earnestly, "They've all recovered. The injured have been treated by a doctor, and their spirits are high. They're just restless and keep asking what the plan is next."
"Pass on my order," Aegon said, rising and tossing down a few copper coins. "In one hour, everyone is to assemble on the deck of The Quiet."
"Yes, Your Highness." Henry immediately accepted the order.
Leaving the eatery, Aegon's thoughts returned to the problem that had troubled him: Blood Flame.
In the Valyrian Ruins, the black and red flames had responded to his call, chilling to the bone yet capable of burning everything to ash.
But after leaving the ruins, no matter how hard he tried, the power refused to respond again.
"Was it a magical condition achieved accidentally? Or a bloody sacrifice?" He recalled Daenerys's process of hatching the dragon eggs.
If he could reproduce some kind of "blood fire" ritual under more controllable conditions... The thought made his heart race: perhaps he could try using this method to hatch those dragon eggs.
But reason immediately warned him that the Blood Flame in the ruins was the product of a curse, wild and uncontrollable.
Using it to hatch life? That would be playing with fire.
He needed knowledge, control, and, most importantly, an absolutely safe testing ground... In the afternoon, the sun was scorching, and the sea breeze, carrying a salty odor, billowed the sails of The Quiet.
Over a hundred warriors stood solemnly on the deck. Having survived the horrors of Valyria and the bloody night in Volantis, the confusion of scattered Mercenaries was gone from their eyes, replaced by the composure and sharpness of men who had faced death.
Aegon stood before them, his silver hair particularly striking in the sunlight. He was not wearing his conspicuous Valyrian Steel armor, but only a sharp black outfit.
"We survived the cursed land of Valyria," his voice, calm yet clear, reached every man's ear. "We eliminated the obstacles before us in Volantis. But this is far from enough."
His gaze swept over their faces: "The life of a Mercenary, living hand-to-mouth, risking your lives for a few silver coins, being ordered around like stray dogs—haven't you had enough of this life?"
A low murmur rose among the ranks, and the eyes of many men sharpened.
"I, Aegon Targaryen, have never aimed merely to scrape by on the shores of the Narrow Sea." Aegon's voice was not loud, but it carried the force of a proclamation. "My gaze is fixed upon Westeros, upon the iron throne."
"And this path requires a truly loyal, brave, and trustworthy army, not a temporary collection of Mercenaries."
He paused, letting his words sink into everyone's heart: "Today, we shall give this company a name and a soul."
"From this moment forth, we are no longer 'them,' but 'us'—the Bloodsworn."
"Our oath shall not be sworn in the name of the gods, but witnessed by the blood we have shed together, the death we have faced together, and the future we are about to create together!"
Aegon looked at the faces before him, faces that had walked out of the Valyrian hell together.
They shared the experience of surviving death, held a vague hope for the future, and even possessed basic discipline.
But it was not enough.
Over a hundred Mercenaries, hailing from all corners, accustomed to living dangerously and fighting independently, were still fundamentally disparate.
They needed a bond stronger than a monetary contract, an identity more profound than a temporary leader.
They needed a soul, a name, so that every man, when swinging his sword, would know clearly who "we" were and what "we" were fighting for.
Merely announcing a name was hollow.
It required an infusion, a brand.
Aegon thought of the Dothraki Bloodriders, a bond that transcended the lord-vassal relationship and was almost like blood brothers, whose core ritual involved the exchange and sharing of blood.
He also recalled the ancient tradition of "swearing a blood oath" practiced by heroes in his previous life.
Mixing the blood of different individuals, either by drinking it or smearing it, symbolized connected destinies and shared fortune and misfortune.
In an ignorant age, this kind of ritual, imbued with primitive religious and mystical elements, often generated an unimaginable spiritual cohesion.
Perhaps he could draw inspiration from it, but it needed modification.
The Dothraki Bloodriders were too personalized and sacred, making the concept unsuitable for an armed group.
And simple ancient oaths lacked the specificity and the unique imprint of him, Aegon Targaryen.
He did not want brothers sworn in equality, but an army centered around him, possessing powerful cohesion and fighting will.
The ritual needed to be solemn, memorable, capable of inspiring belonging and honor, and, crucially, it had to define the relationship between "loyalty" and "leadership."
The Bloodsworn... the name was set. Therefore, the oath and ritual should revolve around "blood" and "oath."
He would have every man's blood literally flow together, allowing them to see their mutual blood mingling.
This was more than symbolism; it was a powerful psychological suggestion—that from this moment on, the blood flowing through them was no longer unrelated.
The content of the oath had to be concise, powerful, and straight to the core, encompassing strength, loyalty, and a shared goal.
A blueprint quickly formed in Aegon's mind.
Simple, but sufficient.
In this world, the raw methods that strike directly at the human heart are often more effective than intricate designs.
What he wanted was to "dye" this group the same color and brand them with the same mark.
He signaled to Karl to bring up a wooden basin, then drew his dagger, cut a gash into his palm, and let the blood drip into the basin. "In ancient times, oaths required the drinking of blood, symbolizing connected destinies and shared sincerity."
"Today, our blood mingles together, meaning that from this day forward, we share life and death, honor and disgrace!"
Henry was the first to step forward, cutting his palm and dripping blood.
Next came Karl, Luke... The warriors dropped their blood into the basin one by one.
When it was the turn of the representative of the "Silent Men"—the old sailor—he showed no hesitation either.
Aegon had previously asked them why they chose to stay, and the old sailor gestured in reply.
The respect and sense of "home" Aegon gave them were more precious than uncertain freedom; these ships were their only refuge and the place of their skill.
When the last man had dripped his blood into the basin, Aegon plunged his hand into the blood, smeared two lines of the mixed blood onto his cheeks.
"The Oath of the Bloodsworn:"
"The sword is our word!" His voice was steady and strong.
"Loyalty is our soul!"
"We are brothers!"
"By blood and fire, the oath is sealed forever!"
"The sword is our word! Loyalty is our soul! We are brothers! By blood and fire, the oath is sealed forever!" The men swore in unison, the sound echoing over the harbor with an unprecedented sense of unity.
After the ritual ended, Aegon instructed Karl: "Inventory the supplies, inspect the ships, and prepare to set sail. Our next stop is the Stepstones."
"Yes, Your Highness!"
Aegon took a final look at the outline of Volantis.
The blood oath was sworn, and the foundation was laid.
Next, it was time to set sail and acquire the first cornerstone—the five hundred sets of plate armor hidden in the Stepstones, enough to equip an army.
As for his thoughts on the dragon eggs and Blood Flame, he buried them deep in his heart, waiting for the right time and method for verification.
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