"Your oath is only half fulfilled. There is still Arya," the cloaked figure said in a voice like a blade scraping glass.
"Let the White Walkers take that damned girl. We searched the entire Trident and didn't hear a single trace of her. Where am I supposed to find her?" the man complained.
"Your sacred oath must be obeyed. Until it is completed, you must listen to me. Even if one day I am gone, you must continue," the cloaked figure said, utterly devoid of emotion.
"I wasn't this loyal even to the Mad King," the lion-headed man grumbled.
"If you had always remained loyal to your oath, you wouldn't be suffering today."
The cloaked figure was not usually so talkative, but today was her daughter's wedding, and her son-in-law was young, talented, and strikingly handsome. She was simply too overwhelmed.
"Can I speak to Tyrion? That bastard killed his father and then his uncle. I need to ask him myself what kind of hatred drives him."
The lion-headed man glared toward the dwarf who was openly flirting with Arianne in the distance and snarled through clenched teeth.
"No. We are about to begin our operation. Do not disrupt the plan," the cloaked figure hissed sharply.
"Cersei married Euron. For the sake of this oath, I've sacrificed far too much," the lion-headed man said mournfully.
Suddenly, the sky darkened. The thin winter sunlight was swallowed by a shadow. A piercing, resonant beast roar echoed, shaking the Moon Gate fortress.
"Wow—Balerion! Balerion the Black Dread!"
"A real dragon!"
"The true Targaryen dragon!"
"Long live the dragon!"
The winged dragon spread its vast wings, blotting out the sky and driving the crowd's excitement to its peak.
The Black Dread landed on the marble square, its massive body like a thick city wall, even blocking the king and queen standing behind it.
But soon, everyone saw the king take the queen by the hand as they stepped onto the fleshy wing-ladder, climbing up its back. They settled into the saddle and tightened the straps.
A moment later, the enormous leather wings stirred a whirlwind across the plaza. The gust ripped the cloaked figure's hood away, revealing a scar-ridden, death-pale face.
It was Lady Stoneheart. She had come to attend her daughter's wedding.
Balerion rose into the sky, carrying the king and queen as they departed to tour the cities of the Vale.
"So big! I doubt even a scorpion bolt could kill it. I heard Queen Sansa will become a dragonrider too?"
The lion-headed man stroked his messy beard, squinting at the shrinking shape of the dragon in the sky. He muttered, "This damned world feels more unfamiliar by the day."
"Soon. We will soon complete our vengeance and take back Winterfell," the cloaked figure whispered, pulling her hood back on.
Aegon returned to the Eyrie with Sansa before dusk to attend the formal wedding feast.
When the queen dismounted, she sneezed uncontrollably, her body trembling. Her rosy face and red lips had turned bluish with cold.
She was underdressed for winter.
"My love, the winter winds are harsh. Next time wear a thick fur coat and a wind-proof helm. It will be much better," King Aegon said softly to comfort his bride.
Back in the royal bedchamber—originally the chambers of the Arryn lord—Sansa thawed by the fire, her beauty returning like a lake melting in spring.
For the feast, both changed their attire. Aegon wore black trousers and a deep red-and-gold doublet embroidered with golden thread, with the true-dragon crown gifted by Illyrio resting on his head.
Compared to the impulsive youth he had been in Slaver's Bay, he now carried a steadier, kingly presence.
Sansa changed into a bright red Targaryen gown. Her slender waist was cinched tight, the corset baring her shoulders and the upper curves of her breasts, making her skin appear as crystalline as snow and her figure as graceful as a willow branch.
Her cheekbones were delicate, her blue eyes clear. Her thick auburn hair flowed freely over her pale shoulders down to her waist. On her forehead rested a simple Valyrian-steel tiara set with a hexagonal ruby.
The back of the crown secured her hair so that her refined cheekbones and exquisite features remained unobscured.
Hand in hand, fingers interlaced, the two exchanged a smile. Surrounded by Brienne and the knights, they entered the hall together, greeted by cheers and whistles.
Joffrey's wedding feast had once been unprecedented in its extravagance, with seventy-seven courses—something rarely seen.
Although seventy-seven dishes were far too few for Zhang Juzheng to even start eating, in Westeros—and indeed almost anywhere in the world—such a feast was considered luxuriously rare.
Not because the people here were frugal, but because assembling that many dishes and the chefs for them was difficult.
Many of Joffrey's seventy-seven dishes were repeats—various pies and pastries, each counted as a separate dish.
Aegon also managed to gather seventy-seven courses this time.
He outdid the Great Emperor Joffrey just a bit, having learned several Eastern dishes from Aunt Daenerys in Slaver's Bay—such as chopped-chili fish head, white-cut chicken, and garlic crayfish.
In a culture that reveres the number seven, seven dishes are too few, and even the Dragon Queen, soul of the East, could not assemble seven hundred seventy-seven. Seventy-seven was the ideal choice.
The evening, of course, was filled with entertainment—acrobats, dwarf combat, opera.Most important of all was the opera.
To open, Seven-String Tom performed "Winter Snow Rose" praising the direwolves, "The Floral Crown Knight King" honoring the Dragon Queen, and "Maiden, Mother, and Crone" in tribute to the Seven. His song "My Beloved Grace" expressed the king's affection for his queen, drawing laughter and cheers from all the young guests.
In addition to these traditional performances, there were also a large number of rustic erotic ballads and sensational, curiosity-driven shows. Because their themes and content were relatively novel, some even appearing before the public for the first time, they were far more popular than the traditional operas people had heard hundreds or thousands of times.
For example, The Dream of the Tavern Girl Roshi told the story of a pure young girl's gradual descent into ruin.
The singer was a big man from Myr, a famous tenor from across the Narrow Sea. In a deep and lingering voice, he sang, "That year, I went to the bend of flowers and fruit. Under the peach tree, I saw a face more delicate than the blossoms. I stepped forward in a daze, only to see beneath the apricot tree on the other side a tall, handsome young man gazing at her from afar. Love shimmered between them like waves on the sea. Heartbroken, I withdrew in silence."
The music shifted from the light and joyful Dream of Lilac Blossoms to a slow, wistful tune filled with melancholy and blessing.
"This year, I went to the golden wheat bend. In a tavern, I saw a girl as lovely as a rose. Before I even stepped forward, she wrapped her arms around my neck with a honey-sweet smile and entwined herself with me."
The rhythm suddenly quickened, carrying a sense of floral intoxication.
Then came long passages describing scenes of passion that could not be spoken openly—various acts, various sensations. Men could barely restrain themselves, while women blushed and their eyes shimmered with desire.
"I awoke from my dreamlike trance. She actually asked me for a copper star. She laughed and said she once cost a whole gold dragon! I asked about that young man. Her smile faded. She told me a dream—her dream."
The music turned sorrowful.
The audience cooled instantly from their earlier excitement. They gnashed their teeth, pounded the tables, slammed their knives and forks against their plates, threw their cups, and cursed loudly.
"Damn Faceless Man!" In the end, all the sympathy and pity they felt for Roshi turned into curses directed at the Faceless Man.
Roshi's Dream was adapted from the true story Daenerys once encountered in a tavern in Oldtown—Petyr, a lowly novice with no hope of advancement, and Roshi, a tavern girl whose mother had set the price of her maidenhood at one gold dragon. The pure yet desperate love between these two bottom-ranked Westerosi commoners was so real and vivid that it was even more moving than Romeo and Juliet or The Butterfly Lovers. Daenerys herself had been sincerely touched and had even intended to help this struggling pair of little lovers.
But the appearance of Jaqen H'ghar, the Faceless Man, sent them both into the abyss: Petyr abandoned the vows he once swore, and Roshi, abandoned by her "lover" in despair, became a full tavern wench—a single gold dragon reduced to a dream, as her body was sold for a copper star.
The story was already moving, but after literary embellishment—turning foolish, awkward Petyr into a handsome, tall, wise young man full of hope; giving Roshi the fragility of Lin Daiyu, the boldness of Hongfu, the resolve of Zhuo Wenjun, and the ethereal charm of Zhu Yingtai; letting their love twist and deepen through hardship and obstacle, the classic melodramatic suffering-love formula, and then sprinkling in a dose of sugary sweetness—the dry, pitiful love of two bottom-tier nobodies suddenly became Westeros's own Butterfly Lovers, even more legendary and heartbreaking.
Just when everyone expected a perfect happy ending, Petyr suddenly changed his heart, and Roshi became a tavern wench priced at a copper star per visit. The plot shift was abrupt and baffling.
Only at the end came the line, "He turned out to be a Faceless Man." With just a single appearance, the Faceless Man became an even more hated villain than Ma Wencai from The Butterfly Lovers.
Even the wise Tyrion, the scheming Littlefinger, and the stern, rigid Jon all cursed the Faceless Man after watching the play.
Their reactions were heartfelt and sincere, without the slightest hint of pretense.
But a dwarf was still not an ordinary man. Half an hour after Roshi's Dream ended, the boiling tide of emotion in Tyrion's chest gradually calmed. Reason returned, and he murmured, "Why does the style of this play feel so familiar?"
Well, in this world, the means of cultural entertainment were scarce—reading and theater.
Tyrion loved theater as well.
Back in Slaver's Bay, he often lingered around workers' and peasants' troupes, not only to seek out the dwarf girl Fenni, but also to listen to plays.
Puzzled, he called the Myrish tenor over and asked, "This is my first time hearing Roshi's Dream. Who wrote it?"
The fat man replied, "This popular drama recently came from the south. It's the latest work of the famous playwright Dr. Walgrave."
"Walgrave…" Tyrion, an avid reader, immediately retrieved the name from memory. "I read his famous work Black Wings, Swift Messengers when I was young. He mocked Saint Baelor's foolish attempt to replace ravens with doves."
The tenor was also a learned man. He nodded and said, "I've had the honor of reading it too. Saint Baelor believed white doves symbolized purity, while the ravens' black wings represented ill omen.
But doves can only be used as pigeon pies. They are entirely incapable of surviving in the wild, while fierce ravens can even battle eagles."
"The question is, how did a master of raven-lore become a famous playwright?" Tyrion wondered aloud.
"He may be a maester of raven studies, but his chain could wrap around my belly," the tenor said, patting his own round stomach. "Which maester knows only one discipline?"
"That's true…" Tyrion reluctantly agreed, then hesitated. "Did you notice the style of Roshi's Dream—"
"Hahaha!" Before Tyrion could finish, the tenor burst out laughing. "Like the Dragon Queen! Of course it resembles her.
The Dragon Queen practically created an entirely new genre. Everyone imitates her. Even the maesters of the Citadel imitate her. Dr. Walgrave simply does it best."
"I thought it was just me…" Tyrion said with a strange expression.
"Ah, after her operas from Slaver's Bay spread, the common folk only enjoyed the spectacle, but we insiders were astonished the moment we saw them. The literary technique, the unique use of anticipation and reversal…"
Finally meeting someone "civilized" in the wilds of Westeros, the tenor grew enthusiastic and launched into a lengthy analysis of the Dragon Queen's creative approach and narrative techniques.
(ps: Seven-String Tom is a spy of the Brotherhood Without Banners, gathering information for Lady Stoneheart while posing as a singer. At this time, he is the resident singer of the Eyrie.)
(End of chapter)
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