Prince Aegon Targaryen
In Oldtown, the scholars of the Citadel told tales that, thanks to ancient Valyrian magic, time itself held no power over those in whose veins the Old Blood flowed behind the Black Walls of Volantis. Aegon deemed these conversations the whim of ignoramuses then, but finding himself a guest of the Old City, he was close to admitting his own wrongness. Days flashed one after another in a colorful kaleidoscope, imperceptibly folding into weeks, which flowed into months; when the Prince signed rare letters to King's Landing, he asked Dennis the date with great surprise, not believing so much time had passed.
Aegon quickly adopted the habits of the hosts of the red-and-black house, submitting to a schedule that proved quite close to his spirit. As befitted Old Blood, he rarely rose from bed before noon and did not leave his chambers for another three or four hours. All life behind the Black Walls began shortly before sunset: races at the hippodromes and performances of mummers in amphitheaters, fights of slaves in arenas and endless receptions and feasts in palaces and towers—all this could continue, regardless of the damp winter weather, until dawn itself; the spectators warmed themselves with wine and excitement.
The anxieties and fears of the past remained outside the Black Walls. Westeros seemed a distant land, King's Landing—a small and dirty town, lords—petty Aeksios. Even memories of the journey and the war receded into the background—there was simply no time to think of them during receptions, performances, and races. Visiting Vermithor, the Prince swore to himself and to him to begin the search for a way to return the dragon's former mobility in the air and restore his fire breath, but every time upon return he found himself invited to some supper at another Aeksio's, or caught unawares by cousins dragging him somewhere to someone to show something certainly unforgettable.
When sobered conscience reminded him of the promise once again, Aegon soberly considered his possible actions. To beg a recipe for dragon medicine from the first Aeksio he met seemed madness, and to find something himself required time and opportunities. The Prince had plenty of time, but opportunities were tight: to join ancient knowledge, one needed to become familiar to those who possessed it, and this meant becoming one's own among the Old Blood.
Aegon grew close to his newfound cousins quite quickly. Carefree Jaegaer had scarce turned twenty, and in character and habits, he resembled Daemon more—the same lover of fun, women, wine, and contests. A passion for flying on a dragon was replaced in him by an equally boundless love for horses and races; he could speak for hours about the merits of horses and the advantages of one or another type of chariot. The Prince saw his duels with friends on swords, spears, improvised archery tournaments, endurance and speed races more than once, and everywhere the cousin was among the first.
Sixteen-year-old Maerys grew up a much more thoughtful lad, but could also have fun on equal terms with his reckless older brother. In strength, agility, and skill with weapons, if he yielded to him, it was not by much and solely due to the age difference. The younger cousin often asked Aegon to tell something about the family, dragons, or the history of Westeros, and the other could not refuse him—the youth seemed to the Prince a healthy version of himself, the one Aegon Targaryen would have become had that ill-fated fall not happened. It was to Maerys that the home library "belonged," which Saera started out of propriety and necessity; in it, the cousins could sit away the daylight hours, leafing through chronicles, unrolling scrolls and conversing, until the time for amusements came.
The fugitive Princess's only daughter, Viserra, was not only the indisputable adornment of the family but was also reputed to be one of the most beautiful maidens of the Old Blood, for whose favor many were ready to fight. Aunt Saera, of course, said that all the attention paid to her daughter depended on how well affairs went in their pleasure houses, but Aegon stubbornly disagreed: Lady Viserra was worthy of all honors rendered her by admirers, among whom was he. To wipe the noses of all rivals at once and impress his cousin, Aegon resorted to his natural and indisputable advantage: he invited Viserra to become better acquainted with Vermithor.
The offer was accepted with joy—well, naturally, dragons had been a curiosity in Volantis for the last two hundred years—but when they entered the arena of the hippodrome, the girl, however much she put on a brave face, could not hide her fear the moment she saw the dragon up close and realized his true size. It was too late to retreat in all respects: the Bronze Fury noticed them, and an offer to surrender and leave could lead to undesirable consequences. Aegon cursed the Hell through his teeth and called Vermithor closer.
The dragon approached with a clatter, swinging his tail in all directions, demonstrating his displeasure—accustomed during the journey to the constant presence of a rider, he now felt abandoned, as during the time of the Old King, and was angry that he had been left alone. Furthermore, the suspicious pain behind the sternum did not recede; in Aunt's library, Aegon could find nothing that could help the dragon—the library was rather mediocre, and besides, Maerys constantly strove to distract the Prince, and then the cousin... Naturally, Vermithor's grievances, however justified, did not add to Viserra's calm.
"Do not fear, he is not always like this, he simply does not like solitude," Aegon hastened to reassure her, whilst turning to the dragon himself and, embracing his huge muzzle with his hands, leaned his forehead against his nose, directing his thoughts to Vermithor.
"Lykirī... Nyke kesīr... Kostilus, sȳz taoba sās, ilārās daor, nyke zijomy sytinevīnna. Baelās yno se īlon sōvī gierī, jemot kīvio ñuhe tepan. (Calm down... I am here... Please, be a good boy, do not be angry, I will make it up to you. Help me and we will fly high, I promise you.)"
Vermithor snorted, blasting the Prince with hot air from his nostrils, smelling sharply of dragon smoke, but changed anger to mercy nonetheless and, allowing himself to be scratched, rumbled. Aegon groped blindly behind him and beckoned Viserra; she timidly placed her hand in his outstretched one and carefully, somewhat sideways, approached the dragon.
"Zūgan daor (Do not fear)," Aegon repeated for no one in particular and placed his cousin's hand on Vermithor's muzzle. She flinched from surprise, but did not recoil.
"How hot," she pronounced entranced, already examining the rough hide of the dragon herself, running her hand over the bronze scales.
"Dragons are embodied flame. Not everyone can simply touch fire," hardly was this true, but it should have flattered the girl. "Do you want to see the city from above?"
"Is it possible?" Gods, how much surprise and hope in those violet eyes.
"Of course!"
Aegon, habitually pulling himself up on the straps, climbed into the saddle, and after, he and Vermithor helped the girl up.
"It will be better if we strap in," the Prince remarked as if casually, offering the free ends to Viserra.
The plan worked exactly as conceived: she confusedly shifted her gaze from the fastenings to the saddle, and in the end, Aegon had to do all the work himself. Wrapping the chain twice around his cousin's waist, he attached it with two hooks to his belt and two more to the saddle; in the process, the youth, naturally, quite accidentally lingered his hands on the maiden's waist and, smiling guiltily, said with exaggerated cheerfulness:
"Well, now all is ready! Sōvēs, Vermitor! (Fly, Vermithor!)"
And Vermithor, taking a run (somewhere on the very periphery of consciousness, a sad thought flashed through Aegon that before the dragon could do this from a standstill), took off; with wide flaps of wings, he began to gain altitude, nearly grazing the Black Walls with his paws; somewhere below amazed exclamations, cries of horror, and foul cursing rang out. The Prince turned and met Viserra's gaze; there was no more fear in the violet eyes—only surprise and delight. Aegon spurred the Bronze Fury, and he, roaring, banked into a turn, coming out into the expanse above the Rhoyne.
They repeated the Westerosi greeting route, circling Volantis along the perimeter, circling in turn over each of the fourteen city gates, descending to the very surface of the water, covering the quarters of pleasure houses with a huge shadow, wavering the flame atop the Temple of the Lord of Light with membranous wings. Fooling around and showing off, Aegon even sent Vermithor to fly under the span of the Long Bridge—the dragon barely fit under it, and the stone vault flashed a mere palm from the riders' heads.
This, evidently, became the last drop overflowing Vermithor's cup of fatigue, and Aegon clearly felt how exhausted the dragon was; somewhere in his chest pricked with guilt for irresponsible behavior (almost betrayal) with a faithful, ailing friend, and the Prince immediately directed him back toward the Black Walls. Scarce had the dragon's paws touched the arena of the hippodrome than the Bronze Fury stretched out on his belly; this, of course, did not escape his rider, and the Prince, gallantly offering a hand to the Lady laughing from mirth, an excess of emotions and feelings, decided to definitely come to Vermithor this very day, but for now switched to discussing the flight with Viserra.
However, scarce had the pair crossed the threshold of the red-and-black house when the eldest of the slaves grew before them.
"What do you want, Tala?" the young Lady cast out carelessly.
"Golden Triarch Vogarro Vassar has honored Lady Saera with his visit. He hopes to see Aeksio Aegon."
Aegon looked at Viserra in bewilderment.
"Is that the thin one, or the 'Tiger'?"
"The thin one. He is of the 'Elephants', like Mother."
"And do Triarchs often pay you visits?"
"With us, it is customary to warn in advance of such visits," the girl shook her head. "But if he wants to see you, you should not keep him waiting. It is impolite, furthermore, he is the senior of the Triarchs."
The Old Blood ruler of the New Freehold was discovered in one of the guest rooms reclining on a divan, sipping wine and examining a slave dancing before him, clad only in a cloak so thin that it could hide nothing from the Triarch's lustful gaze; in the corner, four more slaves plucked dulcimers and harp and whistled flutes. The status of Triarch was traceable in everything: starting from gold rings on long fingers and a golden rod carelessly thrown on a low table, to snow-white tunics with gold embroidery and a heavy cloak of gold brocade. The hostess herself was discovered right there, sitting in an armchair; Saera mindlessly stroked the fur of a tortoiseshell cat with a red ribbon and silver bell on its neck and seemed absolutely relaxed; however, the glance she darted at her nephew and the daughter entering after him promised nothing good.
"Ah, Aeksio Aegon," drawled Vassar, reluctantly tearing himself from contemplating the dancer's charms. "Glad to see you."
"It is an honor for me to welcome the Golden Triarch," answered the Prince, hastily touching his heart in proof of the sincerity of his words. Nevertheless, the demotion in title did not go unnoticed.
"Rather cool today, do you not find?" the Old Blood evidently preferred to start from afar.
"Perhaps, but everything is known in comparison. In comparison with what is now in King's Landing, Volantis is experiencing the height of summer."
"Yes, we have not had snow for a long time. It fell two or three times in my memory. Did you not catch our snowfalls, Lady Saera?"
"No, Aeksio. Since I entered the Black Walls, the gods send us mild winters."
"Who knows, perhaps you became the cause?" Vassar tried to joke, and his thin bloodless lips stretched in some semblance of a smile. "You were not blown away on the way, Aeksio Aegon?"
"No, Aeksio Vogarro."
"What, even in the sky?"
So that's what it is, the Triarch came because of the flight.
"It is difficult to fly out of our saddles," the Prince answered evasively, guessing what would follow.
"Well, I am very glad that your masters have not yet lost all the secrets of the Old Freehold."
The Triarch swirled the wine in his goblet, thoughtfully examining how it rolled in waves along the glass walls, leaving "legs." The pause, undoubtedly intentional, designed to unnerve the standing young people, dragged on; finally, Vassar set the cup on the table and, sitting up abruptly, leaned forward.
"I am very glad that you have a dragon, Aeksio Aegon. Believe me, very. A dragon is a miracle. In dragons lives the spark of Old Valyria. You yourself are living proof of all old chronicles, tales, and songs. The mere fact that you fly on a dragon and live here, within the Black Walls, changes much, very much in our politics. I would even say—too much."
"I am here as a private person," objected Aegon. "I am not my brother's ambassador, but simply a nephew visiting an aunt."
"Astounding naivety," remarked Vogarro aside to Saera. "You misunderstood me, Aeksio. You change the situation by your very presence here. This fact alone makes the 'Tigers' choke on saliva and rub their calloused little hands in anticipation of a new slaughter, into which they can now add a little, if you permit, fire."
"To get their hands on the dragon, they will have to kill me," cut off Aegon.
"They will not stop at that, Aeksio," added the Triarch. "And with your flights, you only pull the 'Tigers' by the whiskers, showing them that they can return their dominance. Do you understand what that means?"
"War."
"Not just war, young man. As soon as the 'Tigers' get hold of your dragon, the very first elections will bring them complete victory, and the Triarchy will be completely under their control. They will destroy everything they did not manage to destroy before, sever all ties, burn all agreements, and go to restore the Old Freehold!"
"Do you not want the same?" raised Aegon his brows.
"We do," agreed Vassar. "Only we achieve the restoration of the Freehold by other methods, which do not imply absolute holocaust. We do not wish to rule over mere ash."
"And what do you want from me? That I leave Volantis?"
"What are you saying, we cannot expel you, the Triarchy has no grounds for this."
"Well, thank you," answered the Prince venomously.
"Everything is very simple. We recognized you as Old Blood. Every Old Blood has the right to live within the Black Walls, unless he commits some serious crime against his neighbors or the Freehold. You have committed neither the one nor the other."
"And besides, Triarch Vogarro swore that he could not go against my will," remarked Saera in passing.
"Precisely. In other words, while the 'Elephants' control the Triarchy, nothing threatens you. But I address you with an earnest request: do not tempt the gods and do not tease the 'Tigers' with your flights."
"I heard you," nodded Aegon.
"I fear, Aeksio, this is not enough for me," Vassar shook his head contritely. "I would not wish to force you to swear at the altars of our gods, but..."
"Jemot kīvio ñuhe tepan ondoso perzys se ānogar (I give you my promise by fire and blood)," interrupted the Prince.
"I thank you."
Vassar nodded and rose from the divan; picking up his rod, he kissed Saera's hand in farewell, and pinched the dancer's nipple. Already in the doorway, he turned and with the same pale smile threw out:
"I quite forgot! Aeksio Aegon, I am glad that your dragon is in good health. It is a great happiness to see that the tragic accident brought him no harm."
Aegon hastened to return the courtesy and quoted Vassar's own words:
"A dragon is a miracle."
No less a miracle were the Triarch's whisperers. In Volantis, Aegon had told no one that Vermithor had not recovered from the injury. And, since concealing the dragon's illness was now pointless, all possible measures must be taken for its cure.
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