Prince Aegon Targaryen
Aegon nudged a pebble with his cane, and it, skipping off the earth a pair of times, was lost amidst the grass. The forest clearing among the hills of eastern Tarth proved not so small as he remembered, though mayhaps the matter lay in the fact that the last (and only) time, he had looked upon it through the eyes of Caraxes. There was nothing remarkable about the clearing: of the camp of Lord Tarth's men, only half-rotted logs and stones bordering fire pits remained. The scorch mark where the Blood Wyrm had roasted and devoured five sheep in his flame was overgrown with weeds and had become quite indistinguishable.
On Tarth, the army gathered in the Crownlands awaited the lagging ships, stockpiled provender and supplies—in a word, prepared for full entry into the war. Campaign plans had already been drawn up, debated, amended, and approved; lords, knights, and common soldiers anticipated battles in which they would win wealth, glory, and titles; that the reward might be death, none thought on now. Daemon champed at the bit most of all—his elder brother managed to simultaneously dream of war and plan it soberly and prudently. While still in King's Landing, he had demanded from Aegon as full a description as possible of his participation in the Lorathi War, only to return again and again with this or that question, to which Aegon had to seek the answer not only in his own experience but in the experience of the ancients—the iron link of the Citadel for the study of the art of war proved quite handy.
Any day now, the ships of the royal fleet were to depart the sapphire harbors beneath the walls of Evenfall Hall, and not without difficulty did Aegon manage to persuade his brother to distract himself for at least half a day and fly to the site of Uncle Aemon's demise. Daemon, though grumbling that there were weightier matters, agreed nonetheless, and the Master of Dragons fully allowed that the decisive factor was the desire of Caraxes, who undoubtedly remembered what had befallen on this island.
They flew as a foursome: without guardsmen (Viserys had sent the Cargyll brothers with Daemon, by which he nearly insulted him) and without Dennis (the sworn shield grumbled and threatened with ghostly Myrish remnants, but was forced to swallow the slight). The Blood Wyrm and the Bronze Fury fit into the clearing with difficulty, toppling several trees at the forest edge and exchanging petty, angry growls if one brushed the other with a wing. Having walked the edge of the wood in silence for a time, the brothers converged again near one abandoned fire pit.
"So, it is here that he perished?" spoke Daemon.
"Aye, somewhere here," Aegon nodded, attempting to recall where Uncle Aemon had stood at the moment the Myrish crossbow bolt flew into his neck. It went poorly, though it seemed to the Prince he would always remember it: it turns out eighteen years and a different point of view greatly distorted perception.
"We must tell Viserys to raise an obelisk here, like on the Field of Fire. Let the Tarths open their purses; in the end, Uncle died through their fault."
Steadying the scabbard of Dark Sister, Daemon sat upon a log where Lord Cameron's warriors had sat before, and with a squint surveyed the edge of the forest where Caraxes trampled. The dragon evidently remembered both the place and the events: his long neck arched like a bow, and his wedge-shaped snout nigh furrowed the earth, seeking traces long vanished beneath rains and winds; from time to time a low, bubbling growl rang out, so sorrowful that Aegon's heart bled. As Viserys's example had shown, the loss of a dragon is an irreparable loss for a rider; as Caraxes's example showed, the loss of a rider is a trauma for a dragon that remains acute even after long years, even with another rider.
"Will you not even ask of anything?" Daemon inquired quietly.
"And of what is there to speak, if all is clear as it is?" the Prince answered question with question. "I asked you not to play with Rhaenyra, but you did not hearken to me."
"I gave not a single cause..."
"Oh, aye!" Aegon drawled sarcastically. "You gave not a single cause when you lingered with her on Dragonstone for more than a month, gave no cause appearing arm-in-arm with her at the wedding in black, gave no cause when you refused the most profitable marriage for yourself! Who can stand higher than Laena Velaryon? Only the Princess—and lo, three dragons, a fleet, and untold riches are sent to the Seven Hells that you might marry Rhaenyra! I cannot understand but one thing: why have you not asked for her hand yet?"
Daemon fell silent; one could hear the wind wandering the forest, Vermithor snuffling as he dozed in the sun, Caraxes crunching branches and hooting sadly, commemorating the Pale Prince.
"I will give her a gift. I will throw a victory at her feet, the greatest victory since the Conquest."
"Hardly can a victory over a bunch of pirates lay claim to such a loud name," the Master of Dragons remarked sarcastically.
"We shall see," answered the elder brother, rising and brushing himself off. "You say Balerion is the Patron of Battle?"
"And the Lord of Death, only..."
"Jemot kīvio ñuhe tepan ondoso perzys se ānogar, jemot kīvio ñuhe tepan ondoso Ērintomy Vīlībāzmo, pōnta kessa." (To you I pledge my word by fire and blood, to you I pledge my word by the Victory of Battle, it shall be so.)
. . . . . .
Ser Dennis Greyhead
The Stepstones immediately reminded Dennis of his native Dragonstone: the same rocky and inhospitable shores, the same mists blanketing the mountain slopes and countless bays with a soft cover; since the Lord of the Tides began his war, which had now become the war of all the Seven Kingdoms, another common feature had been added: dragons. The soldiers of the Royal House, like the Velaryon ones, had long grown accustomed to the fact that a majestic roar or the whistle of air sliced by wings might sound overhead, but the Andals from the Stormlands or Riverlands flinched in fear time and again, muttering through their teeth about the Seven Hells and someone's mother.
The royal army arrived very opportunely: the Lord Admiral, who at one time controlled almost half of all the accursed islands, had managed to lose all but a single one, and that only because it was closer than the rest to Westeros. The local Rhoynar fishermen, who had barely figured out how to put on breeches, had not thought to give the island a name; Velaryon sailors, without much thought, nicknamed it Murky Haven because of the color of the water in the narrow bay that almost cut the island in two. Now, above one of the fishing villages standing at the furthest end of this long inlet, banners fluttered on a hill: the black standard with the red dragon of the Targaryens, slightly lower flew the turquoise banner of the Velaryons with their silver seahorse, and the standards of other houses that had answered the call of the Prince Hand.
Under these banners, a real town grew day by day—true, only of tents for now—in which something constantly clanked, rang, burned, and smoked, in which someone constantly cursed, laughed, and gave orders. Under the Velaryons, the camp had managed to be enclosed by a rampart and palisade, for the construction of which a puny forest nearby had to be exterminated, but this seemed insufficient to the Prince Hand, and now the Rhoynar fishermen became masons as well: with their help, the cliffs parted with their stone, which went to the construction of watchtowers and houses, somewhat more solid and comfortable than tents and local hovels.
Prince Aegon desired the latter most of all, recalling that he disliked the war with Lorath not only because of Vermithor's injury but also because of camp life.
"Like on the Norvoshi border," his suzerain grumbled at night, tossing and turning on a camp bed, which, of course, was much harder than the featherbeds of the Red Keep, Dragonstone, and even Duskendale.
"On the Norvoshi border, you soaked for over an hour in a tub of boiling water after battle," his sworn shield once chided him. "And here you haven't even been washed of blood yet. You've gone soft, My Prince, truly soft. How did we travel through Essos with you?"
"We traveled poorly."
"From one featherbed to another?" Dennis suggested, after which he was sent to the Seven Hells.
Neither the fish served by the Rhoynar in the most varied forms nor the lack of time for reading added to the Prince's good mood—only Aegon the Clubfoot could go to war with two chests packed to the brim with books and scrolls.
Their entire day was scheduled from dawn to dusk. The whole camp began to wake up even before the sun showed on the horizon, and sleeping longer than the hour of the nightingale in the very heart of a tent city packed with soldiers was simply impossible. For the next couple of hours, the suzerain hissed like a dragon, spat poison, and cursed everyone for disturbing his sleep; Aegon did not wish to go to bed like everyone else at sunset or at least soon after, and did not want to adjust. As a result, Dennis bravely took upon himself the entire squall of morning grumbling, quite worthy of Archmaester Vaegon: the bath, shaving, breakfast seasoned with complaints about the injustice of existence and sarcasms, each of which was the size of Balerion, may the Lord of Death give him rest. Naturally, the knight himself did not remain a meek listener, and the morning sparring became his warm-up even before he took a sword in hand. Hardly did other lords and knights notice his efforts, but Dennis wanted to believe that at least the Prince Hand realized what it cost to make a human out of his brother in the morning, rather than a dragon capable of biting off the interlocutor's head.
When morning and the Prince managed to reconcile with each other's existence, the time for war councils approached. First, Prince Daemon gathered his own "Small Council" in his tent, consisting of the Master of Dragons, the Lord Admiral, his wife, Lord Edwin Tarth, and Ser Elston Tully: Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys were adult dragonriders, the Lord of the Tides and the Lord of Tarth tried to command the fleet jointly, and Lord Tully's heir stood at the head of the army. From what Dennis heard from behind the tent flap, they discussed the most varied issues: from the quality of fish supplied by the Rhoynar (Lord Velaryon feared they were poisoning it) and the qualities of Rhoynar fisherwomen (Prince Aegon was squeamish, but Ser Elston found them quite lively in bed) to how cities and fortresses should be besieged, and whether it should be done at all.
Then other lords and ship captains were invited to the council, given the appearance of participation in decision-making, although it was no secret to anyone that the last word always remained with the Hand. Prince Daemon tolerated neither bazaar bargaining nor street clamor: those fond of arguing and showing their own importance were led out by guardsmen, and a couple of times Dennis had to do this as well; in fairness, the lords learned quickly, and the stern faces of white cloaks and the sworn shield behind the chairs of the two princes sometimes spoke much more eloquently than shouts. When all words were said, extra faces were escorted out, and the second "Small Council" remained to discuss particulars and make decisions. Sometimes they were joined by the younger brothers of the Lord of the Tides and Ser Elston, or Lord Estermont and some Stormlanders.
The council ended about three hours before noon, and Dennis with his Prince went to the cliffs rising above the bay, where the dragons had arranged a temporary lair for themselves. Of course, it could not compare with the inhabited Dragonstone, nor with the Lairs in the capital or on Driftmark: the four of them were cramped on the ledges, and it happened that Meleys and Caraxes began to quarrel grumpily when someone stepped on someone's tail or ate someone else's sheep. Vermithor, perhaps, fared the worst of all. Seasmoke, Ser Laenor's dragon, instantly recognized his father in him and was ready to follow him everywhere. The adult dragon was somewhat irritated by the youngster's attention, but he bravely endured his fussing at his side, just as the princes endured the enthusiastic heir of Driftmark, confident that now they would conquer all of Essos. However, this did not mean that the pesky winged offspring was not barked at and pushed away with paws.
A true salvation for Vermithor and the Prince (and if you think about it, for the entire army too) was Prince Daemon's decision to keep at least one dragon in the air constantly, at any time of day or night. Each beast was saddled round the clock so that they could take off at any moment; the harness and saddle added to their discomfort, and this did not make them more compliant, and only the sky and the rider's company reconciled them with military life.
When Aegon took to the air, relieving Ser Laenor, Dennis had several hours of free time, although hardly can a knight be free at war.
His attention was sought by the Captain of the Dragon Watch, the younger son of Dragonstone's Castellan; the green youth had not managed to serve as a Dragonkeeper for even two months before receiving his first rank and first appointment, and now he was catastrophically afraid of screwing up. Valarr Teltaris worried that Seasmoke had not regurgitated bones in the morning, that Meleys seemed sad, that Caraxes was scratching himself against the rocks, and Vermithor snored too loudly at night. On every such question, he deemed it necessary to consult with Ser Dennis Greyhead, for he too had once been a Dragonkeeper, and then for so many years attended the person of the Master of Dragons himself—surely he must know for certain. And Ser Dennis, with a sigh, explained to the poor fellow, from whom too much was expected, that only young dragons regurgitate bones, and Seasmoke had already grown up, that Meleys was sad because she was bored without work, that all dragons scratch against rocks to get rid of old scales, and that all dragons snore.
If he managed to escape young Teltaris relatively quickly, then no sooner did the knight descend into the camp than he was lured into their company by knights from the Gold Cloaks who had gone to war with their Prince. The ringleaders were Ser Jaegaer and Ser Harwin, who in the Seven Hells saw the difference between origins, if you were anointed with seven oils and the King himself touched your shoulders with a sword, and their company. In fairness, Ser Jaegaer was himself a bastard of dragon blood, and the other knights looked not so much at Dennis himself as at his sword—in Westeros, not every lord could boast a Valyrian blade. The fact that he attended the Prince's person also played a role here, but the sworn shield made it a rule not to promise anyone anything, and paid no attention to hints and promises.
Besides the captains of the Gold Cloaks, Dennis became quite close with Ser Joffrey Lonmouth. The knight was the younger son of one of the minor bannermen of the Baratheons and, having barely received his spurs, left his father's house in search of service, which he found on Driftmark—Lord Corlys made him the sworn shield of his son. Ser Joffrey had not turned twenty, he was even younger than Dennis when Prince Baelon, may Balerion receive his death, appointed him to his crippled son. Lonmouth had not managed to serve his suzerain even a year when the war began, but it was worth admitting that he coped with his duty—Laenor was whole and almost unharmed, save for a couple of trifling scars.
Somehow the two sworn shields got to talking and, to their own surprise, discovered that identical service to dragon blood was an excellent reason for friendship. Gossip and complaints about capricious suzerains followed the elder protector's advice to the younger (both knights decided that local fisherwomen were quite worthy of attention), and then training duels—here Dennis himself had to be convinced that the Lord Admiral had not erred in his choice, and a Valyrian blade in hand is not yet a guarantee of victory. However, Lonmouth also had something to strive for.
After another duel, Dennis said to his friend, placing a training sword to his neck:
"Dead."
Joffrey puffed and panted tensely for a few moments, but surrendered nonetheless, admitting defeat. The Admiral's heir, observing the fight, chided his knight:
"Again. Good thing Father doesn't see this, otherwise he would start doubting his choice."
"Do not be so strict with Ser Joffrey, My Lord," Dennis interceded for his friend; he called his suzerain's future brother-in-law "My Lord," although the lad was only sixteen and had barely received his spurs, but he was a dragonrider and the son of the Queen Who Never Was, so it was not superfluous. "In every defeat lies the key to future victory, so I am helping him in a way."
"You mean to say you are doing me a service? Saving my arse?" Velaryon smirked.
"If you wish, I am doing a service to Prince Aegon. Hardly will it please him if some Tyroshi kicks his bride's brother's arse."
Thus, in training, friendly chatter, visits to Rhoynar fisherwomen, and petty affairs, days passed in anticipation of the leisurely Storm lords arriving in the Stepstones. Prince Aegon descended from the heavens at sunset, when the sun sinking into the Dornish Sea illuminated the scales and membranes of the landing Vermithor, and he became like a sparkling jewel. By this time, he was already awaited in the Hand's tent for supper; at the table, Prince Daemon gathered a very narrow circle: his brother and the captains of the Gold Cloaks. Sometimes the Velaryons, the Tully brothers, Lord Tarth, and someone else from the nobility kept them company.
At the entrance to the tent, the Cargyll twins stood guard, inside—Ser Dennis and Ser Joffrey. The very first time, young Lonmouth looked at the lord's table with hungry eyes, and then the next day Dennis reprimanded him:
"On Driftmark your Laenor might seat you at his table, but here, since you swore an oath, it means you must serve. You grab a bite somewhere on the way—you need to be smarter."
Joffrey thanked him for the advice, but at the next supper, the situation repeated itself. Dennis considered it beneath his dignity to make another remark, but in the evening, at his own meal, he did not deny himself the pleasure of laughing at the knight from the Stormlands.
"You simply didn't see his eyes, My Prince!"
"I didn't see," Aegon answered without looking up from his papers and inkwell. "I don't have eyes in the back of my head."
"By the gods, he looks like a dog begging for a piece of meat. Had I been sitting at the table, I would have given him some without fail, for I pity the starving man. Does your brother-in-law not feed him, or what?"
"Laenor is not my brother-in-law yet."
"But some kind of nephew," the knight shrugged, sucking on pork ribs.
"Better tell me how it sounds," the Prince turned to him with a written sheet in his hand and recited. "'Let us not rejoice now, how shall we sing praise now'?"
"And who are they praising?"
"This is the lament of the Old Blood of Volantis from the 'Song of Gaemon'. They learned of the doom of Valyria and now mourn it."
"So say it directly," the knight advised, gathering gravy with a crust of bread.
"I cannot, it follows from the previous verse."
"Then say not 'how', but 'to whom'."
The Prince frowned and, moving his lips, reread what was written to himself, after which he chuckled:
"And true, it is better so. It seems they didn't teach you in the Citadel for naught."
"It's not the Maesters' fault here," Dennis chuckled. "But you and your libraries."
"Well, if I leave behind at least one person capable of understanding the beauty of Lord Aenar's creation, then I will not have lived my life in vain," Aegon declared with aplomb, and returned to his books again.
Over the years of service to the younger Prince, the sworn shield had become accustomed to the fact that he burned simply an unthinkable number of candles; even having gone to war, the suzerain remained true to himself, and until deep into the night, it was light as day in his tent. Guests wandering in sometimes (the same Jaegaer or Ser Laenor) warned him in the manner of polite conversation that this was dangerous, but it was easier to convince Vermithor to eat cabbage than to persuade Prince Aegon to spend less time on books. In Dennis's opinion, herein lay the reason for the Master of Dragons' bad mood in the mornings, but he took any hints as a personal insult and his sarcasms became ever sharper.
After the conversation about starving sworn shields and poetry, Aegon, as always, stayed up late, and at dawn, even before Dennis himself woke up, Prince Daemon honored them with his presence.
"You'll sleep through the whole war," he announced loudly instead of a greeting.
The knight, who had slept lightly since his service as a Dragonkeeper, and during the journey through Essos had honed the skill of jumping up at any rustle, woke up already standing. His suzerain was unimpressed by the appearance of his elder brother. The Hand walked across the entire tent to Aegon's low camp bed, picked up the cane from the carpet, and unceremoniously poked the Prince right in the face with it.
"What in the Seven Hells?.." the suzerain inquired in a sleepy voice.
"Tomorrow we storm Bloodstone."
"If we storm it tomorrow, then why did you wake me at such an early hour?"
The younger Prince tried to push away the pesky cane, which had turned against its master, but fell into a trap: Daemon allowed him to grab it, after which he yanked it towards himself. Aegon, not expecting such treachery, sat up in bed like a rag doll with a half-undone silver braid and a face so sullen that another would have called the Kingsguard. However, the knight and Daemon knew the clubfooted semi-maester too well to take the morning grumbling at face value. The elder of the princes smirked boldly, as those smirk who know they will deliver excellent news.
"Before the assault, we must burn the fleet. I saw their ships. Get ready."
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