Dorne surrendered. All nine Free Citiess belong to him.
King Seven Kingdoms on the other side of the Narrow Sea was lying in bed, frightened by a mummy and unable to take care of himself. He could only negotiate with him through his daughter, using the title of "King of the Narrow Sea" in exchange for his dragon and fleet staying on the sea east of Driftmark.
The world is changing into his shape step by step.
And he hadn't even started to exert force yet.
Outside the study, at the corner of the corridor, Mesalia was leaning against the wall, holding a glass of cold red wine in one hand, and placing the other hand on her lower abdomen, her fingers gently stroking the thin skirt.
There was no expression on her face, but her eyes were bright, as bright as two lit, golden-brown stars.
She heard the conversation between Rhaenyra and Redd. Not all of it. She was standing too far away and could only hear some sporadic and indistinct syllables that were filtered by the walls and door frames.
But she heard one sentence - the sentence Rhaenyra said when he left.
"Messaria is a great helper."
That tone. That tone that was calm, dignified, without any emotion, as if he was talking about something that had nothing to do with him.
Mesalia's fingers paused on the hem of the skirt for a moment, then continued stroking.
The corners of her mouth raised slightly, revealing a faint, somewhat sarcastic, and somewhat helpless smile.
Helper. In the queen's eyes, she is just a helper.
A dispensable helper that you keep when you use it well and replace it when it doesn't.
No matter how sexy she dresses, no matter how hard she works in bed, no matter how much she does for Redd, how much intelligence she collects, and how wide a network she spreads - in the eyes of the queen, she will always be just a helper.
A replaceable helper.
Messaria drank the red wine in her glass and placed the empty glass on the windowsill.
She straightened up, straightened her skirt, tucked her hair that was messed up by the night wind behind her ears, and then walked towards Redd's study.
That just right, gentle and considerate smile reappeared on her face, like a lamp that had been relit, emitting a bright and warm light in the darkness.
She opened the door and walked in.
"Your Highness," her voice was soft and sweet, like velvet soaked in honey, "Would you like to take a bath? I have asked someone to prepare hot water."
Redd opened his eyes, looked at her, and nodded.
Mesalia walked up behind him, put her hands on his shoulders, and gently pressed the muscles of his neck with her fingers.
She could feel those muscles relaxing slightly under her fingers, and she could feel his breathing becoming more even and deeper.
The corners of her mouth raised slightly, and the smile stayed there for a moment, and then dissipated.
Her eyes fell on the letter Prince of Dorne on the desk, and on the golden sun pierced by a spear.
Dorne. She's been there too.
That was so long ago that she almost forgot those nights in the desert, those eyes hidden behind veils, and those palm trees rustling in the wind under the moonlight.
Dorne is a good place. The people there are enthusiastic, unrestrained and informal. The wine there is stronger than King's Landing. The women there are more beautiful than Lys. The sunshine there can melt the coldest and hardest hearts into a pool of warm water.
Dorne surrendered. Dorne surrendered to Iron Throne again.
And the so-called "Iron Throne" is currently lying under the butt of an old man who is too frightened by the mummy to take care of himself.
Mesalia's fingers paused on Redd's shoulders for a moment, and then continued to press.
She knows that the real owner of Iron Throne is not Viserys. It is not Rhaenyra. It is not Aegon II. It is not anyone with the surname Targaryen.
The owner of Iron Throne is sitting on the chair in front of her, eyes closed, enjoying the touch of her fingers.
And she - she wants to make sure that she will always stand by this master's side.
Not as a helper, not as a lover, not as any replaceable or dispensable role.
But as a mother.
His hands slipped from her shoulders, stayed on her waist for a moment, and then continued down.
She closed her eyes and felt the small, scorching flames ignited by his fingers on her skin.
The flames spread from her waist, down her belly, up her thighs, along her back and neck, burning all the way to her brain, causing her whole body to tremble slightly.
She thought of Viserys's palace. The old king lying on the big bed unable to take care of himself, and the "Lord of Iron Throne" who was so frightened by a mummy that he became bedridden.
His Queen Allison was taking care of him at the bedside, giving him medicine, wiping him, changing his bedding, and taking care of this man who was more than ten years older than him and who was dying little by little, like a baby.
Mesalia sneered in her heart.
Also a queen, Rhaenyra is much luckier than her.
Her husband is not a waste lying in bed, but a real king who is conquering the world and holding everyone's destiny in his palm.
And she - she is luckier than Rhaenyra. Because she is not a queen, she does not need to be bound by any title or identity, and she does not need to maintain a mask of "dignity" and "property" in front of anyone.
She only needs to do one thing - make this man unable to leave her.
Mesalia's fingers slid from his shoulders to his chest and unbuttoned the first button of his shirt.
Her lips were close to his ear, and her voice was as soft as telling a secret, "Your Highness, the hot water is getting cold."
Redd opened his eyes and looked at her. Her face was reflected in those black pupils - a face that was flushed in the candlelight, smiling, and so beautiful that it made people's hearts tremble.
He stood up and hugged her sideways.
Mesalia let out a chuckle and a small exclamation, hooked her hands around his neck, buried her face in his chest, feeling the temperature and heartbeat of his chest.
The heartbeat was steady and powerful, like a war drum beating on the battlefield. Every beat vibrated her chest, making her heart beat with the same rhythm.
He carried her out of the study and walked to the bathroom.
In the corridor, the maids who were waiting at the door have disappeared.
They were very sensible. When they heard those blushing and heart-pounding sounds in the study, they had already quietly retreated deeper into the corridor, hiding in the corner, covering their mouths and snickering, exchanging meaningful glances with each other.
They didn't know whether Mesalia could successfully conceive with Dragon King's bloodline. They only knew that His Majesty Dragon King and the Queen's maid would be very busy tonight.