Aegon had been to Driftmark a couple of times before, and each visit was connected to his duties as Master of Dragons: first, he and the architects determined the site for the construction of a Dragon's Lair for Meleys and Seasmoke; later, he inspected the finished structure. The home for the dragons had been hewn into one of the cliffs near High Tide—Corlys Velaryon was so wealthy he could afford to build a new castle and a shelter for his family's dragons simultaneously. As it turned out, his wealth was also sufficient to wage a private war, which was now rapidly changing its status.
In three weeks, the Small Council and Rhaenys had managed to draft and agree upon a marriage contract. Viserys, with his own hand, added a clause to the contract regarding the allocation of a large tract of land to his youngest brother, making it clear that the matter would not be limited to Duskendale. The dowry of Lady Laena was also stipulated, including, among other things, fifty merchant ships plying the route from Lannisport to Qarth, five hundred thousand gold dragons, a third share of all Velaryon enterprises and shops in Pentos, and treasures collected by the bride's father from all over the world. There were also concessions to the Iron Throne itself, to which the Velaryons transferred all rights and claims to control over the Stepstones, and also gave a commitment to support any enterprise of the Crown, at least financially.
On the whole, Aegon counted more clauses about war in the entire treaty than about his future life: the number of troops, the order of their supply, the date of the royal fleet's departure to sea, and many other things that had not the slightest relation to the wedding of the younger Prince were defined. Within a couple of weeks, Daemon called four thousand men from the Crownlands to the Targaryen banners. Together with his friend the Hand, Jaegaer and Harwin Breakbones were leaving for the war, as well as three hundred of the best Gold Cloaks, constituting Daemon's personal reserve. Lord Tully's sons were already marching south along the Kingsroad at the head of a five-thousand-strong army; Lord Baratheon, though offended at the Iron Throne for the recent dressing down, answered the call and was also summoning his bannermen.
During these days, the Queen Who Never Was managed to forgive her cousins the fact that they had slipped her the wrong son-in-law, and the Sea Snake found time to return to his native island to betroth his only daughter to the Prince according to all the rules.
The lair at High Tide had been built with a large surplus of volume just in case, and it came in handy when Lady Laena saddled Silverwing; now, when Vermithor also flew to Driftmark, there was almost no room left there. Warming herself on a ledge by the entrance to the caves, the Good Queen's former she-dragon scented the Bronze Fury from afar and, as soon as he landed, met him with a welcoming roar and rushed to meet him.
"Ārughia?" (Old friend?) Aegon asked the dragon, having barely managed to climb out of the saddle. The dragon shook his shoulders impatiently, paying no special attention to the rider's words, and hastened to his old friend.
Their meeting after almost three years of separation (Aegon had not even noticed how the years had flown) looked guardedly touching: the dragons sniffed each other meticulously and, evidently finding no traces of betrayal, rubbed noses, and then entwined their necks and froze thus, rumbling gutturally. Looking at the happy reunion, the Prince pondered:
"Will it be the same for me? Can a human carry love through so many years?"
The answer, of course, existed: Grandfather and Grandmother had lived together practically their whole lives and lived them, despite quarrels and rifts, quite happily; Father and Mother, as everyone said, also loved each other very much, so much so that after Alyssa's death, Prince Baelon never took a new wife.
Forcing himself to turn away from the dragons fawning over one another, Aegon picked up a long bundle from the ground, which he had thrown from the saddlebags upon landing, and headed toward the Dragonkeepers waiting at a respectful distance. He had flown to Driftmark alone, leaving a sulking Dennis in King's Landing—the sworn shield was his shadow, but some battles must be won alone.
The Captain of the Dragonkeepers, a native of the Claw, struck the stone-paved path with his glaive, greeting the Master of Dragons.
"How fare you, Giles?" Aegon recalled the captain's name.
"I thank you, My Prince, all is well."
"I do not see Meleys or Seasmoke."
"Meleys is sleeping," the man answered simply. "And Seasmoke is with Ser Laenor, in the Stepstones."
"Waiting to be shot down?" the Prince joked grimly.
The flustered captain found no answer, though hardly did Aegon expect to hear one. Instead, he chuckled and waved his cane, as if to say, lead on to m'lord; the diligent Dragonkeeper had brains enough for that.
The road to High Tide ran at some distance from the edge of the cliffs: far enough not to fall down, and close enough that the roar of waves breaking against the rocks was deafening, making any attempt to strike up a conversation senseless. On the way, Aegon, left to himself, lamented once again that despite all his efforts and excuses, he had failed to avoid a marriage of convenience. Would he wish his hands were untied, as Daemon and Rhaenyra had untied theirs? Of course, and who would not? But it was no longer he who moved the pieces on the Cyvasse board; he had been moved forward upon it, flying a dragon over the mountains. The Prince chuckled joylessly. In essence, he had driven himself into this trap, having given a promise to each of his brothers; it was for them that Aegon was now paying with a marriage not particularly necessary to himself, but utterly necessary to the realm and the Royal House.
His marriage was the price for the internal peace of the realm and the price for the war that could ensure this peace. It was fitting to be proud of such a thing, but for some reason, it was hurtful. It is bitter when you are the payment, but what is to be done? Someone must pay for the right of others to free feelings, and it turned out that it fell to him to pay.
On the other hand, thinking abstractly, when he was guided by feelings, it led to nothing. Love, as it turned out, not only burned brighter than the sun but blinded no less; he had been blind in trusting Viserra, and naive in calculating that she felt the same, but his cousin was guided only by cold calculation. In that case, it was worth admitting he was lucky: he had not fallen into the snares of deceit and monstrously base lies, and a marriage of convenience is calmer and far more honest than a marriage of love—you expect nothing from it but fulfilled duty and loyalty.
The path led the Prince and his guides to the main gates of High Tide; the drawbridge across the moat was lowered, and on both sides stood guards in turquoise surcoats, who struck the earth with the shafts of their spears at Aegon's approach. Unlike Driftmark, the walls of which were made of material similar to Dragonstone, the Sea Snake's new castle was light and graceful, yet retained its defensive function. It was said that the Lord of the Tides had started construction only because the old ancestral fortress lacked space for all the trophies and exhibits from his expeditions.
Inside the walls, in a spacious courtyard, lay the castle keep, its rectangular forms strongly resembling a Valyrian basilica, only very small. On the wide grand staircase of white marble, the railings of which were supported by dolphins, Aegon was met by the master of the castle and the whole island, together with his retinue. On the left hand of Corlys Velaryon, who had tucked his fingers behind the lapels of his blue doublet, stood Rhaenys, Lady Laena, and a tall elderly woman in a black coif, Lady Jocelyn Baratheon, Uncle Aemon's widow. To the right of the Lord of the Tides were the castle castellan, as white-haired as Corlys himself, the maester, and Velaryon cousins-nephews little known to Aegon, with their wives and daughters. Behind them, places were taken by guardsmen, sworn knights, and the retinue of the Lady of the island.
"Welcome to High Tide, Prince Aegon, we are glad to greet you," the admiral's dry tone spoke to the contrary; evidently, humbling his pride was not easy for him, but necessity had forced him to bow to the King, and now it forced him to be polite to his younger brother. Maintaining proprieties, Aegon smiled back as amiably as possible:
"Truly, High Tide is a reflection of the wealth and power of House Velaryon,"—and also of poor planning, but the Prince would tell only Viserys about that. "His Grace asked to convey to you, Lord Corlys, and to you, dear cousin, his royal greeting. My brother is extremely glad that our two houses have managed to reach an understanding and renew the alliance with old friends whose loyalty can only be compared to their bravery."
Considering that the Velaryons had been in opposition to the Iron Throne since the time of the Great Council, these words could be considered simultaneously praise and insult, an accusation of treason, conspiracy, and cowardice, but Aegon decided to risk it: if Corlys was smart enough, he would understand them correctly. He, of course, swallowed the ambiguity along with the flattery, and spoke:
"Targaryens and Velaryons have always been able to find a compromise. In the end, we are neighbors, two heirs of Old Valyria preserving its legacy, and a new marriage between our houses will only strengthen our ties. I pray you, Prince, be our guest."
With these words, a black-skinned Summer Islander servant in a livery with a seahorse on the chest stepped forward, handing a tray with a silver goblet to Lady Laena. She, descending from the steps, brought the cup to her betrothed. The flowing light blue dress gave her a resemblance to the daughter of some sea god, one of those prayed to in Essos. Long pearl beads were wrapped around her neck in several rows, wrists adorned with bracelets of silver and turquoise; her skin was white and clear, clear violet eyes looked calmly straight at him; she did not braid her hair, allowing small silver curls to fall freely below her waist. Truly, the Pearl of Driftmark fully deserved her moniker.
"You are very beautiful, My Lady," Aegon said the words expected of him, but to him they seemed an empty statement of fact—Lady Laena's beauty was obvious to all.
"I thank you, My Prince."
He accepted the goblet from her, and, saluting the hosts with it, slowly drained it, not taking his eyes off his bride. The wine turned out to be Arbor gold, and a question flashed in the Prince's mind: old stocks, or had the Velaryons shelled out for the new harvest now delivered by land?
The cup returned to the tray, the tray to the servant, and Lady Laena to the steps to her parents, and Lord Corlys asked:
"Do you and House Targaryen in your person intend to fulfill your obligations and take as wife my daughter Lady Laena of House Velaryon, a maid of noble Valyrian blood?"
"I intend to, if you and House Velaryon in your person intend to fulfill your obligations."
The next question was asked by Rhaenys. In a dark red dress and ruby parure, she now reminded the Prince of another sister-wife of the Conqueror, in whose honor she was named.
"Are the terms of the marriage agreement known to you, cousin?"
The agreement which determined how many ships must leave King's Landing a week after the betrothal, and how many thousands of men the King must send to the Stepstones?
"They are known."
A septon separated from the Sea Snake's retinue, gray not only in raiment but in face, and, raising a seven-sided crystal above his head, began to read prayers nasally, calling upon each of the Seven-Who-Are-One in turn to witness the intention of two noble young people to bind themselves in the future with the holy bonds of marriage. When the ceremony was finished, and the servant of the Faith returned behind Lady Jocelyn, evidently his main parishioner, Lord Corlys announced:
"Tonight there will be a feast in honor of the betrothal. You will be shown to your chambers and helped to prepare for the evening."
"I thank you," Aegon nodded. "But first I would like to present you with something, My Lord."
With these words, he rested the bundle he had brought against the stone slabs of the courtyard, pulled the cord, and the fabric held by it slid down. A surprised gasp swept through the crowd, diluted by curses slipping from tongues.
"An anchor up my arse," the castle castellan could not hold back nautical words, but hardly anyone paid attention.
"This is..." Corlys seemed rooted to the step on which he stood.
"Quite right, My Lord," Aegon nodded calmly, pleased with the effect produced. "This is a Valyrian blade, one of those I found in Mantarys. It is yours. Consider it my gift to my future father-in-law as a sign of respect and recognition of his merits."
The Lord of the Tides descended from the stairs after all and slowly, not taking his eyes off the unexpected gift, approached the Prince. Taking the bastard sword in his hands, the admiral made a couple of swings and lunges with it; the blade, light as any product of the deceased Valyrian smiths, cut the air with a whistle, merging into a dull-gray blurred line. Weighing it in his hand, Corlys began to examine the rippled patterns on the blade spellbound.
"Does it... have a name?" he spoke hoarsely.
"If it ever had one, it is unknown to me," the Prince shrugged. "You may name it yourself. The guard and pommel can be changed if desired. I think you can find Qohorik smiths? If not, Daemon has one in mind."
"This is a very generous gift."
"I knew you would appreciate it according to its worth."
Aegon nodded with satisfaction; in the blink of an eye, the Sea Snake's attitude toward him changed when the political alliance brought not abstract profit, but that which the admiral had coveted since his very youth and could not find himself. Casting a glance at his cousin, the Prince saw that Rhaenys looked at her husband with the indulgent smile of a weary mother whose child would finally stop pestering her.
"I suppose," said the Queen Who Never Was. "Now that all formalities are settled, Prince Aegon will wish to rest from the road or inspect our gardens?"
"The road is not so tiring, cousin, so I am not averse to a walk," all the more so since this was the answer the hosts expected.
"Wonderful," Lady Jocelyn, silent until then, gave voice. "You do not object if Laena and I accompany you, my boy?"
"Not at all, My Lady. Besides, we have not seen each other for a long time."
"Ambiguity again," thought Aegon. Both ladies could take the words personally. On the other hand, what did he have to fear? The first was his aunt, the second his bride. The widow of Aemon the Pale Prince, supported on one side by her granddaughter, offered her free hand to her granddaughter's betrothed, and confidently led them around the small basilica.
Lady Jocelyn Baratheon at fifty-six was as tall as on the day of her husband's funeral, some three or four inches shorter than Aegon himself. Casting a sidelong glance, he noted that with the years his aunt had withered: her beautiful face had become gaunt, webs of wrinkles lay at the corners of her mouth and eyes, and her tall stature, the beauty of which Rolland of Felwood had commemorated in his songs, had lowered, supported now by a corset. Her mourning dress was black as the Targaryen shield and the Baratheon stag, but scarlet velvet flashed in the slits of the upper skirt, and long amber rosary beads with a seven-pointed star at the end hung from her belt almost to the very ground.
"Perhaps we should thank you, my boy," Lady Jocelyn spoke when they turned the corner. "Corlys, like all men, is vain and loves good weapons, so you managed to please him."
"I suppose I am to blame for his passion for Valyrian swords myself," Aegon answered in kind. "Had I not brought several blades from Mantarys, he would not be so furious."
"He would be furious in any case. Had my Aemon become King, Corlys would have claimed Blackfyre or Dark Sister later. Foolishness, of course, even I understand that. The fact that Aemon never had a Valyrian sword to inherit caused such resentment in him... Even my poor husband did not worry so much about it."
Aegon bowed his head sympathetically. Of what else can a widow speak but her late spouse?
"I remember Uncle very vaguely, only that he was very tall and very pale," said the Prince and lied.
He remembered his uncle very well: he remembered how the whip in his hands cracked over Caraxes' head, how Lord Tarth greeted his uncle, and how a Myrish crossbow bolt pierced the neck of the Prince of Dragonstone. Such things are not forgotten, but Aegon had seen it through the eyes of Caraxes, and these dragon memories displaced all human memories. Hardly did Lady Jocelyn wish to hear such an answer.
"Yes, he was very tall, my Pale Prince," Lady Jocelyn spoke with old unspent tenderness. "You are probably of a height with him. Yes, perhaps so. Although, when you were carried out in a litter, I thought you would remain..."
"Clubfooted and lopsided?" the Prince chuckled. "As you see, My Lady, it has not affected me too much."
"The Mother's mercy knows no bounds, and there is no thing in the world the Smith would not mend."
They turned into a wicket gate and found themselves in the gardens of High Tide, quite unlike the godswoods. The paths, strewn with fine white stone chips, were straight, and at their intersections stood fountains or small statues of sea creatures. Bushes and small trees were of exactly such height as to give respite from the scorching rays, but not to hide the sun with an impenetrable canopy. White roses bloomed everywhere; lush white flowers exuded a barely perceptible, almost invisible scent.
They walked along the alley, and Lady Jocelyn, as befits an elderly lady, recalled the past, her youth at the court of King Jaehaerys, who had not yet become Old, and, of course, her late Prince. The path soon ended, leading them to a staircase of white marble with blue veins.
"Father ordered the garden laid out in terraces," Lady Laena finally gave voice. "There are three levels here, we are on the upper one. The lower one comes to the very cliff. Do you wish to reach it?"
"As My Lady pleases."
"Grandmother?"
"Lead on, dear," said the elderly lady with a sigh.
When they—quite cautiously—descended the stairs, the dowager aunt caught her breath and inquired of Aegon:
"I heard my brother got it from the King?"
"Lord Boremund comported himself very worthily, My Lady. Do not believe rumors, he was restrained."
"Of course, Boremund was restrained," snorted the daughter of Rogar Baratheon. "He knows he is at fault. Or rather, that his fool son and his hangers-on are at fault. I have never seen him, but they say he is dull as a stump and cannot read."
"You insult the stump, My Lady," Aegon chuckled and heard Laena snort to the side. "Ser Borros is like a storm—just as violent and just as unreasonable. At court he lowed like a calf, but that was most likely from fear of royal punishment and exile to the Wall."
"Would he have been exiled?" the bride asked the Prince.
"Borros—no, but a couple of his friends risked donning the black, were Viserys not so merciful."
"So, Boremund turned out a lousy father," Jocelyn lamented. "It is sad, I pity his lady wife. To receive such a husband and such a son is something you wouldn't wish on anyone. Worse than that is only to lose a husband and have no son."
Laena stroked the elderly lady's hand soothingly, but she continued:
"Yes, yes, dear, I know, I am terribly tiresome with this, but you have not long left to endure me, soon you will leave here. Or rather, fly away. By the by, my boy, is your wedding already appointed?"
"Not yet, My Lady. Lord Corlys wishes first to see the royal army in the Stepstones and receive reinforcements for his fleet."
"War!" Jocelyn sighed sorrowfully. "Men always go to war, and we wait for them. Did you know Laena also yearned to run off to the Stepstones?"
"Grandmother!"
"No, My Lady."
"But she intended to. As if my daughter and Laenor were not enough there."
"Silverwing is larger than Meleys and Seasmoke put together," Laena objected. "Father would not have had to humble himself if..."
"Silverwing has never participated in battles, My Lady," Aegon spoke calmly. "In this regard, she is no different from wild dragons or saddled young ones like Syrax or Seasmoke. In this regard, the younger generation has more advantages: they adapt faster to battle, they are more maneuverable and faster. Silverwing is too large and noticeable a target, unaccustomed to war besides—the risk of accidentally exposing herself is higher."
"Everything happens for the first time, My Prince," the girl tossed her chin up defiantly.
"Undoubtedly, My Lady. For Meraxes, the acquaintance with a Dornish scorpion was also a first."
The mention of the main tragedy of the Conquest forced his bride to purse her lips in displeasure and turn away. Of course, she was unhappy with his lack of faith in her strength, but as Master of Dragons, Aegon would not risk such a dragon as Silverwing. In the end, even Vermithor, more experienced in military matters, managed to catch a boulder in the chest at the Battle of Lorath.
"So, you will depart for the war?" Lady Jocelyn changed the subject.
"Yes, My Lady," Aegon nodded. "Daemon will lead the army, and Vermithor and I will aid Caraxes, Meleys, and Seasmoke."
"The Three Whores have not a chance against four dragons and our fleet."
Evidently, Aegon relaxed a little, and therefore his eyebrow twitched in surprise upon hearing the bawdy nickname of the Triarchy from the lips of a pious widow. Noticing this, Lady Jocelyn chuckled:
"Did I surprise you, my boy?"
"A little, My Lady."
"I have lived in a sailor's house for more than fifteen years, one learns worse here. In the end, Myrish bastards killed my Aemon."
If not for Myrish bastards, Uncle Aemon would be King now, and Viserys, Daemon, and Aegon—sons of his younger brother. In such a situation, nothing would shine for the Prince but the career of Uncle Vaegon.
"We shall avenge him," he promised.
"I hope so."
They approached another staircase, from which a view opened onto the lower terrace of the garden, beyond which the sea shone blue and sparkled in the rays of the summer sun like a wide ribbon. Lady Jocelyn sighed, thought a little, and announced:
"I shall not go down, else I won't climb back up. Go alone, and I shall sit here."
With these words, she released their hands, upon which she had leaned until now, and walked quite confidently to a marble bench, upon which she sat with a proud air. Fishing a small book from the folds of her dress, the lady opened it at random and, bringing it almost to her very nose, began to read. Aegon gallantly offered Lady Laena his hand and she, thinking a little, accepted it with a barely perceptible sigh. They descended in silence and walked almost half the alley in silence.
"Is Lady Jocelyn nearsighted?" Aegon inquired to break the prolonged awkward pause.
"That is obvious enough," the girl remarked sarcastically.
"Myrish lenses could be selected for her. There are a couple of craftsmen in King's Landing, but one could also ask in Oldtown—Uncle Vaegon should know people."
"Father has already gifted her several pairs," Laena sighed. "But she does not wear them."
"Why?"
"I suppose the matter is that they are Myrish. And that, you know, is a verdict."
"I see."
The conversation withered of its own accord. They approached the stone balustrade standing at the very edge of the precipice, and Aegon involuntarily looked down. Sea waves broke into white foam and sparkling spray against the foot of the cliff; it smelled of salt, freshness, a little of roses, and a little of seaweed. The latter was slightly unpleasant, and the Prince reached for the nearest rose bush, hoping to mask the smell, but the beautiful and neat buds gave almost no scent. Touching one of them, he said:
"I would give you a bouquet, but that is foolish. These roses are already yours."
"You are right, it would be meaningless."
"Now I understand my mistake, My Lady. I appeared before you without a gift."
"You gave my father a Valyrian sword," said Laena with some bewilderment.
"Yes, but that is a gift for him, or rather, for your whole House, and not specifically for you. It seems I unwittingly trapped myself: if I gave such a gift to my future father-in-law, then what am I to give my future wife? An army? A mountain of pure gold? A kingdom?"
"I think you will have a chance to redeem yourself."
"So you will grant it to me?"
"Unlike my brother, I do not like to disappoint Father."
Aegon glanced at the one who was soon to become his wife. Laena Velaryon, tall like her mother and grandmother, was a true example of Valyrian beauty. Her hair fluttered in the sea wind, making her look like some sea goddess, of those worshiped in the Free Cities. The expression on her beautiful, regular face was politely interested, but her violet eyes looked seriously and even a little strictly. The Prince sighed.
"My Lady, I know I am not the groom maidens read about in romances."
"And have you read many such romances?" she clarified.
"I haven't read Andal ones, and in Valyrian ones the heroes vary," time to get to the main point. "I harbor no illusions about the future. Let us be honest: our marriage is political and serves not our own desires, but the interests of our houses and the Seven Kingdoms. I can offer you nothing but my title and a place at court—I am silent about wealth, though my own golden dragons can probably vie with your father's dragons. Speaking not of feelings, I hope that in marriage we will be honest with one another, as two adult and reasonable people. I promise to be honest with you and ask you to be honest with me. I promise you that I will treat you with due respect and count on the same gesture from your side. I promise you protection, care, and comfort in marriage. Since we cannot flee from duty, let us fulfill it as befits the heirs of dragonlords."
Laena listened to him, head tilted to her shoulder, and when he finished, said:
"I would promise you that I will keep your hearth, but you, as far as I know, have none."
"Not yet," Aegon corrected her with a smile. "His Grace promised to allocate me a fief corresponding to my status, and to build a castle with that very hearth."
"Well, since there will be both a castle and a hearth..." she drawled in a joking tone. "I accept your proposal and your promises, and promise to fulfill them myself. Jemot kīvio ñuhe tepan ondoso perzys se ānogar." (To you I pledge my word by fire and blood.)
"Jemot kīvio ñuhe tepan ondoso perzys se ānogar," Aegon repeated the words of the ancient oath. For him, these words were holier than those the septon muttered on the marble steps of the basilica; since his betrothed deemed it necessary to swear in the language of ancestors, they meant no less to her.
At that moment, a dragon's roar rang out from the sky. Craning their heads, the Prince and his bride saw Vermithor and Silverwing flying in the blue heights, circling around each other. The two dragons now locked claws, now playfully grabbed each other by the tails, rejoicing in the long-awaited reunion. The Bronze Fury, evidently, had not allowed himself to be unsaddled, and Aegon praised himself for the habit of always keeping saddlebags closed.
"Well, at least those two will be happy," he said in a philosophical tone, and then unexpectedly for himself returned to Valyrian again: "Ao zijot vāedā?" (Do you sing to him/her?)
The rider of Silverwing raised her eyebrows in surprise, but supported the conversation in the High Tongue:
"Daor. Yn nyke zijot pikīban. «Gerosílas Valyrȳma», vāedroti Gaelroti se bonoti uēpoti." (No. But I read to her. "Farewell to Valyria", the songs of Gael and the old ones.)
Driftmark surely had its own copy of "Farewell to Valyria," and maybe not just one—Velaryons and Targaryens intermarried often and such gifts were common.
"Sȳz," (Good,) the Master of Dragons appreciated. "Kustiksa belmon rȳ zaldrīzome se zaldrīzāeksȳso." (It strengthens the bond between dragon and dragonlord.)
"Raqan nykēla," (I like it,) Laena shrugged. "Valyrio muño ēngos ñuhys issa." (High Valyrian is my mother tongue.)
"Se skore vāedar Gerosílas vaoresā?" (And which song of the Farewell do you prefer?)
"Vāedar Gaemo." (The Song of Gaemon.)
"Drīvose?" (Truly?)
"Ziry raqsa yno hae nekot. Ziry nedes issa, ziry jaelan ivīlībagon Vējose." (He loves me like [?]. He is brave, he wants to conquer Destiny.)
"Yn ziry āmāzissis va Zaldrīzdōrot, lo rhakitessis sōpnenka," (But he would have returned to Dragonstone if [conditions met],) the Prince objected and returned to the Common Tongue. "Has your grandmother not read the 'Farewell'?"
"No, she is too Andal for the High Tongue. But Laenor and I retold it all to her. Confusedly, of course, it turned out, but she understood the meaning."
"Then it must be translated into Andal," Aegon decided.
"Will you busy yourself with this in the intervals between battles?"
"Rather, I will busy myself with battles in the intervals between translation."
Laena chuckled and looked back. The black figure of Lady Jocelyn still sat on the bench where they had left her.
"Let us go, Prince," said the girl. "Grandmother's lower back aches from these benches."
"Certainly," Aegon hastened to agree and offered his hand, which was accepted much faster than the last time.
"Well," he thought. "Even if the rest of life is lived in such relations, it will not be bad."
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