Prince Aegon Targaryen
Following the assault on the harbor of Lorath, the prince was forced to languish on the island for two weeks, waiting for his dragon to recover at least slightly from the accursed wound so they could fly across the strait separating the Lorathi archipelago from Essos without fear. Surprisingly, everything went without complications, but for the first time since that foolish affair in Andalos, Aegon decided to pray to all the gods: the New, the Old, and the ancient—no help was to be neglected.
Feeling like a complete fool, the prince found the oldest tree in the city with some difficulty and addressed a silent plea to it; the only answer was the clatter and creak of bare, ugly branches. Feeling somewhat awkward, he muttered the briefest of prayers to the Seven; no answer followed, and his awkwardness was joined by annoyance and something akin to disgust. Twisting the statuette of Balerion in his hands—he preferred not to part with the finds from the Warren after Ortherys' generous gesture—he accidentally cut himself on the obsidian tongues of flame at the god's feet. Instead of licking or pressing the wound, Aegon, not fully aware of his actions, smeared blood onto the sphere of "death" in Balerion's hands, muttering:
"Dārlīs zijo daor, sesīr daor, jēda vasīr amazis daor… (Do not claim him, not now, the time has not yet come…)"
It was hard to say which prayer helped more, but they flew across the sea without significant problems. Of course, Vermithor began to tire noticeably faster, so by the time the coastal hills appeared on the horizon, they had already descended substantially. Had the weather been slightly more capricious, the salty spray of the largest waves would have reached them. Still, as soon as the dragon had the chance to land, he stretched out exhaustedly on the sand and, sighing heavily a couple of times, fell asleep. The next morning, instead of his traditional lengthy morning curses and complaints about the heaviness of existence, Aegon limited himself to just a single swear word; after all, the dragon had suffered more than he had.
The return journey to Braavos took them another week instead of a couple of days; Aegon did not want to overwork his loyal friend and allowed him to choose his own flight speed, neither urging him on nor tugging at the reins. In the Titan's City, they were met with a massive spectacle: everyone, from young to old, beggars from the Drowned Town to the nobility from the palaces on the Long Canal, welcomed the Westerosi prince who, atop his dragon, had saved their homeland from what they deemed certain doom.
There was no shortage of feasts, dinners, and receptions, invitations to which fell upon Aegon like snow on the Wall. Immediately upon his return, he was seized upon by all the Braavosi matchmakers, who threw the best daughters of the noblest lineage at the prince's feet—all of whom were related to previous Sea Lords, meaning they held a status closest to Westerosi ladies. Aegon was grateful to them for the attempt to spare his dynastic feelings and organize at least the appearance of an equal marriage, but he still felt satisfaction when a rumor spread among the upper echelons of Braavosi society that the prince, it was said, did not wish to take a wife without the knowledge of his brother, the King. To the proposal of immediately sending an embassy to King's Landing, he cited the bad omen of marrying during snowfalls, and since he would only enter into marriage on his native soil, winter weather was unavoidable for them.
However, they tried to keep him with more than just marriage.
"You know, Prince, for your services to Radiance Braavos, I could grant you citizenship," said Tycho Ortherys, pulling his woolen cap of the same lavender color lower; the winter winds managed to cross the cliffs separating Braavos from the Shivering Sea and chilled to the bone any fools who neglected warm clothing. "You could build a temple to your gods, convert people to your faith, or simply live for your own pleasure. The doors of every library in the city are already open to you, and they surely contain something your maesters do not have."
"I already have it," cut in Aegon, who had spent the first thousand dragons of his honestly earned million on buying rare volumes, and the second on copying what he failed to buy; naturally, he paid not only for access to the books but also for paper, candles, ink, and the scribes who worked day and night, sparing no eyesight.
"Well, it was worth a try," the Sea Lord nodded to himself.
"You no longer need a dragon, my lord. You brought Lorath to its knees, you showed Ibben that it has no business in the Narrow Sea. You handled the rest quite well without us and Vermithor, so you will manage now too. You survived the Opening of the City somehow."
"Yes, of course…"
Ortherys' sad sigh seemed to draw a line under the last attempt to bind the dragonrider to himself; even with an injured dragon, Aegon Targaryen remained a desirable prize for Radiance Braavos. While Ortherys scratched his head under his lavender cap, pondering a new cunning matchmaking scheme, Aegon ordered the scribes to speed up and Ser Bartimos to prepare for home.
"Only to you, Ser, can I entrust the gold due to the Iron Throne," he told Celtigar; the merchant knight turned as red as the crab on his sigil at these words. "My brother is likely not too pleased with me, so try to give him pleasure by delivering exactly one million dragons to his treasury."
"The Narrow Sea is very dangerous in winter, my prince…" Bartimos tried to wiggle out. "Not all ships can make it to King's Landing."
"Then do not put all the gold on one ship, Sir Merchant. If, by some sailor's omen of yours, you need to appease the gods with gold, then throw my chest into the sea. I am prepared to accept the loss of one or two such chests, but my brother will be less lenient," the lie, the threat, and the subtle hint in the prince's words wove together.
Naturally, there was hardly an omen prescribing the throwing of gold overboard, but Aegon was more willing to part with his own wealth than with what he had promised Viserys. Such an amount of gold would turn anyone's head, and Celtigar was no exception, so it was better to let him dip his hand into the prince's pocket than into the royal treasury; if anything, that hand could always be bitten off later. Ser Bartimos knew how to count dragons, so he quickly caught the veiled offer and bowed as low as possible.
"Of course, my prince. We will wait for the best weather and deliver everything safe and sound."
"There is one more thing. This will be my personal request to you, Ser Bartimos."
"I am happy to serve you, my prince,"—of course he was happy, for two chests of gold!
"I want you to transport my books to the library of Dragonstone. You, of course, must know how to preserve them from moisture, but I ask you to guard them even more strictly than the gold. To me, they are more important than money."
"As the prince wishes."
Of course, Aegon harbored no illusions regarding Celtigar's helpfulness; while the Targaryens flew in the skies near the Dragonmont, the lords of Crackclaw Point amassed wealth through trade; the habit of extracting profit from everything and everyone was ingrained in their blood, just as sea salt and splinters are ingrained in the bodies of sailors. Bartimos was a merchant first and foremost—now Aegon promised him profit, but would he have enough conscience and fear to keep himself within the set limits? In any case, it was worth getting closer to the man who would likely soon be called Lord Celtigar. Ser Bartimos had already earned a reputation: in the Red Keep, he would be able to say, "When Prince Aegon and I fought Lorath…" or "When Prince Aegon and I chased the Norvoshi…" The prince did not allow even Viserys to trade on his name for free, so let Celtigar work for him too.
. . . . .
Finally, everything was ready for departure, and on the seventh day of the third month of the year 106, when the sun finally showed itself over the natural city walls of Braavos, Aegon and Dennis rose into the sky on Vermithor and set a course to the southeast. Their destination was the Volantis Freehold—the largest, most powerful, and closest in politics, economy, culture, customs, and blood to Old Valyria, for which its citizens respectfully called it the Eldest Daughter. Aegon hoped that Volantis' zealous attitude toward the days of the Old Freehold's glory had preserved at least a particle of ancient knowledge that would help sort out not only his gift, the glass candle, and the statuettes of the gods, but also Vermithor's trauma.
The Bronze Fury, with reins loose, flew leisurely, covering ten to fifteen leagues a day, and this was clearly not enough to outrun winter. Every time, Aegon woke up in the morning and crawled out into the light of day from under the dragon's wing, which served as their tent and heater, wrapping himself in a Pentoshi cloak that had lost its original luster during the journey but still retained heat well. Despite the disgusting weather—practically every day it drizzled with snow and rain cursed by all gods and demons—the prince meekly surrendered himself to the hands of his sworn shield, who scraped the bristles from him; this was an old habit established during his studies in Oldtown: Uncle Vaegon, being almost a slob himself, did not tolerate sloppiness only when it came to books and facial hair.
Where the damp sea winds could no longer penetrate, true winter reigned, with snowdrifts and ice fettering the sources of the Upper Rhoyne. Formally, the travelers were in the domains of Norvos and, according to its laws, had to obtain permission to hunt in its hills, fields, and forests, but Aegon did not want to waste time on the city of bearded priests married to their axes, so the prince allowed Ser Dennis Greyhead to poach.
"And if I get caught?" the knight asked discontentedly, though both understood he was arguing only for show.
"Make it so you don't get caught. And anyway—we are in the middle of bloody nowhere. Norvoshi have no business here. Why, it's closer to the Great Septs from here than to Norvos."
"Do you want to visit Septon Ronald?" Dennis smiled slyly.
"Only to roast him," Aegon snorted in response.
With that, however, there were problems. Although Vermithor could fly after a fashion, his fire breath had not recovered—he still spat rather than incinerated; in the evenings, streams of thick, acrid black smoke poured from his maw and nostrils, which Aegon was inclined to attribute to general fatigue at the end of the day. It seemed the very process of eating had become uncomfortable for the dragon: reptiles eat only charred meat, but he could not fully roast a carcass. Furthermore, the cold played against them, further reducing his appetite, as did the limited hunting opportunities. The prince and the knight made do with supplies given to them by the Sea Lord, but for Vermithor, Dennis went hunting daily, trying to shoot at least something with his bow. A couple of hares or even a roe deer looked like a pathetic offering to a beast accustomed to devouring a whole bull or even two at a time, but nothing better could be obtained, and the dragon himself seemed more than satisfied with what he was served.
All this could not fail to worry Aegon, and so halfway between the ruins of Ghoyan Drohe and the wreckage of Ny Sar, he decided to take up the reins and began to urge Vermithor to hurry for his own good. After skirting Dagger Lake along the eastern shore, the prince led the dragon east, away from the Rhoyne, to avoid meeting the accursed Chroyane, now the Sorrows, the city of those sick with greyscale. As a semi-maester, he felt no irrational fear of this ailment, but it was precisely his semi-maester side that forced him to steer away from the pale gray ribbon of the river in the name of safety for himself and his companions. To be sure, they flew east until they stumbled upon one of the tributaries of the Selhoru and then descended downstream, reaching the walls of Selhorys by noon on the ninth day of the fourth month.
Selhorys was one of three large towns belonging to the Volantis Freehold and subject to its triarchs; founded half a century before the Doom, it strongly resembled both King's Landing and Oldtown at once—a walled, chaotic jumble of houses in the poor quarters, gradually growing into the restless opulence of noble mansions clinging to the governor's citadel. The port, serving as the key to the sprawling Selhoru valley, gave the impression of a dirty and stinking place even from a height. In Braavos and Oldtown, the night soil men at least sometimes cleaned the canals and the harbor, but the Volantenes, it seemed, did not bother with this.
As always, Aegon sent Vermithor on a circular flight; the dragon, slowly flapping his wings, made wide circles over the city, trying to demonstrate his peaceful intentions. The prince very much hoped that the Volantis Freehold had managed to forget how his namesake, the Conqueror, had burned their fleet, and that the garrison would not launch another rock or scorpion bolt at them; dodging them now would be much more difficult, and the scales on the new scars had not yet hardened sufficiently. Finally, somewhere to the side of the Selhorys citadel, a signal fire was lit, and Aegon, moving the saddle handles, directed the dragon there.
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