Prince Aegon Targaryen
Aegon did not like the ruins. It seemed to him that the small fortress the Triarchy had erected on Bloodstone would become another Harrenhal, an epitaph of sorts to the entire rule of the Three Daughters on these islands, just as the giant castle itself served as a monument to the ambitions of the bloody kingdom of the Hoares. Reality was disappointing: the stone, as it turned out, was not so durable, and the heat of the flame of four dragons had almost completely melted it, turning the towers, already devoid of any elegance and beauty, into bent, twisted fingers reaching for the sky, melted like poorly made candles.
"So, size does matter," the Prince sighed, turning away from the architectural monstrosity. "Harrenhal looks better, perhaps because of its scale or because of the black stone. Have you not had occasion to see it yet?"
"No, I'm stuck in the capital," Jaegaer shrugged. "Although Harwin invited me once, but we are the King's men, you understand."
"I understand."
"Your Haratis should be sent here, My Prince," inserted Dennis. "Gods witness, this was a pile of shit before, and now it's impossible to live here at all. Let the architect do his best."
"Haratis is not mine, but Viserys's," Aegon corrected the knight. "But you are right, this will have to be either melted into the rock completely or broken and built anew. Well, to the Hells with it, let the masons have a headache."
Waving his hand, the Master of Dragons walked away from the cliff. By the end of the seventh month of the year 110, the Three Whores' remnants had been completely driven from Bloodstone and the surrounding islands, though not without difficulty. Even their commander, Craghas Drahar, had been captured; the Triarchy had made him their Prince-Admiral, granting almost limitless power over the sea for the benefit of the entire alliance, but he sat on the islands like a crab in a burrow and did not show himself at sea. Aegon suspected that this was not for naught—the combination of money and power must have turned the monster's head, and he was surely preparing to send his employers to the Seven Hells; to his misfortune, the Westerosi found him earlier, and the one who had managed to be nicknamed the Crabfeeder was now feeding them with himself.
Scarce had Drahar's crown disappeared into the waves of the tide than Daemon moved his headquarters to Bloodstone—Murky Haven (besides the foolish name) did not suit him too well as a main transit point, and on the whole was smaller in size. Jaegaer and Harwin joked that the war captivated their friend the Hand far more than any woman; it seemed war, fire, and blood occupied all his thoughts: with them he woke, with them he lived the day, astride Caraxes or on the ground with Dark Sister in hand, with them he went to sleep, and even in the night, as they said, he built the campaign plan. Such jokes were permitted to very few, and the first of them was Aegon, but he was the one who did not joke and did not laugh: the younger Prince knew better than all others what drove the elder.
If Daemon set a goal, even the Wall could not stop him. Aegon the Conqueror turned away from the false heirs of Valyria, who proudly considered themselves her daughters, and conquered Westeros. Daemon wanted to surpass him—is there a goal more ambitious and desirable than to repeat the feat of a great ancestor and arrange his own Conquest? After this, he would become for Rhaenyra a victor, a great champion, the Warrior himself and the Patron of Battle rolled into one—what signify an enemy fleet and the army of three Free Cities in comparison? Only ash and bones.
Caraxes's screech rang out from the heavens, and Aegon followed the flight of the Blood Wyrm, who had already begun to be called the Bloody, with a squint. The long body glided majestically over the bay, a couple of short beats of wings, and the dragon perched at the very edge of the cliff, sweeping away the remains of the fortress ruins with paws and tail. The melted ugly tower tilted and slowly disappeared over the edge; a couple of moments later a powerful splash rang out and Caraxes roared contentedly, as if the collapse was his little prank that had succeeded particularly well.
"There, no need to think," Aegon shrugged phlegmatically.
Daemon climbed out of the saddle and, patting the contentedly squinting dragon on the muzzle, approached his brother and cousin. The Valyrian armor fit him like a glove and, judging by enthusiastic reviews, was light as a silk tunic and strong as the hide of the Black Dread.
"A Valyrian with a Valyrian sword in Valyrian armor and astride a dragon," thought Aegon. "Against such a set, no one in the whole world has a chance. Only for the Freehold to rise from the ashes of the Doom remains."
"Did you decide to get rid of everything that reminds you of Drahar?" he inquired aloud.
"Cleared a place for a lighthouse," his brother smirked in response. "Or a watchtower."
"Or for a castle."
"The place is convenient, of course, but I would put it further, somewhere in those hills," Daemon waved his hand. "Up to the very mountains there isn't a single bump higher than them, besides, there are several springs there."
"Poisoned springs," Jaegaer grimaced; some of his men had managed to drink water from there, and then puked their guts out.
"The water has almost cleared already," the elder Prince shrugged. "I have already noted one spot. Do you not wish to take a walk?"
Aegon had no time to object before Daemon walked along the path already trodden on the stony ground, leaving him no choice. Exchanging glances with Jaegaer and rolling his eyes, the Master of Dragons hastened to follow. Catching up with his brother, the Prince inquired:
"Found something interesting at sea?"
"Oh yes," the other answered enthusiastically. "A squadron of Dornish galleys."
"Have you become versed in maritime affairs? Do you distinguish ships by hull shape?"
"I am versed in heraldry—it is hard not to recognize the Rhoynar sun on the sails. The bastards didn't even hide."
"Did you ask them what they were carrying? Soldiers or provisions?"
"Somehow didn't think to," Daemon supported the wit. "I was busy burning them, and amidst the screams you won't hear an answer, you know yourself."
"I know," Aegon nodded.
"But something must be done with the Dornish. We can burn and sink their ships as much as we like, but Prince Qoren will order another fleet from the Lyseni, and they will be only too glad to drive him into their debt."
"Ideally, we should visit Lys. Not necessarily capture it, like Lorath, just burn it. I don't think the citizens of the pillow houses will forgive Rogare the fires. No port—no shipyards, no shipyards—no fleet. Besides, it is worth taking one of the Whores out of the game, and the other two will tear each other's throats out."
"You are right, but Dorne must be punished," said the elder Prince with an air so resolute that Aegon had no doubts about the decision already made.
"Want to surpass the Conqueror? We will burn their army, sink the fleet, but the Dornish in their dunes and rocks will be even worse than these Myrish little snakes. Furthermore, our forces are not enough to capture all of Dorne, we will have to call banners in the Reach and, perhaps, even in the West, and that is time and money..."
"Do not worry, valonqar," Daemon smiled. "I have a couple of ideas. Better tell me, have you already thought of a gift for your bride?"
Caught off guard by the question, Aegon frowned; well, not only he knew how to abruptly change the course of a conversation.
"Viserys promised me a fief."
"That is his gift to you and your future children. And what will you give her?"
"Probably raid Mother's jewelry box."
"You mean, your jewelry box?" Daemon smirked. "You dragged everything to yourself, little thief."
There was nothing to object to this. Aegon had appropriated most of his mother and father's jewels for himself, but only because the other family members remained indifferent to them: Viserys had access to the entire impressive royal treasury, Daemon was cold to them; Aemma had her own box, which Rhaenyra inherited; Calla and Queen Alicent brought their own jewelry to House Targaryen, and Rhea Royce seemed not to wear them at all.
"In my jewelry box," the Prince pronounced expressively. "There are ornaments from all over Essos. I will pick something worthy."
"Her father is the Sea Snake, who went to Asshai itself. Do you think you will manage to impress her? By the way, we have arrived."
Discussing news, plans, and gifts, the Prince did not notice how they climbed a hillock. Behind them remained the sea, a semicircular bay, and smooth blackened rocks—all that remained of Drahar's castle; slightly below spread a small stony valley, one of many on this island, and ahead loomed mountains. At a respectful distance loomed Dennis, prudently not interfering in the brothers' conversation.
"Want to build a castle here?" Aegon drawled doubtfully.
"I think so. The bay is nearby, stone can be taken right here, slightly lower in the ravine a stream runs. Put up five or seven towers, stretch walls, a keep... And this half of the island will be under control."
"Walls, keep... Your architecture lacks Valyrian roots."
"Don't worry, I'll call that architect," Daemon laughed. "He'll have enough work here for the rest of his life: put a castle on every island, or even more than one, towers, lighthouses, basilicas..."
"I see you are serious," the Prince chuckled. "Thinking of making a more pleasant version of the Iron Islands out of the Stepstones?"
"More importantly, absolutely and unconditionally loyal," his brother became serious in an instant; "Loyal to whom?"—the thought flew through Aegon's head like a swift-winged dragon. "We will plug the Narrow Sea and get rich on trade."
"Sounds painfully familiar. Will you not remind me how it ended for those who nested here before?"
"Nonsense," Daemon snorted. "The Triarchy had no dragons, and they held on here only thanks to Drahar and Lord Corlys's pride."
"Then we need to thank the Martells for breaking that pride," Aegon remarked and glanced at the cloudless sky; judging by letters from the Citadel, the Maesters believed summer was coming to an end, but the sun had clearly been forgotten to be warned about it. "I want to drink. Where, you say, is that stream?"
Daemon waved vaguely somewhere to the left, clearly absorbed in the construction of an imaginary castle, future conquests, and great achievements. Aegon sighed and moved down the slope. Walking was not too comfortable: the stones were not too reliable, slipping from under feet time and again, so the cane proved its usefulness once more.
"Let's hope I don't break my legs again here," the Prince muttered under his breath, once again waving his arms awkwardly to keep his balance.
Finally, the slope ended, and Aegon once again thanked the gods for relieving him of pain, otherwise the descent would definitely have ended in a fall. He found himself at the bottom of that very ravine his brother spoke of; along a bed strewn with fine stone chips, a small stream hurriedly ran with water transparent as a tear and cold even to the look. Approaching closer, the Prince thoughtfully tilted his head to the side.
Poisoned? By the look, definitely not, but who said that for this one needs to pile decomposing corpses into the spring? On the other hand, Essosi knew a thousand and fourteen poisons, and many of them had neither taste, nor color, nor smell. But for such a fast stream, it would require pouring a barrel of poison into it hourly, and even that would be little.
"What a paranoid you've become," the Prince reproached himself, and carefully knelt at the very water's edge.
The water indeed turned out to be icy: his hands instantly went numb, and his teeth clenched from pain. Aegon bravely took a couple of generous gulps but could not force himself to scoop again. Snorting and wiping himself, he heard with the edge of his ear how pebbles crunched.
"You are right, Daemon," the Master of Dragons said without turning. "If streams were poisoned, much water has flowed since then. The castle, by the way..."
He had no time to admit that his brother's idea was quite good before his left leg was seared by sharp pain. From surprise, Aegon gasped and cursed, and only then looked at the crossbow bolt, appearing out of nowhere in his thigh. His hand reached for the shaft of its own accord, when suddenly the first correct thought stung his brain: someone was shooting at him.
Raising his gaze, Aegon saw a pirate rushing at him with a crooked sword at the ready; somewhere behind his back, a crossbowman frantically cranked the windlass, preparing to shoot again. The Prince did not have time to fully realize the fact of the attack on his person, but his hand already clicked the mechanism of the cane of its own accord, extracting the Valyrian Candle from the white weirwood sheath. Time was barely enough: he only managed to raise the blade when the enemy blow fell upon him.
The bastard's steel was sound—Dornish, if not Qohorik—and it met the Valyrian sword with dignity, receiving only a small notch on the blade. The mercenary hissed viciously, cursed in Myrish, and immediately recoiled, fearing a return lunge. In vain. Aegon knew that the bloody frenzy he fell into in Mantarys would not happen: then Balerion himself held the sword with his hands, but that was on the threshold of his sanctuary, and here the gods, even if they heard his prayer, would not be able to intervene.
Fighting on knees is impossible, but scarce did Aegon try to stand when hellish pain, which he did not remember since that ill-fated day on the stairs in the courtyard of the Red Keep, washed over him in an icy wave. The left leg instantly became incredibly, unliftably heavy, as if alien. The thick heel of the right boot, which was supposed to compensate for the lopsidedness, only hindered now; the attempt to lean on the right leg resulted in the ankle treacherously twisting, and the Prince collapsed onto the pebbles again.
However, precisely this saved him from the next mortal blow. The Myrishman's sword met the Candle again, but this time the enemy blade, instead of bouncing off with another notch or catching on the Valyrian steel, slid down to the handle by inertia. Were it an ordinary sword, the guard would have taken the blow, but the Valyrian Candle did not have one—on a hidden blade it would be too noticeable. The bone figure of a dragon saved Aegon's fingers, but it also deflected the enemy blade slightly to the side, and all the remaining force of the blow fell on the arm.
If the pain after the crossbow bolt hit was comparable to an icy wave, then now from shoulder to elbow the left arm was seared by flame hotter than dragonfire. Something grated nastily—and the inner maester with three silver links grimly noted that the blade had scratched the bone.
The Valyrian Candle fell onto the stones with a doomed ring. Scarce had this echo faded when a foreign boot flew into Aegon's chest, knocking the wind out of the Prince. In the next instant, he saw only the cloudless, naively blue sky. Thoughts flashed through his head simultaneously and one after another:
"Imandūljās, Balerios, qringōntan"(Forgive me, Balerion, I failed).
"Well, at least there is sun."
"A shame, after all."
"Do brides wear mourning for dead grooms?"
However, the Myrishman was in no hurry to deliver the last, final, mortal blow. Instead, sounds of some struggle reached Aegon, Myrish cursing rang out again, and the clang of steel on steel. The brief reprieve could have been used to offer a short prayer to the Lord of Death, but the Prince was always curious and, gathering the last of his strength, he put it into turning his head.
Around the Myrishman danced a black silhouette with a white plume, in which the Master of Dragons did not immediately recognize his brother. Daemon took a step back—and the enemy blade missed by a mere span; Daemon took a step forward, threw up his hand with Dark Sister in some complex feint—and the enemy blade flew somewhere to the side. In the very next instant, the enemy head followed.
Paying no attention either to the corpse or the crossbowman who should have been sitting higher (unless he was dealt with in passing), Daemon rushed to him. Some terrible sound tore from his brother's throat: not a howl, not a roar, in which Aegon did not immediately discern Valyrian curses with the choicest profanity.
"Just you try to die! Do you hear, valonqar?!"
. . . . .
Prince Daemon Targaryen
The Sea of Myrth spread beneath the ruby wings of Caraxes like a blue-green expanse. Below, there were only small whitecaps of foam raised by the western wind; as if out of spite, not a single convoy, not a single carrack, galley, or longship was to be met—nay, not even fishing skiffs were to be seen.
"Could they have learned of it in time?" a sudden thought stung Daemon. "Nay, they should not have. Unless they decided to hide just in case, cowardly degenerates. Whoresons..."
The accursed gods had decided to jest once more at the expense of the sons of Baelon Targaryen: Daemon's carelessness had nearly cost his younger brother his life for the second time. Though they were also to blame, especially himself: after all, he had pored over The Art of Victory and the Stratagems of Narareon. Narareon himself wrote that one must not deem the enemy an insignificant opponent beforehand, that by assuming the worst of the foe, one might avoid his trap.
Daemon had underestimated the treachery of the Three Whores' men, although—the Prince managed to look the ugly truth in the face—their move was quite logical. Dragons were their main weapon, but a man cannot kill a dragon, unlike its rider. Sooner or later, the Myrish or Tyroshi would have attempted to rid themselves of one of them; and it had to come to pass that the bloody price for Daemon's carelessness would be paid once more by his younger brother...
When he and Dennis dragged Aegon into his tent, he had already lost consciousness from pain and blood loss. Seven Maesters were rounded up to fight for the Prince's life—more than half of all that were on Bloodstone. They ushered the Hand out from behind the flap without any fear of his name or reputation, and he was glad to flee. Seeing no path before him and shouldering aside foolish lords and worthless knights with disgustingly concerned mugs, he reached Caraxes, to whom the rider's mood had transferred, and, without a word to anyone, climbed into the saddle. Daemon had already put two bastards to rest; another, a reserve crossbowman lying in ambush, had his head taken off by Greyhead as he rushed to the noise, but a whole city of such remained...
The Bloody Wyrm (Daemon liked his dragon's new moniker more than the old) rose into the air with a furious, bubbling roar, frightening all the birds not only on Bloodstone, which had now truly earned its name, but on the neighboring islands as well. No one followed him: Rhaenys and Meleys had flown further south in the morning, and Seasmoke trailed after Vermithor, who aimlessly cut circles over the camp and roared anxiously from time to time.
Well, it was even better so.
They had not spent an hour in the air before Daemon managed to curb his fear, guilt, and anger, turning them into a searingly icy and blindingly fiery fury. He had a plan, too. The Free City of Myr knew how to spill its own blood and that of others; now the time had come for it to become acquainted with flame as well. Viserys, of course, had said something about the impermissibility of the total destruction of even a single Whore, claiming it would harm trade and neighbors would look askance at them, but Viserys was not with them on Bloodstone when Myrish bastards tried to kill Aegon, and Viserys did not have Balerion. Had he been with the Black Dread in the Stepstones, he would have done exactly the same.
When the domes of the city sparkled on the horizon in the rays of the sun dipping to the west, Daemon did not rise higher—there was no reason to hide. The army, mercenaries, and fleet held no terror for him, and he would disable the scorpions first of all, before they could take aim at him.
Now the first ship appeared beneath him; they had undoubtedly been spotted, but it was too late. The Prince had scarce time to direct the saddle handles downward when Caraxes, letting out a triumphant shriek, folded his wings of his own accord and rushed toward the water's surface. Sailors hastily began to come about, but a dragon is faster than the wind and far faster than a man. The Myrish had no time to do anything before a stream of dragonfire practically cut their galley in half—and that was it, the wounded prey could not be saved.
Tightening the reins once more, Daemon returned the Bloody Wyrm to his former altitude. Ahead, in the port of the Free City of Myr, the tocsin beat anxiously. The Prince's lips stretched of their own accord into a contemptuous smirk: let them, let them prepare, let them loose their arrows, let them try to save themselves. Balerion be my witness, they will fail. Meraxes be my witness, they have deprived themselves of mercy. Vhagar be my witness, they have earned this end.
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