Prince Aegon Targaryen
Aegon thoughtfully rolled an obsidian sphere the size of a small apple, the symbol of his vote on the Small Council, on a marble stand. It had been obtained not without difficulty: Viserys, of course, promised to make him Master of Dragons, only for some reason the Lord Hand proved not to be delighted with such an idea.
"There is no such office in the Small Council," Lord Otto said.
"What hinders creating it?" Viserys asked. His brother, it seemed, sincerely did not understand why they did not want to support him.
"The Small Council was created by Aegon the Conqueror, and under him there was no Master of Dragons."
"The Conqueror had only three dragons," the clubfooted namesake of the great ancestor lazily reminded then. "He had no need to watch dragons, because they were all under saddle with him and his sisters."
"There have always been seven people in the Small Council," Hightower persisted.
"Dear Lord Otto, do you truly want to make the effectiveness of decision-making dependent on a certain number revered as blessed?" Aegon inquired ingratiatingly. "I thought you were above that. If an even number of votes worries you, the King can introduce the Lord Chamberlain or one of the Most Devout into the Small Council. Perhaps that will calm your god-fearing soul."
Lord Otto clenched his teeth but nodded nonetheless, so now Aegon was forced to sit at the table in the Small Council Chamber opposite the new Chamberlain, Lord Lyonel Strong, and listen to Runciter's tedious mumbling reading the message of the Sealord of Braavos. The head of the Free City described in flowery expressions his joy at the opportunity to write a letter to His Grace King Viserys, knowing that he would personally hold it in his hands; the Braavosi rogue listed all previous cases of negotiations between Westeros and his city on seven pages, indicating what profit they brought to both sides, only to hint on the eighth page that for the sake of new ships the Iron Throne should fork out a little more. Who knew that Small Councils were so boring.
"Are they hinting at a price increase or that we underpaid bribes?" Daemon inquired dryly.
"We shall have to pay them in any case," Lord Otto reminded.
"Precisely, my Lord Hand, we shall have to pay them. I am, of course, Master of Coin, but I do not shit gold like a Lannister yet."
Aegon sympathized with Lord Tymond to himself, who surely began to hiccup at that moment in his golden halls on Casterly Rock.
"I might find money for ships," Daemon continued to heat up. "But I will not give a groat for bribes to that insolent mug."
Viserys, sitting at the head of the table, grimaced in vexation and sipped wine.
"Our fleet needs renewal, my brother," the King reminded. "This is a paramount task, and we must solve it. If we have to pay more for this—then we shall pay more."
"And get into debt to the Iron Bank again," the other responded sarcastically.
"If you permit, my Prince," Lord Beesbury pronounced ingratiatingly. As Aegon predicted, the poor fellow had not only to watch judicial affairs and laws but also check the work of the treasury under Daemon. "One can do without debts. The treasury has at its disposal..."
"Lord Lyman, it is a matter of principle," the Master of Coin waved him off. "Money is not the problem, you are right, there is enough in the treasury, but next time they will ask an even greater price for some trifle."
"I do not think two dozen carracks and half a hundred cogs can be called a 'trifle'," remarked Corlys Velaryon. Like many at this table, he received an invitation from Viserys to take a seat in the Small Council during the coronation festivities. No one harbored illusions that the conflict between Targaryens and Velaryons was exhausted, but such a step forward (quite competent, as Aegon noted to himself) could not be ignored. The offenses of the years 92 and 101 were hidden under the carpet, and the Prince wondered how soon someone would trip over them.
"Lord Corlys, what do you think," Otto Hightower grasped at a possible ally, "how critical is the state of the royal fleet?"
"Half the ships remember the Fourth Dornish War," the Sea Snake answered. "Another quarter even older. If you, my Lord, imply by 'critical state' a situation where practically the entire war fleet of the state stands idle and rots at the pier, then definitely, matters stand exactly so."
"And should anything happen, we are defenseless before a threat from the sea?" Viserys clarified in an even voice. Aegon was glad for his brother: neither fear nor agitation in his voice—only businesslike concentration.
"We speak only of royal ships, Your Grace, so not entirely. Driftmark and the Velaryon fleet are in combat readiness and ready to defend Blackwater Bay at any moment."
"Blockade the capital from the sea," Aegon translated the words of the Lord of Driftmark. Undoubtedly, all present felt the veiled threat, since it suddenly became even more uncomfortable in the hall. To somehow defuse the situation, Aegon loudly sniffled and scratched his nose for show, drawing attention to his end of the table.
"So do we have money for a new fleet or not?" he clarified.
"We have," Daemon cast irritably.
"Then what is the problem?"
"The problem is, my Prince, that your brother, the Master of Coin, does not want to pay for this fleet," Lord Otto prompted readily.
"Why?"
"Because these Braavosi will climb into the purse on your belt next time!" Daemon barked. "We must insist on the old price and not retreat from it by a star or a groat. By such hints they insult the Iron Throne! For such a thing one could..."
"Could what?" Hightower inquired in a deceptively gentle voice. "Declare war on Braavos? On what grounds? Because the Sealord did not agree to accept our price? My Prince, one cannot force a party to conclude a treaty about anything if the said party does not wish it."
"So peace treaties you, my Lord Hand, ignore?"
"Even when concluding a peace treaty, both sides have a sincere desire to make peace."
"When a blade is put to the throat, any desire becomes sincere."
"My King, I object," Otto turned his whole body to Viserys and nigh rushed to him like a drowning man to the shore. "What Prince Daemon proposes is absurd! It is unthinkable! It is extortion! What will they think of us in Essos? They will stop doing business with us if we send an army, fleet, and dragons ahead of trade representatives and merchants!"
"Lord Otto is mistaken," Daemon pressed his brother from the other side. "They will do business with us—and how! Knowing that jokes are bad with us, they will agree to any terms."
Aegon wearily rubbed his eyes. Hardly was Daemon so stupid as to seriously believe this; rather, the matter lay in his confrontation with Otto Hightower. The Hand and the Prince disliked each other as it was, but with Daemon's arrival in the Small Council, everything only got worse. Aegon did not want to know with what words Viserys forced his Hand to accept that his brothers would sit in the Council. Any proposal of one the other took with hostility and began to object out of pure principle. Often this boiled down to a couple of remarks—a lunge and counterstrike on the tournament field, a traditional exchange of pleasantries,—but sometimes, as today, it went too far.
"If you permit, Your Grace," Lord Lyman had to bend over the table to be seen behind the raging Prince. "My counsel is such: add a hundred or two dragons to the old price and make it clear that this is your last offer. In the end, Pentoshi shipyards if they yield to Braavosi, then not by much..."
"And still worse than the shipyards of Driftmark," summarized its master.
"Maybe then you will build the King a new fleet?" Lord Strong gave voice for the first time. "At least partially. It will still be cheaper than ordering a fleet across the Narrow Sea. And once you start construction, in a couple of months the Sealord will crawl on his knees himself, with a proposal to resume negotiations."
"My shipyards are quite loaded as it is..." Lord Corlys put on airs more for show. Pride and offenses for his slighted wife prevented him from openly grabbing such a fat piece.
"Can you truly find no space for a Crown order?" Viserys raised eyebrows questioningly.
The renowned admiral understood the hint correctly and hastened to assure:
"Of course, it will be found. I shall see what can be done with this."
"But what to do with the order from Braavos?" inquired Runciter. "Does Your Grace intend to refuse it altogether?"
Viserys thoughtfully scratched his chin, on which light golden stubble was slowly turning into a beard; it looked not very presentable, but only Aemma could tell the King about it.
"I have not heard that Braavos and the Iron Bank refused any money," he finally delivered. "You are right, Lord Strong. We shall not answer the Sealord, let him wait and think. Try to ensure rumors reach him that we preferred Driftmark to Essosi shipyards. Let us see how he reacts to that."
"And what do you order me to do with the hulks of half-finished ships when Braavos backs down?" Corlys inquired curiously, rolling his lapis lazuli sphere in his hand.
"You will finish building them. The Crown will pay for everything."
"And what then to speak about with the Braavosi?" asked Lord Otto in bewilderment. "We will already have a fleet when they realize we outplayed them."
"How do you mean what?" Viserys was surprised. "About ships. Lord Otto, have you not heard? Three of our ships out of four are unfit for battle. We must seize the opportunity and renew everything. Lord Corlys will build us a fleet, and the Braavosi—another one, moreover we can drive down the price."
"Does Your Grace intend to fight?" inquired Ser Ryam Redwyne in a hoarse voice.
"I hope we shall have no such need. But better to be fully armed than not know what to grab in the hour of need."
"A wise decision, my sovereign," the Grand Maester delivered another profound banality. It was visible how pleasing the words of the white-haired old man were to Viserys: his face changed expression from businesslike to openly simple-hearted and pleased, like a squire praised by his mentor for a worthy counterstrike.
"Prince Daemon, will the treasury have enough money for all this?" doubted the Hand.
"Enough," Daemon cast reluctantly, as if displeased that their crowned brother chose a more diplomatic variant of negotiations.
"Well, that is excellent," Viserys drew a line under the discussion with a satisfied smile. "Lord Corlys, how soon can you lay down the ships?"
"Within a couple of weeks, Sire. I shall need to depart for Driftmark to personally oversee the distribution of the order among the shipyards. Likely will have to involve not only Hull, but Spicetown."
"I am sure you will find the best solution," the King nodded. "What else must we consider today, my Lords?"
Runciter rummaged in the notes lying before him and, fishing out a sheet with the agenda from under letters, announced:
"Prince Aegon has submitted his proposals for the reform of the Dragonwatch for consideration, Your Grace."
"Reform?" Viserys's whitish eyebrows met on the bridge of his nose.
Aegon knew his brother treated their grandfather's legacy very reverently; the order of Dragonkeepers was just one of the numerous projects realized under Jaehaerys, and the Prince already sensed the resistance he would have to face. However, the Dragonwatch represented an institution so important that further ignoring became dangerous for House Targaryen and for their power. Aegon placed the obsidian sphere on the stand, threw back his head, accepting battle, and began:
"Yes, Sire. Although the late King Jaehaerys's idea is worthy of every praise, in practice it met with certain problems our grandfather could not foresee."
"And what are these... problems?" asked Lord Otto warily instead of the King.
"Firstly, it is the number of guards. Obviously," Aegon allowed himself a slight ironic smirk, "our predecessors cared for symbolism and pretty numbers, but I assure you, my Sovereign and my Lords, that seventy-seven Dragonkeepers are unable to cope with dragons. Let us suppose this would be enough for the Dragonpit or for the Dragonmont—and even then I would think again in the latter case—but one cannot do with so small a number in both nesting grounds."
"In three," Daemon mentioned in passing, as if by chance looking at Velaryon. "Dragons live on Driftmark too."
"All the more so," Aegon nodded, agreeing, but immediately continued, cutting off possible objections from the Lord of the Tides: "I deem it necessary to increase the number of Dragonkeepers threefold. If the number seventy-seven is so dear to my Lords, let seventy-seven guards live on the Dragonmont, on Rhaenys's Hill, and under the walls of Driftmark. Secondly, in my view, the current armament and uniform of the guards are completely impractical. Black shiny armor, of course, looks beautiful, but it is heavy, and protects from dragon claws and teeth no better than leather armor. I sincerely do not understand why men should carry extra weight on themselves, which only hinders their movements and deprives them of speed and mobility—these are exactly what can save them. All the weapons of the watch now consist of ten-foot poles, daggers, and a sword with the Lord Commander. It is assumed this is capable of stopping both dragons and intruders who prove mad enough to steal them."
Aegon paused, allowing the listeners to feel the full stupidity of this idea: Daemon snorted contemptuously, Ser Ryam allowed himself a short chuckle.
"Do you want to rearm the Watch?" clarified Lord Lyonel Strong.
"Precisely," the Prince nodded. "We shall issue them glaives—with them they can tickle the sides of both dragons and men."
"And where do you plan to recruit three hundred men?" inquired Lord Corlys. Aegon easily discerned another question behind this one: "Think you I shall allow your men to hang about my dragons?" An expected objection, to which an answer was already prepared.
"On Driftmark and on Dragonstone, in the capital and throughout the Crownlands. Practice shows dragons are more lenient to those who have at least a few drops of Valyrian blood in their veins."
"And if one of them..." Viserys gave voice, "is tempted and steals a dragon? Or appropriates an egg?"
"A good question, Your Grace," the Hand supported him. "Before, Dragonkeepers were recruited from Dragonstone, loyalty to Targaryens and dragonfire is in their blood, forgive the pun. How do you intend to control a guard from the hypothetical Crackclaw Point?"
"A guard from the hypothetical Driftmark," everyone heard.
"There will be no problems with eggs," Aegon shook his head, and ruby beads strung on thin strands of hair clicked against each other. "Outside the Dragonmont they simply will not hatch. And already hatched dragons, like their adult brethren, are too willful to follow the first comer, and too smart not to recognize a thief."
"My Prince, you speak as if they have... reason?" Runciter spoke as if his words carried terrible heresy. Perhaps from his point of view it was so.
"I speak so because it is so," Aegon looked point-blank at the old man. One need not be a prophet to know that before sunset a raven will fly to the Citadel with a report on Prince Aegon's dubious and unscientific researches. However, this time both Daemon and Viserys nodded in agreement—both knew their dragons well and therefore shared Aegon's position. "I assure you, eggs and dragons will be safe."
The Prince did not say that during training—and it is necessary, since dragons did not understand the Common Tongue—one can instill loyalty to House Targaryen in the guards, forcing them to renounce not only their former lord but their own mother, if need compels. There are many ways, and the dragons themselves are quite capable of helping in this; the Cannibal can re-educate the most stubborn dullards.
"And what will this cost us?" inquired the Hand.
"Recruitment of new guards and rearmament of old ones—three thousand golden dragons," Aegon answered decisively, and the beads in his hair clicked again, as if confirming his words. "Furthermore, it will be required to erect new barracks, that is another five thousand at least. Another couple of hundred will go to exploration works on the Dragonmont and Driftmark. Also, I consider it necessary to increase the salary of Dragonkeepers, so without taking into account the aforementioned figures, expenses for the maintenance of the Watch will cost the treasury two and a half thousand dragons annually."
"That is, you ask for eleven thousand?" clarified Daemon. "Roughly speaking, of course."
"Precisely," nodded the Master of Dragons.
"You shall have this money."
Scarce had Aegon time to rejoice when a strange sound rang out from Lord Otto's side—something between an indignant sigh and a sob. Glancing at the Hand, the Prince saw he was bursting with indignation, and marveled, for usually Hightower always controlled himself and remained impassive in any situation. Now for the first time his organism behaved as prescribed for a redhead—color rushed to his face, giving him a frankly comical look.
"Your Grace," finally mastering himself, began the Hand. "This is outrageous!"
"Eleven thousand is not such big money, Lord Otto," Viserys disagreed. "There is enough gold in the treasury, besides such a sum will be needed only at first, then..."
"The matter is not the sum Prince Aegon asks!" it seems Hightower is truly enraged, since he allowed himself to interrupt the King so disrespectfully. "But that before this we, at this very table, agreed that our Master of Coin does not want to throw money around, and now calmly gives it away at the first demand of his brother!"
"He is my brother too, Lord Otto," the King remarked strictly.
"What kind of economy is this, in the Seven Hells?!"
"Perhaps you have not heard, Lord Otto," Daemon remarked ingratiatingly. "But this is called competent allocation of funds."
"You could have given the same miserable eleven thousand to the Sealord, and already by the Holy Week a brand new fleet would be standing in the roads of King's Landing! But instead you fool the Council's head! You act irresponsibly with the treasury, you think it is bottomless, that one can scatter money just so, dressing one's dragons in gold!"
"Do you doubt my abilities to manage the royal treasury?" Daemon clarified coldly.
"Doubt? I am convinced of it!"
Scarce had these words flown from the Hand's tongue when a tense, terrible silence reigned in the chamber. The Hand and the Master of Coin drilled each other with withering gazes. The King managed to frown, and Ser Ryam to lay a hand on the sword hilt, when Daemon suddenly pushed the marble stand with the sphere away from himself and sharply moved away from the table, so that the legs of his chair squeaked shrilly on the stone floor. The amber sphere of the Lord Treasurer, having jumped off its bed, was still rolling slowly across papers, but the enraged Prince had already rushed out the door. Scarce had the door slammed when the amber fell and cracked. Interesting, thought Aegon, can damage to the sphere be considered a sign of resignation?
Viserys jerked to rise, but then waved a hand and instead wearily rubbed his face with his hands.
"All are dismissed," he pronounced displeasedly. The Lords of the Small Council rose from their places, returned spheres to the common bowl, and, bowing, left the chamber in silence. At the head of the table remained the King sitting and almost directly opposite him—his younger brother.
"And what am I to do with them now?" after some silence inquired Viserys. The question seemed rhetorical to Aegon, and therefore he was in no hurry to answer it. "Daemon, in general, is not so bad, but..."
"But he is not Lord Lyman," Aegon finished for him.
"Yes. Beesbury at least does not bicker with Lord Otto over every copper. Maybe it is because they are both from the Reach?"
"It is because Daemon Targaryen is Daemon Targaryen, and Otto Hightower is Otto Hightower," Aegon pronounced somewhat irritably and marveled himself at the delightful banality he had just delivered. Quite worthy of Runciter. "They will try to shit on each other everywhere and anywhere, simply because they do not like each other."
"By the way, why?" Viserys's interest was visible to the naked eye, and there was in it not only brotherly concern but also the businesslike manner of a sovereign trying to comprehend the intricacies of intrigues at his own court.
"The Seven Hells know," Aegon shrugged. "I was not in King's Landing when they met. Daemon might have got out of bed on the wrong side. Otto might have said something wrong. They might not have passed each other in a doorway. Anything at all."
"And do the Seven Hells know what I should do?"
"I think not, my brother."
"Well shit... And whom should I send home? The Hand or my own brother?"
"You are the King here, it is for you to decide," answered Aegon, averting his gaze. One of the small hanging braids unraveled dangerously, threatening to lose rubies, and the Prince began to fix it busily.
"This is unfair," Viserys said offendedly. "You yourself proposed introducing him here."
"Because I needed into the Council myself. You, by the way, could quite well have refused us both."
"Offended brothers of a young King is not the best start to a reign," remarked Viserys, prudently keeping silent about the dragons flying under his brothers' saddles.
Aegon finished rebraiding the thin plait and threw it over his shoulder. He felt ashamed; definitely, in the daily quarrels of Otto and Daemon in the Small Council there was his fault too. Then in Appleton, pressing on Viserys's brotherly feelings and riding into the Council on Daemon's shoulders seemed to him a good idea, but he obviously underestimated the full depth of contradictions between him and the Hand. The situation became ever more dangerous; a split among those close to the Iron Throne breeds warring parties, for whom it is very convenient to ascribe old grievances of the past reign as justification for their enmity. Everything went as Uncle Vaegon warned; realizing that Aegon himself was involved in this was unpleasant.
"I shall speak with Otto and force him to apologize," decided Viserys.
"And what is the use of these apologies?" Aegon phlegmatically shrugged, peering into the black depths of the obsidian sphere lying before him, as if it could tell him something. Suddenly, it seemed to the Prince that smoke swirled under the glossy surface, in which something barely perceptible moved, so much that the movement was rather felt, guessed. The delusion lasted some negligible fraction of a moment—and Viserys's voice tore Aegon from it, answering his own question:
"...anyway. He must understand that he chose an inappropriate tone and inappropriate words," Aegon, feeling deceived, looked at Viserys with a foolish expression, trying to remember what they were talking about; it seems about Daemon; so just in case he chose the fail-safe:
"Aha. You know best."
"But Lord Lyman will have to be returned to the treasury as soon as they make us a new sphere," Viserys looked at the shards scattered on the floor and grimaced in vexation. "If we swap them with Daemon..."
"Then nothing will change," remarked Aegon.
"Likely," agreed the King. "But I cannot kick him out of the Small Council now. At least for now."
He did not want to be a nursemaid for his elder brother, observing daily quarrels even less so, therefore Aegon decided to return to what it all started with:
"So, can I get the money?"
"Of course, you can," Viserys waved him off easily. "You understand yourself, the question was not about it or even what it would go for."
"Of course."
"So go ahead, my brother, have fun. Only..." here his voice became serious, and his face grew stern. "Only I would ask you to be more careful with the Velaryons. Try not to step on Cousin and Corlys's poor corns."
"I fear I shall have to do it," Aegon answered quietly, rising from his seat. "That they have their own dragons does not mean they have become equals to Targaryens. It means Targaryens will watch them even more closely."
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