"Did I ask you about Joffrey's problems?" Rhaena showed no intention of letting go. "I asked where you got your information about them." Of course, she was only teasing Rey—there was no malice in her playfulness. Ever since marrying him, she had fallen completely in love with him. Though Rey preferred the grand library of the Laurel Tower and the presence of his dragon, Shadowmare, over their time in bed, Rhaena had her own preferences too. She loved galloping through the valley meadows and spending time with her inseparable dragon, Morning. At the very least, when it came to dragons, she deeply admired her husband—especially after realizing that Morning was growing faster in Dragon's Nest than she had in Driftmark.
"With Tigarro around, there are no secrets in my brother's lands." Rey seized the moment and flipped Rhaena onto the bed beneath him. "The two of them do have Velaryon blood, but it's uncertain whose exactly."
"Huh?" Rhaena was shocked again. Rey released his wife, letting her sit at the edge of the bed, and asked curiously, "It couldn't possibly be my uncle's children, could it? He..." She hesitated, her words trailing off.
Rey shook his head. "Lady Marlda doesn't know for certain. She can only speculate that they might be Lord Corlys' sons. But none of that matters anymore—what's important is that they carry true Velaryon blood."
Rhaena straightened up. "That's right, that's what matters most. So, my dear, why did you say Joffrey has nothing to worry about?"
"Adam and Erin have already joined the Silver Fleet." Rey stood up and poured them both a glass of fruit wine before patiently explaining, "They're both talented young sailors—Adam Will be captain of the Brave Explorer, and Erin will be the first mate aboard the Iron Oak. Once they accumulate enough merit, my brother will recommend them to the royal fleet. That way, Joffrey will have a legitimate reason to acknowledge them."
Rhaena took a sip of the sweet and tangy fruit wine, then sighed in admiration. "Draezell truly thinks of everything. Oh, right—we should be preparing for Argo's wedding, shouldn't we?" She suddenly remembered that the real reason she had rushed back wasn't to gossip with her husband but to attend Argo's wedding. "Is there anything we need to prepare?" she asked curiously. "And one more thing—do Argo and his people still follow the old Dothraki customs, like in Flames of the Grasslands?"
She was referring to the book written by the Braavosi adventurer Terio Ilastis, which detailed Dothraki culture in great depth. After reading it, Rhaena had even found herself afraid to look directly at Argo or Juchi, who had taken over Argo's place.
"You'll see for yourself." Rey sighed. As a child, he had accompanied his father and brother to a Dothraki wedding—not one of Argo's small khalasars, but a massive one with thirty thousand roaring warriors. Their Khal had married the sister of another powerful Khal. His father had covered his eyes for most of the ceremony, and it was said that two hundred people had bled that day, while another two hundred were born in the following ten months.
---
In another chamber, Valar was playing with his daughter, Daenyra, making the little girl giggle endlessly. Leyla sat nearby, writing something while stirring Daenyra's supper with a spoon.
Unlike Rey and Rhaena's lively and playful marriage, Valar and Leyla rarely spoke in their daily lives. But this did not mean their bond was weak—quite the opposite. When they had no other duties, they were inseparable. They simply weren't very skilled at communicating with the opposite sex.
"Valar." Leyla handed him the prepared milk porridge and watched as he carefully fed it to their well-behaved daughter. Daenyra was never fussy during mealtime. As she ate, she giggled and waved her chubby little hands, reaching out for her father. "Papa, hug!"
"Be good, Daenyra. Finish your meal first, and then Papa will take you to see Aurorae." Valar lifted the small bowl and spoke gently.
"Aurorae!" Daenyra exclaimed loudly before obediently opening her mouth for the next spoonful.
Leyla couldn't help but laugh. "Valar, does Daenyra need to attend the wedding?"
"No." Valar answered between feeding bites. "She's too young. Argo is worried something might happen."
"Then I'll stay behind and look after her," Leyla said. She had also heard about the strange customs of Dothraki weddings and was somewhat apprehensive about witnessing them firsthand.
Valar chuckled. "Don't worry—Argo and his people are very different from traditional Dothraki. You won't have to worry about any of that, and my brother wouldn't allow it anyway."
Leyla was still a little uneasy, but she eventually nodded in agreement.
---
Meanwhile, in another chamber of the Twin Towers, Aegon was changing into a fresh set of riding clothes. Rhaegor sat idly in a nearby chair, his posture still rigid and upright, despite his boredom.
"Rhaegor, what do you think of this outfit? Do you think Khal Argo will see me as a true warrior dressed like this?" Aegon asked excitedly, spinning in place to show off.
"In Dothraki tradition, a true warrior does not wear a shirt or armor, Your Grace," Rhaegor stated bluntly. "Argo and his khalasar follow my grandfather's teachings and have abandoned many old Dothraki customs. They view armor as a weapon equal to sword and steel. But during celebrations, bare chests and strong muscles remain the ultimate symbol of strength."
---
The valley meadow northeast of Summerfield.
A vast tent city had been erected here by Argo's khalasar, marking the site of his grand wedding. The young khal was set to marry a silver-haired female knight—"The Archer" Agatha. Once disguised as a man, she had joined the Silver Blood Army, slaying countless foes before her identity was uncovered. Her valor on the battlefield, particularly in the Southern wars, had earned her great renown—and captured Argo's heart.
"Ha! Mora, your mare's milk goes perfectly with our strong ale!" Robb Ryswell roared with laughter, raising his cup high. He had remained with thirty thousand Northern soldiers in the borderlands, and for reasons unknown, had chosen to ride with Argo's khalasar alongside many other Northmen.
The Dothraki had not expected it, but though the Northmen lacked the skill to breed horses, they proved to be unparalleled hunters in the mountains.
"Damn Rodrik, should've kept him here too," the old Robb grumbled. Despite his age, he was thriving, looking far better than Rodrik Dustin, who had to return north to govern his lands.
"Old man, drink less," Mora shot back, downing his own cup of thick ale in one gulp. He chewed on the sediment at the bottom before speaking again. "When the sun rises and the dragons soar, you can drink to your heart's content."
"Hah." The old warrior patted the axe by his side. "When that time comes, I'll be after more than just ale."
The aged Northman laughed heartily. "An honorable death—such a beautiful phrase."