"I am tired of leaving the dragon gods know where," grumbled Aegon and in irritation struck the bottom of the boat with his cane.
"And what would you like? To sit Vermithor on the Titan's shoulders?" inquired Dennis phlegmatically.
"Even if so!"
"My Lord, if anywhere one needs to fear scorpion bolts, it is precisely in Braavos. They have every reason to dislike dragons and their riders, and weapons they certainly know how to make."
"Yes, I know that..." the Prince grimaced. "Vermithor was offended, and I understand him."
"Well, let him be offended," the knight shrugged. "Still better than getting a bolt in the side."
Aegon spat overboard in vexation; Dennis did not take dragon resentment seriously, he did not feel it as the Prince himself felt. When only a day's journey remained to Braavos, they landed on the shore, not far from a settlement of fishermen—too large for a village, too small for a proper port,—they had to dismount and set off for Illustrious Braavos as simple travelers. Aegon tried to explain to his dragon the necessity of observing caution (who knows how the city watch will react seeing a flying lizard?), but it still seemed to the Bronze Fury that he was being abandoned, as his previous rider abandoned him in his last years. Vermithor growled, roared, swept off treetops with his tail, trampled bushes and boulders into the ground—in a word, expressed his dissatisfaction so loudly that the fishermen looked very strangely at the two travelers who came out to them.
In that settlement, they managed to find a dealer regularly sending a longship to Braavos for salt and fabrics, and for a handful of Pentoshi towers mixed with Braavosi square coins of iron, they managed to tag along as fellow travelers. Now the longship with them on board cut the grey sea waters with its prow; thick fog hung in the air, in which nothing was visible further than a couple of dozen yards ahead, however, the skipper steered confidently, not at all embarrassed by the disgusting weather.
"How does he even see where to go?" Dennis expressed his surprise in passing. "Here you cannot distinguish sea from sky."
"That is why people spread rumors that Braavosi see in fog," chuckled Aegon, wrapping himself in his cloak.
The rocky Braavosi coast was always known for its changeable chilling weather and fogs, but autumn made the sea wind seven times colder, and the milky veil overboard seven times thicker. Braavos was at the same latitude as the Fingers in the Vale of Arryn and, judging by travelers' reviews, quite resembled them in nature and climate. Aegon sneezed and promised himself upon return to Westeros not to go north of Harrenhal; in King's Landing, of course, it is not much warmer, but terrible winter slush can be survived in a well-heated library too.
But lo, through the haze appeared a vague orange point, after some time separating into two—that was the famous Titan of Braavos, simultaneously guard of the Free City and the only lighthouse leading to it. No less than an hour passed before the longship approached the colossus gradually growing out of the fog, and all this time the Prince wondered why the fire burning in his eye sockets, despite disgusting weather, is visible so far? Fogs at Dragonstone and Driftmark sometimes yield not to Braavosi ones, but the flame of lighthouses there is quickly lost from sight; thus Aegon cut off the hypothesis of the natural nature of the fire. The assumption that Braavosi somehow managed to light dragon glass, as he lit Valyrian candles, upon sober reflection was also swept aside—an ability so exceptional could not fall to runaway slaves of dragonlords, it would be unfair. By the moment their vessel sailed up to the passage into the harbor, the Prince came to the conclusion that the fire is maintained by Red Priests of the Lord of Light. Braavos was famous for its religious tolerance and could quite well ask the community of R'hllor worshipers for a service.
While Aegon indulged in reflections quite scientific, Dennis did not tear his gaze from the two-hundred-foot Titan looming over them; his right hand, raised high, was lost in the grey veil, and the left rested on one of the granite ledges. Hemp ropes dyed green, depicting the statue's hair, hung like dead snakes to the shoulders.
"I always wondered if he has a cock," the sworn shield uttered profoundly, examining the bronze skirt-armor "protecting" the Titan below the belt.
Aegon, nearly choking on such a passage, stared at his companion in amazement:
"Are you fourteen or what?"
"And what? If they," the knight nodded toward Braavos, "were not lazy to weave him braids, and dye them to boot, then maybe they stuck balls on him too? That would be a fine joke—to force everyone to swim under a huge crotch!"
"I see you just dream of seeing it."
"And are you not interested? From a Maester's point of view."
Aegon rolled his eyes demonstratively and turned away. Meanwhile, the longship sailed into the fairway of the passage between the Titan's legs; the Prince forced himself to look at the floor or to the sides, but could not hold out and raised his gaze after all. In the passage, the fog was already thinner, and therefore the travelers could clearly see that there was nothing under the armor.
"Eunuch," cast Dennis contemptuously and spat overboard. Aegon took a breath; after trips to Nerra he had long rid himself of embarrassment, but he did not want to listen to his sworn shield's reasoning about the manhood of a copper idol.
Meanwhile, they passed the passage and found themselves in the Braavosi lagoon; surrounded on all sides by cliffs serving the city as natural fortress walls, it was shielded from sea fogs. That is why the city for more than a century remained hidden from the inquisitive gaze of Valyrian Archons and lords—even dragons could not see through the fog, and ships could quite well pass by the entrance to the lagoon and not even notice it.
Immediately behind the Titan on a stone ledge stood the Arsenal, bristling toward the sea with catapults, scorpions, trebuchets and, according to rumors, even flamethrowers. Behind its crenelated walls pike tips of guards were visible. When the longship drew level with one of the fortress towers, Dennis nodded at a scorpion visible on it:
"That is why one should not appear here with a dragon uninvited."
The merchant landed them in the Purple Harbor, intended only for Braavosi, tearing another five square iron coins with the Titan's head on the reverse from them; five times more had to be slipped to the officer inspecting newly arrived vessels so he would bicker longer with the longship's master over nothing, while his passengers left the ship without unnecessary questions. After a short dispute at the exit from the harbor, Dennis had to shell out another half hundred coins as entry duty and another ten for the "good services" of a smiling customs officer.
"If here one has to pay like this for everything, we shall have to beg around the world," grumbled the knight, stepping onto the embankment of one of the city's numerous canals. "Should have taken all the money from Vermithor's bags."
Around towered four-story stone houses with red tiled roofs, standing right in the water. Before the eyes of the Westerosis, a narrow boat with a nimble helmsman sailed up to a stone porch facing directly the water, and the boatman helped a richly dressed man descend into it; scarce had the passenger sat down when the helmsman, briskly wielding a very long pole instead of an oar, led the boat out into the open.
"Will not have to," Aegon waved him off, stepping carefully on the pavement slippery from dispersed fog; to sprawl full length and get smeared in Braavosi mud he for some reason did not want. "Uncle has a familiar stargazer here, whom he helped with some calculations and asked to pay his respects. If you yearn for Westerosi customs, we shall find some Westerosi merchant. I do not think an agent of the Iron Throne will refuse the King's brother shelter, food, and a small loan for incidental expenses."
Scarce had he finished this phrase when a short, stocky little man with an outrageously red bristling beard jumped out of the crowd and rushed to intercept them; skirting random passersby, he nearly tore the hem of some lady's dress, involuntarily tripped some messenger, and overturned a greengrocer's cart. Hastily muttering apologies, he nearly with relief flopped onto his knees before the Prince and his knight and rattled in the Common Tongue:
"My... ah... Prince, what... Oh, gods... What happiness... We, oh... So glad..."
"I can believe it," Aegon responded readily. "But tell me, good man, how did I contribute to your happiness?"
"My Prince," the man finally managed his breath. "You do not know me..."
"I do not," the Prince interrupted him maliciously, for some reason amused, like Vermithor over Pentos.
"I am Wat of Blackwater, clerk to Ser Warrick Manderly and Ser Bartimos Celtigar."
"What, both at once?"
"Well," the servant of two masters was confused. "I arrived here with Ser Warrick, and then Ser Bartimos joined us, and now they conduct business jointly, including serving His Grace the King, your brother..."
"All sers from that side of the Narrow Sea serve my brother," Aegon corrected him, putting importance into his voice and drawing himself up. Of course, he kept silent about Northmen, mostly not being sers, as well as Dornishmen serving the Prince of Dorne. From such a remark the clerk became completely confused, and Dennis had to lift him from his knees, because the crowd flowing around them on both sides began to glare displeasedly and grumble; the Prince, taking pity on Wat of Blackwater, asked again: "So what do Ser Warrick and Ser Bartimos want?"
"The sers wish to pay you their respects and offer their hospitality."
"Do they really?" Aegon exchanged expressive glances with the sworn shield. "How fortunate. We just wanted to pay a visit to one of our merchants."
"Our representation is at your complete disposal, my Prince," Wat hastened to assure him. "If you wish, we can immediately..."
"We wish."
Wat blinked a couple of times, evidently worrying that he was interrupted, but quickly came to his senses and with a wave of his hand accompanied by an energetic whistle summoned a boatman and slipped him several coins. Aegon looked doubtfully at the frail little vessel bobbing on the canal waves, estimating how one could climb into it. The problem was solved very simply: Dennis took him like a child under the armpits and placed him on the bottom of the boat, jumping into it after him.
"Do not worry, my Prince, gondolas are created for Braavosi canals, they do not overturn," Wat hastened to assure him.
The boatman pushed off from the embankment with the pole, and the gondola glided over the waves. It was the middle of the day, and canals were jammed with gondolas, ordinary boats, barges, rafts, and even bundles of barrels. Only finding himself on the water did the Prince fully realize the scale of the city, in which, as it seemed to him, terrible disorder reigned: canals were used instead of streets, canals were used instead of a market (some woman tried to foist a basket of fruit on the Westerosis from her boat), canals were used instead of baths, canals were used instead of houses. Unimaginable din stood, the wind brought dialects, adverbs, and languages from all ends of the known world, putting them into a terrible cacophony comparable only to the port districts of Oldtown and King's Landing. From the water periodically stank of sewage—evidently, the sea in this area was fouled faster than the tide carried away slops.
They came out onto the expanse of the Long Canal passing through all Braavos and dividing it into two practically equal parts, and moved along it toward the mainland. It seemed impossible, but here it was almost more crowded than in small canal-streets; Aegon saw several barks and galleys carefully making their way through the city, and a swarm of small boats. A comparison came to mind with a scene on Dragonstone, witness to which he accidentally became shortly before departure: once in the morning he saw Vermithor crawling out of his cave into the sun, and around him bustled dragon young—descendants of Silverwing, Dreamfyre, Vhagar, and, perhaps, Meraxes. By all appearances, dragon eggs could wait for awakening for whole decades, but what pushed dragonets to finally hatch remained a mystery for Aegon.
On the Long Canal they passed only a couple of blocks and soon turned to the same side from which they came.
"On the side of the Purple Harbor are the Sealord's Palace and the Iron Bank," explained Wat. "Therefore conducting business on this side is a great honor."
"And great expenses, by all appearances," remarked Dennis.
"Not without that," sighed the clerk heavily.
"We have been in the city only half a day, and you already managed to be disappointed in it," Aegon chided the knight. "Will you curse it till the end of your life?"
"Of course. Took money, but cheated in expectations."
"Braavos is a nation of merchants. To take money for just so is for them as natural a desire as to eat and shit."
Meanwhile, they approached the pier of one of the mansions, standing out among its white-grey fellows with red roofs perhaps only by the banner with the three-headed dragon of Targaryens hanging from the pediment. The sight of the family standard caused a strange, aching feeling in Aegon; it was not homesickness, though he wanted to see his brothers, talk with his uncle, tell tall tales to his niece; no, something similar would be experienced by a man unexpectedly meeting an old friend at a crossroads.
Dennis helped the Prince climb out of the gondola, and they entered the spacious hall of the mansion. Despite Braavosi architecture, from within the house was furnished in Westerosi fashion, though not without local color; walls were hung with tapestries with sea subjects and royal coats of arms, windows were glazed with blue-green glass, and the marble floor was covered with carpets. The latter seemed complete tastelessness to Aegon—why hide noble stone under easily soiled matting?
In the hall they were met by Ser Warrick Manderly and Ser Bartimos Celtigar. Ser Warrick was definitely a son of his kin: like any adult representative of the family of White Harbor masters, he was awarded an impressive belly and seven chins so no one in the North doubted his belonging to the Andal Faith. He was no less than fifty years old and the merchant with a knightly title skillfully hid the presence of grey hair by shaving bald. Ser Warrick looked from under his brows, thrusting forward his paunch, and, evidently, calculated what the presence of a Prince of royal blood in the house would cost him.
Ser Bartimos against his background looked a mere boy, though he had already exchanged the third decade. Celtigars, although they could boast of Valyrian origin, did not treat the purity of their blood too jealously, and therefore from ancestors Bartimos got perhaps only bright blue eyes and hair rather straw than gold. He was nephew to Lord Aurane and listed among his presumptive heirs since Lady Celtigar never bore her husband a son. In Braavos Ser Bartimos could be busy accumulating capital both monetary and political; if he truly fulfills Viserys's assignment and copes with it well, he can count on a good place at court if and when Crackclaw Point passes to him.
"Welcome, Prince Aegon!" Celtigar greeted the high guest with a bow. "I hope your journey passes safely?"
"Except for mussels and boiled onions—quite," nodded Aegon to him.
The ser's eyebrows shot up in bewilderment, but he refrained from questions.
"Glad to welcome to our compound, my Prince," boomed Ser Warrick, however, without special joy in his voice.
"Greetings, Ser Warrick. After perverted Valyrian the Common Tongue sounds like music to ears and pours like balm on the soul," the Prince continued to be sarcastic, but, speaking of languages, he was honest: the guttural patter of Braavosi irritated him. Not giving the sers opportunity to react, he hastened to introduce Dennis to them: "This is my sworn shield, Ser Dennis Greyhead from Dragonstone. I hope a room will be found for him in my chambers too."
"Of course, my Prince," hastened to assure him Bartimos. "Servants will show you chambers, and if you are hungry, at your first word dinner will be served. The kitchen here stays in constant readiness."
The hint at Manderly's appetites did not go unnoticed, and Aegon hastened to change the subject to smooth over the situation:
"How did you know we would arrive today?"
"We did not know it," answered Ser Bartimos. "We have been waiting for you for several days already, our people spent days and nights in the Purple and Ragman's Harbors and watched the sky. We allowed that you might fly on Vermithor."
"To our mutual displeasure, these plans had to be abandoned," the Prince grimaced in vexation and led the conversation aside again. "You know, Ser Warrick, in the Citadel I studied together with Marlon Manderly. How is he related to you?"
The fat man sniffled and, scratching chins, began to recall:
"Marlon is Wyman's youngest son, and Wyman is my cousin. Turns out, first cousin once removed?"
"Turns out so," nodded Aegon. "Do you not know where he is now? We were comrades, I would like to know where to send ravens."
"Cannot know, my Prince," the merchant sighed noisily. "Wyman and I rarely write to each other..."
"And Marlon is a youngest son too."
Manderlys were a rather numerous family and surely could manage to quarrel among themselves. And Aegon asked the question for form's sake: he himself knew perfectly well that Marlon, although he took vows, preferred to stay in Oldtown for now, unlike their mutual friend Adrian—the bastard of Tarbeck Hall received an appointment to the castle of Rain House, south of Tarth.
Turning to Celtigar, Aegon jumped to another topic again:
"Have you been in Braavos long, Ser Bartimos?"
"His Grace the King sent me here as his representative three months ago."
"Does Viserys still want to build a fleet here? Did the Sea Snake not fulfill promises taken upon himself?"
"His Grace considers it necessary to have a fleet independent of the Velaryons, and I fully share this position," well, small wonder Viserys sent precisely him. Celtigars always tried to dispute Velaryon dominance on the seas, however, not too successfully. Logical to assume Bartimos will climb out of his skin to limit the growth of the Sea Snake's influence.
"If you did not share, you would not be here," Aegon remarked reasonably. "And how go negotiations?"
"Not too successfully," Bartimos was not afraid to admit failure, swallowing the Prince's barb. "We managed to agree on price, we signed a treaty, but the Sealord delays its execution. For the third week I cannot get an intelligible answer from him about the start of construction."
"I am sure you will find a way out," the Prince assured the ambassador. "Sers, we are somewhat weary..."
The sers interpreted the hint correctly and, assuring guests of their constant reverence and awe before the royal family, hastened to get out of sight. Servants, dressed in black liveries—and merchant sers are great toadies, noted Aegon to himself,—led the Prince and his sworn shield to the chambers due to them.
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