Compared to Volantis, Selhorys was no better than the numerous small towns and villages the travelers had already encountered in Essos. The First Daughter of Valyria, as the fortress enclosed by a wall of black stone fused in dragonflame was called, had grown over the long centuries of its existence into one of the largest cities in the world. The city's development had not only spread outward—its multiplying districts were renovated and rebuilt with the money of Triarchs who wished to remain in office, and those who wished to unseat them. However, unlike the motley diversity of Braavos or the gaudy luxury of Pentos, Volantis preserved the strict, almost severe beauty of the Old Freehold, which now seemed a curiosity: towers seemed to strive to outgrow one another, domes towered like the crowns of wondrous trees, and stone, wooden, and rope bridges and walkways were thrown directly over the streets, connecting buildings to one another. Abundant public wells and fountains gifted the citizens with clean water in place of the river silt that flowed for many hundreds of leagues along the Rhoyne; markets were arranged as orderly as possible; hippodromes, arenas, and theaters were present in practically every district of the city. Of course, there was also the famous Long Bridge—according to many claims, the longest in the world, one of the wonders of the world.
All this applied primarily to the city outside the Black Walls, as Aegon and Dennis saw it from the height of dragon flight. According to the instructions received (which were quite detailed), they flew around Volantis three times along the perimeter of the walls, signaling with a roar over each of the fourteen city gates, and forced Vermithor to graze the water's surface of the Rhoyne with his tail and wingtips—such was the agreed sign that they came in peace. Then, slowly approaching the Black Walls, they landed carefully above the Silver Gate, one of the three that led into the city of the Old Blood. Aegon could not suppress the proud smile of a pioneer: it was likely the first time since the Doom that a dragon had landed on the Black Walls. Sensing the rider's mood, the Bronze Fury drew himself up to his full height (though the prince caught a wince of pain in his chest), spread his wings, and with a loud, drawn-out roar, announced his arrival to all of Volantis.
As agreed, they were already being awaited on the Walls. Waiting until the dragon calmed down slightly, a detachment of guards in armor gleaming in the winter sun and purple cloaks approached the Westerosi; parting, they allowed an elderly, stout man to step forward. Wrapped for warmth in a red cloak with gold embroidery, he held a bronze rod a foot long in his hands and spread around himself a suffocating cloud of incense, behind which the distinct smell of sour sweat—the kind only fat men sweat—could be clearly felt. Small, pale lilac eyes darted restlessly across his moon-like face, betraying the internal struggle of animal fear of the monster against duty, reinforced, obviously, by some other fear no less strong.
"The Volantene Freehold welcomes Prince Aegon Targaryen!" the fat man proclaimed in a thin voice in Volantene; the language of the New Freehold resembled High Valyrian more closely than any other tongue of the Free Cities, but sounded somewhat simpler. " The Old Blood flows as one."
"The Old Blood flows as one in you, as it does in me," another agreed-upon and memorized element of the meeting.
"From days of yore until the end of time. Welcome, Prince. I am the Third Triarch of the Freehold, Ex Leirys Berennis."
The fat man paid his respects with a bow that was not particularly graceful; the rod, therefore, was the symbol of his authority.
"I am pleased to meet you, Ex Leirys. As agreed, only my knight and my dragon are with me. We ask permission to enter behind the Black Walls."
"The Triarchy of the Freehold recognizes this right for you and permits you to enter the Old City," said the Ex, adding in a much less formal tone: "On the advice of the elders, one of the old hippodromes has been given over as a lair for your dragon; it is here, directly beneath us, so he is in no danger."
"More like you are in no danger," Aegon remarked and twitched the reins.
Vermithor gauged the distance and, flapping his wings a couple of times, jumped down, nearly taking out the spectator benches with his feet. The arena turned out to be just the right size for him—large enough for him to stretch and limber up a bit. I wonder why the Old Blood gave it up? And, most importantly, what do they expect to get in return?
By the time they dismounted, the palanquin carrying the Triarch had caught up with them; fortunately, Ex Leirys did not invite them to join him, although there was ample room—apparently, local proprieties and notions of power did not permit it—but the prince was only glad for this. Following behind, slaves brought another palanquin, and led a magnificent dapple-grey stallion by the bridle nearby. Dennis let out a strange sound, very much like suppressed laughter; certainly, even if the Volantenes intended no hidden subtext, they couldn't have come up with anything better—the sworn shield's grey hair and the grey horse hide matched perfectly.
The prince looked back at Vermithor. As if understanding that showing his own weakness was highly undesirable, the dragon snorted demonstratively and blew smoke from his nostrils. The stallion, neighing in fright, reared up, and the slaves with the palanquins flinched but did not drop their burdens. The dragon busily inspected his new lair and scraped the arena with his claw a couple of times, as if testing its strength and trying to figure out how best to settle in. Aegon did not want to leave the sick Bronze Fury alone in a new place, but there was nothing to be done; to find a way to help the reptile, he had to undergo the trial of Volantene politics and familial hospitality.
Scarcely had Aegon settled into his palanquin when the entire procession moved out. The streets of the Old City proved much quieter than the streets of outer Volantis; here, merchants did not shout, porters did not scurry, pedestrians did not rush about their business. By every porch, covered in carvings or paved with tiles, flowerbeds were laid out, planted with some flowers that managed to bloom even in the winter slush, and neatly trimmed evergreen trees grew on the roadsides. Above them, walkways between the towers of mansions wove into intricate lace—this must have been how it was in the Valyrian Freehold, whose lords could spend their entire lives between the towers and the sky, never once touching the road dust. A couple of times they encountered other palanquins, elegant carriages, leisurely riders—it did not befit the Old Blood to move on foot, just as, apparently, it did not befit them to be in a hurry to go anywhere.
They stopped a couple of blocks from the hippodrome near a luxurious house of red stone; the steps and columns at the entrance were made of black granite and shone like pitch in the rays of the warmthless sun. A row of drilled slaves lined up on the porch, bowing double at the sight of the highborn guests; when their palanquins pulled level, Berennis said:
"Allow me to leave you here."
"Abandoning me to be torn apart by my own aunt?" Aegon, who had suddenly become nervous for no reason, tried to smile, but it came out a bit crooked.
"Those in whom the Old Blood flows value family and respect matters that are resolved only within its circle."
"So you are abandoning me, Ex."
"Do not worry, Prince, we will certainly see each other," Leirys assured him and tapped the support of the palanquin with his rod.
"Better if we didn't," the prince muttered under his breath in Common; there was something he didn't like about the Triarch, and it wasn't just the smell—Aegon had recently begun to treat his own premonitions with more caution.
Meanwhile, a new trial of awkwardness awaited him: a pair of slaves, strongmen from the Summer Isles with ebony skin, lifted the prince into their arms at once and carried him up the steps, where they carefully set him on his feet. Unaccustomed to such treatment, Aegon looked around, assessing the distance covered, and involuntarily bumped into Dennis, who was coming up behind him.
"They handled you deftly, my prince," the sworn knight remarked in Andal.
"Jealous?"
"Not without reason."
Their conversation was interrupted by a slave woman stepping forward. She was a beautiful woman of either Andal or Rhoynish blood, who had grown somewhat stout with age; her face could have been called beautiful were it not for the crude spiral tattoos on her cheeks, forehead, and chin—the custom of marking one's slaves so obviously seemed barbaric to the prince, something akin to tales of wildlings.
"Gela Saera awaits you, Ex Aegon," she announced in Volantene with a low bow. "This insignificant one will lead you. Your brave companion may wait here."
"My brave companion is responsible for my safety," Aegon cut in. He didn't like that they tried to separate him from his sworn shield at the first opportunity.
"Gela Saera guarantees safety to you both and to your mighty dragon. Within the walls of her house, as behind the Black Walls, you are in no danger."
"I will not leave my knight on the street."
"As the Ex wishes."
The slave woman bowed again, jingling the thin gold chains attached to a narrow golden collar; altogether it gave the impression of expensive jewelry, but the utilitarian and symbolic meaning could not be hidden from an outsider's gaze. Obviously, her status among the slaves was quite high—the collars of the others lined up on the steps were simpler; at the same time, she was merely the first among equals; still a slave, even if commanding other slaves. Aegon had seen enough in the Seneschal's Court of the Citadel, and in the corridors of the Red Keep, of what even the tiniest grain of power does to a small man—lifted slightly above the mud and shit in which his brethren flounder, he begins to strive desperately to rise even higher, pushing against, shoving away, and drowning them. Ultimately, such people became even worse than Maegor the Usurper: he feared nothing and no one, but these feared their superiors and were therefore even more cruel to those who were beneath them.
Following the slave woman, who was apparently something like a head housekeeper, the Westerosi entered the red and black house. Inside, it was arranged quite unusually: the first vestibule, decorated with frescoes of Rhoyne vistas, led into a second, where they were invited to leave their cloaks; in the third, two slave boys with crude metal collars and bracers wiped the dust and dirt from the guests' boots with several damp towels; in the fourth, they were offered a small goblet of wine each, in which Aegon surprisingly recognized one of the Arbor golds, and not the simplest one at that.
Finally, they were led into the guest part of the house, where every room they encountered was designed for receiving visitors; the halls were decorated richly, but not tastelessly like in Pentos: the walls were covered with paintings and carvings, not meaningless gold ornaments. The rooms connected to each other by wide openings without doors—so that during festivals and feasts, the Old Blood could move freely through them, socializing, gluttonizing, and amusing themselves with all possible arts, apparently not excluding the amorous ones.
Aegon was about to ask if it was possible to lock oneself up in Volantene houses at all, when they approached a massive mahogany door skillfully decorated with dragon carvings; the pattern was very reminiscent of those covering the doors in the Red Keep or Dragonstone, but did not repeat them exactly, rather it was created based on motifs: the carver obviously had seen dragons only in pictures, and the artist hadn't tried too hard, so all the lizards looked the same.
"Gela Saera would like to meet with the Ex alone," the slave woman warned, taking hold of the heavy copper ring on the door.
"I will wait here, my prince," Dennis nodded, retreating to a low sofa by the wall. Beside him, as if sprung from the ground, a young slave girl appeared with a goblet of wine. Well, at least the sworn shield wouldn't be bored.
Aegon carefully shifted from one foot to the other. He was not afraid of his aunt; a Targaryen does not poison or kill a Targaryen—only Maegor the Usurper did that; however, Saera had left Westeros the very year the prince was born and now seemed like an artifact of a bygone era. The slave woman with the gold collar, meanwhile, opened the door and admitted Aegon into yet another room.
The setting here was much more private: the walls were covered in red silk wallpaper with a pattern of dragon scales, a fireplace resembling a fire-breathing dragon's head was burning, and sofas were arranged around it, with pillows scattered upon them.
"And you've grown since our last meeting."
Aegon started; examining the chambers, he hadn't noticed the woman standing by the window; now she took a couple of steps forward, and the prince could get a good look at her. As he knew, Saera Targaryen, the fifth daughter of Jaehaerys I and Alysanne the Good Queen, was to turn thirty-nine this year, but she hardly looked her age. Saera—it could only be her—turned out to be a beautiful woman whose beauty was no longer maidenly charm, but the beauty of a mature woman who had managed to defeat the years, at least for a time. Her white-gold hair was gathered in a low bun and carelessly thrown over her shoulder. She was clad in a flowing white dress, too light for winter weather, cinched with a wide belt with gold embroidery, but over it, she was wrapped in a Tyroshi shawl, thin—Grandmother Alysanne had one just like it—but very warm.
"Aunt Saera," Aegon, taken aback, greeted her with a slightly awkward bow.
"Aunt! Oh, gods!" the woman exclaimed. "I didn't think I'd live to the disgrace of being called 'aunt'. Although 'mother' wasn't easy for me either."
And how to react to that? The former princess sat down on the nearest sofa and, tilting her head to her shoulder, began to study her nephew.
"You don't look much like Baelon," she decided. "Except perhaps the hair and maybe the cheekbones. Your eyes are definitely from Alyssa, good thing both are the same color. Here now, turn around."
Aegon obediently turned his head and, after hesitating a moment, slowly turned from side to side. At fairs in Oldtown, horses were inspected this way, and in Pentos—slaves; an extremely humiliating procedure for the grandson of one king and the brother of another. The fact that his own aunt was examining him didn't make it much more comforting: the prince had heard that she owned a pleasure house, and now he couldn't shake the feeling that she was evaluating new slaves for her brothel with exactly the same gaze.
"Your profile is exactly like Papa's. My Papa's, of course, may he not choke."
"He died, Aunt," the prince reminded her just in case.
"Yes, I heard," Saera waved it off. "You know, when they told me that one of Baelon's sons crippled the other and that one went lame, I decided you would grow up into some sullen and twisted hunchback. But it turned out…"
The Gela circled her hand in the air, wordlessly outlining all of Aegon.
"Well, I really did grow up clubfooted," the prince put his maimed leg forward, demonstrating the thick sole and high heel.
"Then don't stand there like a statue and sit next to me."
She patted the pillows beside her, inviting her nephew to join. Aegon carefully perched on the very edge, but then, deciding not to demonstrate his embarrassment so openly, forced himself to sit deeper and adopt a less tense pose.
"So, nephew… How is your brother's reign? I remember him as a chubby boy who gave the wet nurses and nannies no peace."
"King Viserys, Second of His Name, reigns quite happily and is loved by his subjects."
"For what? He's been on the throne for three years."
"I suppose for being young. He and Aemma, his wife, are a beautiful couple, they are kind to both lords and smallfolk, donate much, host feasts and receptions. In Braavos, they told me that the Queen has begun building a new sept on Visenya's Hill with her own money."
"In other words, there is nothing to hate them for yet," Saera nodded knowingly.
"Jaehaerys was loved and is still loved."
"Don't exaggerate the length of the people's memory. My Papa managed to tire everyone out, otherwise, your brother wouldn't be called the Spring King. Jaehaerys was loved and is loved only because for most of his reign he sat on his iron chair with a clever look and did a damn thing with neither the realm nor the family. He and dearest Mama only knew how to churn out kids."
It was hard to answer that. On one hand, his aunt was right: mourning for the Old King began while he was still alive, and celebrations of the new reign started almost immediately after his death. On the other hand, such harsh and disrespectful judgments about his late grandfather should not be left ignored, if not out of familial feelings, then at least out of loyal ones.
His own attitude toward the late king was complex. On one hand, Jaehaerys had consistently denied him the birthright to ride a dragon; a cruel and unjust decision that Aegon could not accept and could not forgive, having finally received the opportunity to fly—the sensations of the special bond with the dragon were so sharp, so vivid, so enchantingly attractive that the prince could no longer imagine life without Vermithor. A Targaryen without a dragon is merely a shadow of a true Targaryen. And yet, in this foolish decision of the Old King, there was a twisted logic and care that could still be understood.
Moreover, no matter how offended the prince was by his grandfather, he had sent him to the Citadel of Oldtown—there Aegon had gained the knowledge that had now become his main weapon and striking sword; the grandfather had exiled the wretched grandson from the capital but also gave him the opportunity to realize himself. For that, too, it was worth being grateful.
"I was at his deathbed," Aegon suddenly remembered.
"Is that so? I hope he took a long time dying," Saera remarked indifferently, but it did not escape the prince how her voice wavered. Surely, she wanted to know about her own father's death, but Targaryen pride did not allow her to ask directly.
"Grandfather was ill for a long time. Before his death, he asked for your forgiveness, asked you to return."
Saera looked at him in surprise and burst out laughing:
"How delightful! To call a daughter a whore, kick her out the door, and then ask for forgiveness years later! You have to hand it to him to come up with that!"
"He sincerely regretted and repented of his action," presumably, it was worth keeping quiet about the fact that his grandfather suffered from dementia and mistook a nurse for his daughter.
"Let him repent seven times over!" his aunt threw out viciously and shook her head. "He disowned me because of his fucking hypocrisy and stupid proprieties!"
"The authority of the crown…"
"Did not suffer in the slightest from the fact that his own sister bore him children, so my pranks wouldn't have burdened that authority too much! But perhaps I should be grateful to him after all."
"To the Old King?"
"Yes. Because of his hypocrisy and proprieties, I ended up here."
"Far from home."
"But I outlived everyone. My brothers would have made decent kings, but Aemon died, and Baelon died. Alyssa died, Daella died, Viserra died… Gods, am I the last one?"
"Uncle Vaegon is still alive," Aegon reminded her.
Saera laughed again, but this time she laughed much longer, almost to exhaustion, leaning back on the pillows and scattering her golden hair over them.
"Oh, gods! You do know how to joke!"
"What is the matter?" the prince frowned in bewilderment; such a strange reaction to his uncle's name surprised him—the Archmaester never mentioned his runaway sister, as if she didn't exist at all.
"What irony, that of the Old King's thirteen dragonlings, only I and Vaegon outlived him. The whore daughter and the bore son."
"Grandfather never called you a whore. And he didn't consider Uncle Vaegon a bore either."
"My dear nephew," Saera smiled affectionately. "Just because you didn't hear it doesn't mean he didn't call us that! Of course, I am not a whore, but because of him, I ended up in a brothel. Of course, Vaegon isn't a bore, but he became a maester because he wasn't good for anything else. No, it is very amusing that he and I are still alive. Escaped that bloody castle. I think it's all because only I and my dear bookworm brother do what we like, without looking back at the iron chair."
"I studied at the Citadel too," Aegon admitted.
"And why aren't you a maester yet?"
"One can love knowledge and not be a maester. The chain is not for me."
"Agreed. You are too pretty to wear that foolish robe, and chains are made for slaves."
Grinning slyly, Saera reached out to him and, shamelessly placing her hand on his groin, began to knead Aegon's cock. Before the prince could be properly surprised by this, his body reacted to the female hands in a completely masculine way, which caused a new smile from the Gela.
"Judging by Alyssa's stories, here you definitely take after your father."
"And you want to make up for lost time?"
Saera chuckled, but removed her hand nonetheless; Aegon wasn't overly upset by this. Remembering one of the stratagems of Teysecara, who claimed that a counterattack is the best form of defense, the prince continued to pour poison:
"Is it true that you sold your maidenhead for the chance to end up in Lys?"
"True," to her credit, his aunt took the thrust with dignity. "My most measured decision and most justified investment. A few unpleasant minutes—they weren't gentle with me and, to be honest, I didn't get any pleasure from it—but look where I am now? Sitting behind the Black Walls, ruling the Volantenis Freehold. I became a queen in everything but name."
"Only for a year."
"For four. I was Triarch four times. As for the name… Does it really matter what you are called if you hold power in your hands?"
"Which must be obtained."
"Oh, that wasn't too difficult. I sold myself to end up in Lys. In Lys, I sold myself again, and again, and again, until I saved enough gold for a ship to Volantis. Here I did the same until the master of my pleasure house died. I turned out to be quicker than the others, took the brothel for myself, and made it one of the best east of Lys. Then I stopped selling myself and started selling my name. Exes and Gelas from behind the Black Walls began to visit me, and then it turned out that I am their equal myself. They couldn't fail to notice me—though they tried—and I was invited to live here, and three years later I was elected Triarch. Not bad for a girl whose father called her a whore, is it?"
"Impressive," Aegon was forced to admit. "Is that why you didn't return to Westeros?"
"Yes," Saera nodded, smoothing her Tyroshi shawl. "I had no reason to return. Except perhaps for a dragon, but Papa wouldn't have given me one. Here I already had property, a business that brought me more money than a fat and stupid lord husband would have gifted me. I had begun to be respected, I managed to ruin a couple of careers and help a few more generous people occupy good positions. Parental forgiveness would have given me nothing."
"Not even inner peace?"
"I don't think that would have brought me peace. I would have had to live up to their expectations again, but this way I remained myself. No, you definitely spent too much time with Vaegon, you've become just as much of a bore! Look what you've driven me to: I've got sentimental and am speaking like an old woman! Don't do that to me, I don't want to feel old. Why did you come?"
Apparently, the ability to abruptly change topics was one of the family traits of the Targaryens, Aegon thought.
"To learn. To read. To seek the new," the prince outlined his plans in rather vague terms. There was no need to speak unnecessarily about the glass candle and statuettes stored in his saddlebags, or Vermithor's wound.
"To be a Vaegon?"
"Not quite that boring," the prince shook his head with a slight smile.
"Well, yes, of course," his aunt didn't seem to believe him. "In any case, you are my guest. You may stay in this house as long as you wish. I don't think you'll find much of interest to you here, but I can introduce you to Triarchs and Exes who value dusty paper more than I do."
"I would be most grateful."
"Splendid! We'll have a dinner in the evening, I'll introduce you to the Old Blood and the family."
"I've already seen my cousins," Aegon reminded her. "They were at the Great Council."
"Ah, those," Saera grimaced in annoyance. "Impostors. When rumors of that gathering reached us, I refused to go myself and forbade mine to go—it's not for us, one can make a laughingstock of oneself on this side of the Narrow Sea too."
"But… Who was at Harrenhal then? I saw them myself…"
"And had you seen me before that?" the princess smirked.
"No."
"So what made you think I was their mother?"
"They said so. One of them was the spitting image of Grandfather in his youth!"
"Everyone has already forgotten what he looked like in his youth. It's very easy to say you look like someone when there's no one to compare with."
"But who was it then?"
"Impostors. Freedmen servants," Saera shrugged, rising from the sofa. "They heard I was being called to Westeros, that I refused, robbed me, and ran away. Don't worry, I dealt with them."
"Dealt with them?"
"They were tracked down and killed. The heads were returned to me. Want to see?"
"I'd rather not," the prince swallowed an unpleasant lump in his throat. "So, therefore… Do you have children after all?"
"Three," Saera nodded. "You'll see them, I think they'll be glad for relatives, besides, they are your age. You are something like dragons to them—you seemingly exist somewhere, but no one has ever seen you."
---------------
Read advance +50 chapters on my Patreon
Patreon(.)com/WinterScribe