Larys Strong

The visitor pushed his hood back, and the firelight fell on his reddish-brown hair.

"Larys?" Baelon's expression remained calm, a hint of laughter entering his voice.

"Shouldn't you be in your room preparing for tomorrow's Small Council meeting?"

Baelon pushed open the window. The evening wind rushed in, bringing a clamor of noise to his ears.

Larys slowly approached the table, his cane tapping against the floor with a steady knocking sound.

Very distinctive footsteps.

Larys spoke respectfully. "Prince, I had to come and thank you."

"You have allowed me to..."

Baelon chuckled and interrupted him. "Larys."

His eyes held a smile. "I know you can squeeze out the sweetest nectar. Don't show off in front of me."

Baelon poured a cup of wine from the pitcher. Though he did not drink, he always kept fine wine in his room.

The golden cup, filled with crimson wine, was set before Larys.

Baelon said heartily, "If you must thank someone, thank yourself."

"Thank yourself for the resolve that never yielded all these years, for the hard work you put into studying day and night, and for that clever mind of yours."

Larys tightened both hands around the golden cup. Lowering his eyes, he took a sip of the wine.

"If there's nothing else, go back and prepare properly for your debut tomorrow."

Baelon raised his eyebrows. "It will be a historic moment. When you take your place on the Small Council, you will declare something."

"A strong body is not the only way to rise in the world."

Larys set down his cup and looked up, his voice utterly sincere. "Prince, please let me repay you. Let me resolve your troubles."

Baelon laughed heartily and said with frank openness, "My only trouble at present lies in the kingdom of the Three Daughters."

"Larys, do you truly have that ability now?"

"To dismantle the alliance of the Three Daughters and please me?"

Larys abruptly raised his head and met a pair of violet eyes brimming with laughter. Firelight danced within them.

Something stirred within him, and he ventured, "Prince, regarding the Stepstones, do you...?"

"Ah."

Baelon sighed. Leaning against the window, he watched the golden-red sun sink, staining the sky the color of roses.

King's Landing lay shrouded in twilight.

He turned back amid the sunset's glow, disappointment in his eyes. "Larys, I thought you had sufficient ambition, but now it seems..."

"Your eyes can only see this far after all."

The evening wind swept past, and the first star rose on the horizon, the earliest bright star to appear among the summer stars.

Baelon frowned and mused in puzzlement, "Shouldn't dragons that blot out the sky and sun enfold the entire world beneath their wings?"

Larys's heart pounded wildly. It felt as though someone had seized his throat.

"Larys, I am destined to accomplish great things, for good or ill."

Smiling, he extended a hand in invitation. "So, whether you mean it sincerely or not, if you wish to ease my burdens, don't fix your gaze solely on this little patch of land called King's Landing."

"The Stepstones, the Free Cities, Essos..."

"Put your abilities to full use!"

Baelon gave a low chuckle.

Even if he did pursue war relentlessly, unleash endless conflict, and drag Westeros into the mire of war, what did it matter?

Whatever upheaval he caused, the outcome could hardly be worse than the Dance of the Dragons, when several dragons died pointlessly in a civil war.

According to the original course of fate, the last dragon would die in just forty-three years, when he was forty-nine.

Besides, did the Seven Kingdoms not crave war?

This land had been at peace for too long.

Westeros had its own particular circumstances.

The exceedingly low literacy rate among the nobility naturally corresponded to a warlike, violent disposition. They loved hunting and spilling blood at tournaments.

Then there was the chivalry prevalent across this continent, and the people's worship of knights.

What this produced was not the courteous, humble, merciful knights of literary fantasy, but a host of knights eager to exchange violence for glory.

Knights loved fighting and longed to win fame and honor in a single fight.

Finally, there was the system of inheritance under which the eldest son inherited everything.

That system left the younger sons of nobles with no choice but to fight and seize things for themselves.

Those younger sons had received systematic training in martial skills, possessed suits of finely crafted armor, and had warhorses of their own.

On one side were younger sons full of aggression, skilled at arms and decently equipped; on the other were masses of Hedge Knights eager to win distinction through force.

Of course, there were also the warlike great lords, greedy and brutal.

Since the reign of Jaehaerys the Conciliator, the Seven Kingdoms had enjoyed a long peace, with ever more valleys and orchards brought under cultivation and granaries growing ever fuller.

Mighty dragons circled above the Iron Throne.

Honestly.

With so many conditions combined, Westeros had somehow failed to embark on endless outward conquest and expansion?!

Baelon could not help feeling somewhat surprised.

He guessed that the seasons might have played a part, their unpredictability binding the soldiers' feet.

More likely, disputes over succession to the Iron Throne had torn the kingdom apart, turning its forces against one another.

The quagmire of civil war had drained the kingdom's strength, leaving it unable to expand outward.

Since that was the case, he was willing to guide this blaze toward expansion and conquest!

Then he would reshape the world according to his will.

Even if he burned himself in the flames he kindled and died in war, he would leave a vivid mark upon the world's history.

Only such a vast, grand, magnificent life would do justice to the Targaryen name and his journey into this world.

Something suddenly occurred to Baelon, and his gaze shifted to Larys. Looking into his eyes, he asked earnestly, "Larys, would you like to be buried with me after you die?"

"What?" Larys froze.

He had always been calm and composed, his thoughts deeply concealed, and believed no one could see through his plans.

But at that moment, his ears rang.

Baelon pointed somewhere outside King's Landing and smiled. "When I die, I don't want to be buried on Dragonstone."

"Just bury me on some nameless hill beside the Blackwater Rush."

"In the future, even as the years pass and times change..."

"When sailors pass in swift ships and knights ride past on horseback, they will see that hill from afar and remember my name."

"Someone will point to the hill from a distance and say..."

"'There lies Baelon Targaryen, a king who accomplished great things.'"

"So, be buried with me. Even if the Targaryen Dynasty falls and green growth covers the scorched earth once more, people will still point to that mound and speak of our achievements."

Didn't this world have gods?

He had already crossed into this world. Perhaps souls really existed. Buried alongside his ministers, he could go to the Stranger's realm and achieve glory with them again.

Larys stood motionless for a long time, gazing at Baelon without responding.

His gaze lowered, passing over his deformed, bent foot. The world scorned his intelligence and mocked his misshapen body.

Make the world remember his name?!

Scorching Dragonfire ignited in Larys's chest and spread along his veins.

Baelon watched him quietly.

Larys rose and walked toward Baelon, step by step.

Like walking into a deep, dark cave where a monstrous dragon lurked.

"Tap, tap, tap-"