Prince Aegon Targaryen
Laena Velaryon had proven a diverting and interesting companion, and furthermore—why hide the truth—a most comely one. Tall and pale-skinned as he was himself, the Pearl of Driftmark possessed lilac eyes of striking beauty, the likes of which Aegon had seen in none of his kin. To speak candidly, he even felt an involuntary envy toward such a perfect combination of Valyrian features; the Prince himself had inherited bright green eyes from his mother. In childhood, he had been proud of them, yet now he desired to have those same violet eyes. To be sure, a husband ought not eclipse the beauty of his wife, yet he wished to be her equal...
They had agreed to depart Estermont on the morn of the second day of the tenth month of the year 110, yet each was headed in a different direction: he to the east, to the walls of Tyrosh, and she to the northwest, to the capital, to congratulate the royal couple on the birth of their son on behalf of House Velaryon. That, however, was but the official version; in truth, Aegon, having listened to Daemon's grumbling regarding a miserable Rhaenyra surely abandoned by all at court, had asked his betrothed to check upon his niece and, should the opportunity arise, invite her to Driftmark. Rhaenyra, in her distressed state, might well work some mischief, and the uncles capable of curbing her were far away.
Lady Sabitha Estermont herself came out to bid them farewell, with Maester Lennart and all her household. Aegon thanked the former for her hospitality and the latter for setting him on his feet. Lady Sabitha grew sentimental and handed over a letter for her lord husband, a heavy leather envelope that no raven could have lifted. Aegon suspected it contained not only a report on the state of the ancestral lands and the lamentations of a loving wife, but also an injunction to take more spoils from the battle, so that it might not be shameful to invite the distant kin—to whom the royal house itself would soon be added.
Lady Laena, like her mother, preferred black flight leathers, which, it must be admitted, only emphasized her figure.
"Have you already decided where you shall stop?" Aegon inquired in a courtly tone, drawing closer.
"Nay," the maid smiled lightheartedly, tossing her mane of silver curls.
"Storm's End would suit best."
"'Tis too near—we shall reach it in but a few hours."
"Then you shall have to spend the night in the midst of the Kingswood," the Prince reminded her.
"It pleases me that you fret so over where I shall spend the night, but whilst you have not yet become my lord husband, I may decide for myself where I shall fare," she reminded him coquettishly.
At that moment, Vermithor desired to spread his wings, and the dragon-riders were covered by a bronze tent, partitioning them from the rest of the world. Aegon, yielding to an impulse, wasted no time; catching Laena by the hand, he drew her to him and kissed her. It lasted but a few moments and, when the canopy of the dragon's wing above them vanished, they simply stood half a step from one another.
"I am not yet your husband, so it seems I ought not have done that either," Aegon remarked in the same tone.
"Then I have more reason to desire your return," Laena answered and pecked him on the cheek. "Good fortune, my Prince."
With those words, she turned and headed toward Silverwing. Watching her go, Aegon finally concluded that he had been wrong to be stubborn when Otto Hightower had first proposed the match with Laena. It was unpleasant to admit the former Hand was right, yet these thoughts fled the Prince's head almost immediately as he turned his attention to his own dragon.
The flight passed in a somber and sad mood: it was a pity to fly from Estermont, though the Prince and his dragon hardly pined for the windy island, devoid of Dragonstone's charm, or the somewhat impoverished castle of the Estermonts. Vermithor's distress was understandable—he loathed parting from Silverwing—but for the first time, his rider shared his emotions.
The Westerosi had seized half the island on which Tyrosh stood in less than a fortnight, yet one could hardly expect the same speed from the remaining half, which included the Free City itself, its suburbs, and its fortresses. To speak candidly, Aegon doubted that the task set by Daemon—to take the city, not ruins—could be fulfilled at all, with dragons or without. He himself already had a direct understanding of what war and siege were; furthermore, the iron link for warcraft had been given to him at the Citadel for good reason, and thus he saw but one way: a long siege, exhausting for all. In that case, the Prince was not ready to vouch for what would end sooner: the Tyroshi stores or his elder brother's patience.
Daemon had placed his headquarters in the east of the island, on the shore of the narrow strait separating the last "stone" of the Stepstones from Essos. The lands on that side also belonged to Free Tyrosh, yet even that, as it turned out, had already passed into history: on both shores, the black banner with the red dragon of the Targaryens fluttered.
"When did he find the time?" Aegon snorted, directing Vermithor toward the largest gathering of standards on the island.
Here, a city of tents had grown around a small port that must have served the crossing of the strait. Instead of the filthy and low hovels of Rhoynish fishermen from other islands of the Stepstones, sturdy stone houses were being built here, and Daemon had evidently decided to settle in. While the Bronze Fury (Vermithor) made his traditional circuit over the area, knights and common soldiers greeted him from the ground, joyfully brandishing swords, spears, and the Gods know what else; their cries did not reach the rider, but their content was not hard to guess: the anticipation of a swift triumph already hung in the air.
A suitable place for landing was found at some distance from the town; here and there black scorch marks were visible, marking the places of dragon meals, and beneath the slope of a hill, a slumbering Caraxes was discovered. Sensing the approach of his kin, the Blood Wyrm raised his head and gave a welcoming snarl. Vermithor descended upon the crest of the hillock with little grace: the slope settled and partially crumbled under his weight, such that the landing was not as majestic as the beast itself desired. To the sound of his disgruntled growling, Dennis, unbuckling from the saddle, remarked:
"How he loves to show himself off! With such airs, he ought to perform with mummers."
"A dragon on a stage?" Aegon wondered. "'Tis not even funny."
"Who knows these old Valyrians," the sworn shield shrugged in reply. "Mayhaps they had such things?"
The Maester-half of the Prince immediately tossed up several counterarguments regarding architectural and written evidence of such performances, but, fortunately, his other half managed to recognize knightly humor in time. Aegon began to climb down from the saddle and threw back with a smirk:
"And if they did not, then all the better. Our Vermithor shall be the first!"
At the foot of the hill, one of the twin guardsmen already awaited them, accompanied by a pair of squires holding horses by the reins. Drawing closer, the Prince recognized his sworn friends in the matured boys: Jerrel Bracken and Samwell Blackwood. Both had shot up, broadened in the shoulders, and, most surprisingly, had learned to endure each other's company. Truly they say that others' children grow faster than one's own, Aegon marveled, not yet burdened by them. Naturally, the rivermen had grown earlier; the Prince simply had not paid it heed.
"My Prince," the White Cloak greeted him.
"Good day, Ser Erryk," Aegon guessed almost at random; Ser Arryk scowled less, and this one looked as though he had been tormented by a week's constipation.
"Prince Daemon awaits you," so, he had not missed.
The knight stepped aside, clearing the way to the horses. The Prince grimaced.
"From saddle to saddle? I should prefer to stretch my legs."
"Prince Daemon left clear instructions," Bracken intervened. "Give you a horse and escort you to him."
"So, he trusts not my legs?"
"I should not trust them either, my Prince," Dennis broke in. "They often fail you."
The Prince snorted, but obediently approached the stallion eyeing him. Tucking his cane into his belt and recalling old tricks, he mounted the saddle and gave the horse spurs. The others set off after him.
To reach the city itself, they had to ride through its suburbs, which had grown significantly due to the pavilions and tents. Using his authority as Hand and the fact that Viserys deemed the war the business of those who went to it, Daemon had summoned some four thousand more men over the past several months. Of course, they too required wages, and Lord Beesbury surely ground his teeth, yet the treasury authorized new expenses time and again. Noticing several variegated banners with lions amidst the forest of new standards, Aegon inquired of Cargill:
"Did the Lannisters grow generous at last and send reinforcements?"
"Alas, my Prince. 'Tis all the lion-offspring: Lannetts, Lantells, Lannis, and other Lances, and mostly younger sons and bastards at that."
"And yet a whole army has gathered. Dragonseed ought to be just as numerous, so where is it?"
"While the lions were yet yawning, we already held your standard, my Prince," Dennis declared with aplomb.
Along the way, they were greeted by knights and common soldiers, waving to the Prince and shouting his praises.
"I knew not I was so popular," Aegon remarked, not without surprise.
"Rumors have long walked the camp that the war shall end when the Bronze Fury (Vermithor) returns to the line," the guardsman answered. "Prince Daemon also seemed to wait for your return."
"And what ought we to do with Vermithor? Kick in the gates of Tyrosh together?"
"I cannot say, my Prince. Prince Daemon discusses matters of strategy with his counselors."
The Master of Dragons snorted and turned away. Daemon said he needed the city, not its ruins, which meant Vermithor could aid only with his fearsome presence in the heavens.
The Tyroshi port city proved colorful but unassuming: houses of two or three stories were whitewashed and then painted with intricate multicolored patterns, in which the Old Valyrian fire ornament was vaguely discerned; its streets, apparently, had originally wound as they pleased, but were later straightened, which was now hinted at by waste lots or angular, cramped, somehow squeezed-in buildings. The locals crowded the roadsides, trying not to hinder the Westerosi, and did not raise their eyes to them—for them, the Westerosi were invaders who were even worse than pirates if only because they did not intend to leave. And yet, merchants in the shops met along the way called out to buyers; trade was ongoing even in the market square, which they skirted along the edge. However, one corner of the market was empty.
Scarce had the Prince frowned when the again-preemptive Jerrel Bracken hastened to explain:
"Here, my Prince, they traded in thralls."
Of course. In Tyrosh, there were three slaves for every free man, and the Tyroshi sailed to the Ghiscari cities as if to their own home; it was said that the galleys of the flesh-hunters fared even Beyond the Wall. Meanwhile, his brother's squire continued:
"As soon as we landed on the island, My Lord Prince commanded that the human trade be stopped."
"Did they listen to him?" Aegon inquired with languid interest.
"Nay, naturally," the hitherto silent Blackwood grinned; evidently, leaving Bracken the honor of telling the tale himself was beyond his strength. "But Dark Sister persuaded many."
"Who would doubt it. And how many did my brother execute?"
"Two dozen personally, and the executioners—some two hundred more. All who were selling slaves then."
Aegon sighed. The Targaryens had been lords of the Andal kingdoms of Westeros for more than a century and had long since adopted the sharp rejection of slavery that still flourished in southern Essos. Even when they arranged the coup in Pentos, they used the manumission of slaves as a tool to strengthen the power of the Calliaris. Here, likely, they would have to do the same, but for now... Daemon was clearly courting trouble, trying to fight the undesirable in the same manner as in King's Landing. To be sure, dragons and an army were on his side, but to make so many enemies was not too prudent.
"'Tis here, my Prince," Ser Erryk interrupted his thoughts.
They had managed to ride into the courtyard of a large mansion, filled with Targaryen guards. The walls of the house were almost dazzlingly white, and upon them, as on a large canvas, several slaves were applying a new painting: red lines formed the intended outline of an infinitely coiling dragon folding into rings. Whoever its owner was, he had already made his choice and was now securing his loyal success by painting Caraxes on the walls. The artists glanced interestedly at the newcomers but immediately returned to their task without waiting for a shout.
Dismounting, Aegon left the reins to Blackwood (only because he was closer) and, following Cargill, ascended the stone stairs to the covered gallery of the second floor. All the doors of the rooms evidently opened onto the gallery, which circled the entire mansion. The guardsman turned the corner and froze at one of the doors, on the other side of which his twin brother already stood.
Beyond the thin door with latticed inserts was a spacious room, its walls decorated with frescoes of blooming gardens in which full-breasted maidens danced; wide couches without backs, but with high outward-curved armrests, were placed around the perimeter. The windows, as in Volantis, looked into an inner garden where an indispensable fountain gurgled; Aegon wondered what it depicted: another beauty or perhaps a Valyrian sphinx? Now, likely, it was something draconic—the owner had reoriented himself to the highborn guest all too quickly.
In the middle of the room stood a table covered with maps, strewn with papers, scrolls, and dispatches, and set with elegant glass goblets of wine. At its head, hands braced against the tabletop, stood Daemon, who had managed to crop his silver hair in the Andal fashion.
"How do you manage to work in this room? 'Tis a veritable brothel!" Aegon said instead of a greeting.
"Reminds you of Nerra's house, does it not?" his brother smiled at him.
"For Nerra, 'tis rather innocent. It lacks the copulations."
The Princes exchanged glances and burst into laughter.
"Did you tear yourself away from your betrothed after all?" Daemon inquired in an innocent tone.
"I hear notes of jealousy in your voice," Aegon squinted. "I remind you that originally it was proposed that you take her to wife. You have cut your hair."
"As you see."
"Why?"
"I sacrificed it to Balerion. As a pledge of victory."
"A bit petty, do you not find?" Aegon said. Of course, recalling the Mantarys revelations, the Gods said they were flattered by any attention, but such a sacrifice was akin to a mockery.
Evidently, the disapproval was too clearly reflected on Aegon's face, so the elder brother hastened to clarify:
"I jest. I simply cut off my path of retreat. As a sign of change."
Aegon gave a crooked smirk and approached the table. The entire surface was covered by a detailed map of the island with a very precise depiction of Tyrosh, the suburbs, the fortresses shielding them, and other settlements. Bone figurines of dragons, seahorses, fish, and turtles placed upon it showed the disposition of the army of the Seven Kingdoms. Following his brother's gaze, Daemon began to explain the disposition without any request:
"Corlys has blockaded Tyrosh from the sea. Estermont is occupied with the transfer of forces from Bloodstone and Torturer's Deep. Elston Tully is dealing with the watchtowers, which are better called castles."
"Did you wait for me to burn them?"
"Oh, we are burning them, and those who have the audacity to attack Tully's army. Meleys and I have already arranged a few local versions of the Field of Fire for them. But I wish to do without unnecessary destruction—we shall yet have need of these lands, and the fortresses are very well placed. I do not wish to waste time and resources on their restoration later."
"On the Stepstones, such things troubled you not," Aegon chuckled.
"You mean that monstrosity of Craghas's? Oh, valonqar (younger brother), it needed to be razed anyway."
"Did it insult your sense of beauty? When did you find time to sing in chorus with Viserys's architects?"
"That hovel did not concern me because it had no value. But Tyrosh... You understand yourself."
"A difference as great as Balerion himself," the Prince nodded.
"You simply saw not what became of Myr."
"And thanks be to Meraxes. How long do you intend to persuade the Tyroshi?"
"I think we shall be done by year's end. When we reach the city walls, the poor will open the gates for us themselves, and the Magisters will not sit behind their Black Boundary for long: there are forty families there, plus servants, guards, slaves, and there is not too much room."
Aegon touched the thick line inside Tyrosh in thought, which outlined an irregular circle. The Black Boundary protected the Upper City, built by the lords of Old Valyria for themselves and their dragons on a rocky hill. Judging by travelers' descriptions, his namesake the Conqueror might have achieved something similar had he decided to unite the Red Keep and the Dragonpit. Defending such a large fortification is easy if one has a sufficient store of provisions and reliable men, but is it possible to use food moderately with such a throng of people? And how reliable are the Magisters' servants and their mercenaries?
"In the Archon's place, I would have sued for peace long ago," the Prince remarked. "And damn what the other Whores want."
"Evidently, such a bright thought has not yet visited his head."
"What, truly?" Aegon was genuinely surprised.
"Aye. The Archon hopes to sit it out and remains silent, unlike his brethren."
Well, that was not surprising; turncoats are always to be found: take the Yronwoods, for instance. Mayhaps someone cherishes hopes of repeating the path of Callio Calliaris and jumping from Magister to King?
"Anything interesting?"
"Not overly," Daemon grimaced with annoyance. "They offered a mountain of gold and a whole army of slaves, but I had my own conditions. The expressions on their faces were very funny; you ought to have seen them."
"There is no answer from them yet, as I understand?"
"Nay."
"Then we must give them a push toward it."
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