Prince Daemon Targaryen, King of Tyrosh, the Stepstones, and the Narrow Sea
Daemon looked over his shoulder, and the headwind immediately tousled his hair. Seasmoke did not lag behind Caraxes, although he kept to the rear—Jaegaer, by all appearances, had already become comfortable enough in the saddle and held the reins firmly.
The decision to make the Lord of the Verge a dragon rider came to the King of Tyrosh even before he flew to Korzos, where Laenor Velaryon had sought nightly adventures for his arse but met death on the point of a knife. There were no suitable riders in his own family: the older children were either already riders or had hatched dragons and managed to bond with them, and Daenerys, the only one in whose cradle they had not placed an egg, was only three years old, and letting her near an adult dragon, one who had just lost a previous companion at that, was out of the question. He had to look for someone else.
The only adult Targaryen without a dragon remained Saera, princess of brothels, manufactories, hippodromes, and rumors, but trusting a dragon to a sixty-year-old woman, especially with such a background as his aunt's, Daemon considered unwise. Next on the list was her son Jaegaer, formally not considered a Targaryen, but Daemon did not doubt his loyalty to the Blacks and to himself personally. Ilyleon was an excellent warrior and, like Daemon and his brothers, was a grandson of the Old King—the blood of the dragonlords was obviously strong in him. There was little use from his sister: the flighty fool Viserra was only good for occasionally warming his and Rhaenyra's bed.
Having finished Laenor's business near Korzos and turned the remnants of the Volantene detachment into ash, Daemon and Caraxes managed to convince Seasmoke to leave the place of his rider's death and guide him to Tyrosh. Giving the dragon a night and the next day to rest, the King of the Narrow Sea summoned his Lord Viceroy to the lair and, nodding toward Seasmoke, briefly ordered him:
"Try."
Fear flashed in his gaze, and, to Daemon's pleasure, immediately disappeared, giving way to a whole kaleidoscope of emotions from surprise to anticipation. However, Jaegaer Ilyleon would not be himself if he did not show his habitual caution and look back at his two other benefactors:
"But what about..."
"Spit on both of them. Try."
Ilyleon nodded seriously, tried, and was now flying beside him in the sky.
The fact that there was one more house of dragonlords in the Seven Kingdoms did not particularly worry Daemon: Ilyleon had no less right to a dragon than Corlys's children, and perhaps more, because he knew his place and did not try to crawl onto the throne bypassing everyone. He and Rhaenyra had made a mistake regarding the children, distributing eggs to them, first from the hatchery on Dragonstone, then those laid by Syrax, and ultimately allowed themselves to be put in a situation where only Caraxes and, perhaps, his wife's she-dragon could fight. Now this mistake had to be corrected at the expense of other relatives. The loyalty of the Ilyleons to his, Daemon's, house, the Targaryens of Tyrosh, was irrefutable, so the Ruler of the Narrow Sea considered the merits and acquisitions of this step to outweigh the disadvantages, and later, when Seasmoke, longing without a human, accepted Jaegaer, he wrote it down in the list of victories altogether.
Victory, the first battle won in this undeclared war in recent years! This feeling almost turned his head, but Daemon suppressed it in himself with an effort of will, redirecting energy and emotions into another channel, turning them into his own firmness and confidence. Yes, fate and the gods had laughed at them considerably, but all this was a lesson to them—a lesson on how important it is not to despair, and that refusal to fight is nothing other than betrayal of oneself and one's family. Even more than betrayal—a funeral pyre already built and a torch lit for it.
Five years ago, Daemon Targaryen had everything, except the Iron Throne, but was first in line for it, and then was thrown back simply because one brother decided to remember he had children, and the second imagined himself either a puppeteer, or a guardian, or Peklo knows who—so much for brotherly feelings.
As consolation, his daughter was given to the new Prince of Dragonstone, he was left with the office of Hand and Tyrosh with its domains and title. However, who will give a guarantee that the "dear" son-in-law will not drive Alyssa to the same state Viserys drove Aemma? Who will give a guarantee that the amiable brothers will not decide in five or ten years that there cannot be two kings in one realm, even if one of them bent the knee to the other? Someday the thought must inevitably visit their bright heads that they need another Hand whom they can twist as they wish. He was given guarantees and promises, but words were always wind, as Grandfather used to say, and he himself had time to be fully convinced of this, but guarantees turned out to be no more reliable than sandcastles under a tidal wave. Viserys's sons will be devoid of sentiment and will most likely do everything their father feared so much. Will Jaehaerys stand in such a situation if something happens to Daemon himself? Unlikely.
In any other situation, Daemon would have been satisfied that his grandchildren, his blood, would rule the Seven Kingdoms one way or another. He would even have reconciled, forgive me, Balerion, with the fact that Hightower blood flowed in them; were Alicent not Otto Hightower's daughter, everything would be even simpler. Raised by him personally, with him as Regent, Protector of the Realm, and Hand, Alicent's children would have intermarried with Jace's children, and then their children with the children of the next King of Tyrosh... For this, of course, it was required to free Alyssa from marriage to her cousin in one way or another, as Rhaenyra suggested, but who would give them such an opportunity?
The combined forces of the Whites and Greens truly represented a threat, and the further—the more so, because dragons were growing not only for his own children. Inaction and satisfaction with what he had could ensure neither safety nor the very existence of Daemon, Rhaenyra, or their children, even taking into account all these reinsurance marriages—the latter only delayed the inevitable. It remained only to prepare for a new fight, and the acquisition of a new war dragon for their party, though unexpected, was very timely and could be considered only the beginning.
Daemon began to undermine the alliance of brothers against him little by little shortly after he was deprived of Dragonstone: Aegon and Viserys had to be knocked heads together so that if they desired to revise family agreements once again, they would not manage to conspire behind his back. Considering that the Whites' power in the air threatened the Greens no less than Daemon with his family, and perhaps more, due to the fact that Dragon's Heart was closer to King's Landing than Tyrosh, the chances for this were not bad. It would be possible to come to an agreement with one of them later, of course, for his own purposes, and not for the sake of some loud words about brotherly love and amorphous unity of House Targaryen—all this is wind.
Once at a meeting of the Small Council a couple of years ago, Daemon raised the question of the Smoky Valley, where Aegon had arranged a new dragon nesting site. This miserable patch of land in the Mountains of the Moon, torn from the Arryns, was formally not part of the fief of the Prince of Dragon's Heart but remained under the management of the Master of Dragons—in fact, there was no difference. Citing the fact that his son's fiancée was due a dowry, the King of Tyrosh proposed transferring the Smoky Tower with all the land and the cave, where several dragons had already hatched, to his account. Naturally, the brothers reared up at once to prevent him from getting a new nesting site in exchange for Dragonstone, and Daemon yielded with feigned regret, however, his goal was not this.
Baela was not the only marriageable bride of the Clubfoot Prince—her twin sister was to become Aemond's wife, and the King's second son still remained without his own fief. Rhaenyra planted the same thought in Alicent through a couple of ladies-in-waiting, and now Daemon watched as the seeds he had sown sprouted: even if Viserys did not make ends meet, the Queen would lay down her bones but not let him forget about the other children and tear this miserable valley from the Whites. Since then, Otto Hightower tried to raise the question again, but Aegon and the Sea Snake somehow managed to hush it up and postpone it until the wedding itself, but sooner or later they will have to yield to the Iron Throne, and the valonqar will not forgive the offense.
Besides such long-term plans, simpler steps were also taken. When the war began, after a couple of letters with a somewhat exaggerated scale of the problem with Volantis, the King wished to protect what he considered part of his realm, to make another generous gesture, but Aegon predictably became stubborn and exposed himself not just as an egoist, but as a man ready to neglect the good of his house and realm for the sake of his own interests. Laenor's death will come in handy here too—the valonqar will be able to blame Viserys for it.
It was the same with Aemond. In the first months of his stay in Tyrosh, Daemon seriously considered arranging some accident for him to spite all of King's Landing—after all, the boy, having saddled Vhagar, allowed his father and future father-in-law to overturn the cyvasse board. However, over time Daemon cooled down and calmed down; however, he did not start treating his nephew better, but denying his right to a dragon is foolish and meaningless, especially when a flying mountain lives in your dragon pit. Nothing could be done with Vhagar anymore, nor with the rider, but the latter was gradually turning into poison, into venom that would soon begin to poison his own supporters. Cherished grievances, nurtured malice, cultivated suspicion towards everyone, even well-wishers, contempt for weakness, servants, especially maesters, subordinates, multiplied by poor martial qualities and inability to lead—this is what Aegon the Green will get in his brother, and Aegon the White in his son-in-law. The lad may think he is being taught nothing, but in fact, his mentor is consistently fulfilling his duties, raising him into an inconvenient ally and a perfect enemy.
Even the rebellion of Dornish lords against the Yronwoods was supposed to play in favor of this. The boy wanted to participate in the war, show his significance? Excellent, let him burn desert dwellers—Daemon had already done this, and the excitement of battle quickly became commonplace, especially when nothing can be opposed to you. And so, the Prince will harden, taste ash with blood, and, like a true Targaryen, dress in armor of impenetrable pride, which in his case will be unjustified by anything.
Caraxes warned with a cluck under Daemon, and Seasmoke barked behind him. Ahead, among evening clouds light yellow like the dunes of the Dornish desert, the white walls of Lys appeared, and behind it the sea golden in the rays of the setting sun. The City of Pleasure, the Most Beautiful of the Daughters of Old Valyria, did what whores always do: as soon as it smelled smoke, it got rid of the former master to sell itself to a new, stronger one. So it was in the Century of Blood, when the citizens themselves opened the gates and port to the Volantenes. So it was several years ago, when magisters overthrew Lysandro Rogare. So it was now, when he himself outbid the pirates, and then got rid first of the Volantene viceroy, and then of the pirate admiral.
Aunt Saera's whisperers brought rumors that internal squabbles were involved there, inevitable when someone commands a huge and not very organized army for too long. However, other news was much more interesting, causing considerable animation in the chambers of King Jaehaerys's last surviving daughter and in the Verge: it was rumored that the defecting pirates were led by Aerion Ilyleon, considered missing for several years.
According to the original plan, Lys was to be taken by storm, and for this dragons, people, ships, and time were required, but the appearance of the resurrected relative, who so kindly performed the most difficult work for them, forced Daemon to revise plans. Jaehaerys, with Jaegaer's support, was supposed to engage in imposing new rules of life on the surviving Lysene magisters, but in the new conditions, his father decided to take everything under personal control. The visit was agreed upon in the shortest possible time—the King, his Viceroy, and their dragons should have already been met; no treachery was to be expected from the Lyseni, since in case of any askance look, the Targaryens would deal with them first (and even Viserys and Aegon would not have missed this opportunity), and the remnants would be captured by Volantenes again. If anything remained of those, of course.
The Blood Wyrm moved his wings, pressed them slightly to his body, and began to descend, catching air currents with the membranes on his spurs. The salty sea wind whistled in ears and lashed the face, forcing to squint. Rhaenyra said he frowned too often as it was, and all together it only multiplied wrinkles and aged him, but Daemon would sooner die than allow himself to be smeared with some slime from the arse of a Tyroshi snail, as his wife once suggested. Daemon and Viserys burst out laughing then, and Aemma and Visenya became encouraged and were about to run for their girlish lotions and ointments, when Rhaenyra hastily turned everything into a joke. She did it very timely—he could still refuse her and the sons, but with the daughters, it would have been more difficult.
They emerged from the cloud belt, and a picture opened before the pair of dragon riders that surely fascinated even the lords of the Old Freehold. Against the background of the shining Summer Sea, pearlescent Lys descended from a gentle hill to the shore. Sun rays seemed to pierce through its pearly towers with gilded spires, palaces of marble of all shades with crystal domes, making every building shine from within. However, a couple of flaps of dragon wings later, the fairy-tale landscape shattered with a ring against the harsh reality of rebellion and war.
The closer they flew, the more noticeable it became that the once beautiful city had seen better days. A significant part of the mansions was blackened with smoke from fires, many houses gaped with black holes of windows and broken doors, gardens recently blooming stood broken, partly cut down and burned. The rabble quarters near the city walls on the side far from the sea did not avoid changes either—there the usual ruin, common to the poor of all countries and peoples, met the consequences of what a warrior's sharp eye defined as an uprising: barricades remained undismantled here and there, gallows had not yet released their guests in the squares, and heads, arms, legs, and bodies remaining after their severance were stuck on pikes at crossroads.
The dragons circled over the city, approaching from the sea. In the port areas, it was cleaner: either here generally did without a mess, as in the rest of the city, or they had already managed to clean up here. At the piers and in the harbor roadstead, it was crowded from ships packed there: on each fluttered a white banner with a dancing Panther—the six-breasted goddess of pleasure with a cat's head was revered here so much that she was made the symbol of the city; here and there, in addition to banners, clusters of hanged men hung from yardarms. If Aerion Ilyleon indeed seized power in the city and on the fleet, which in these conditions was hardly possible separately, then he restored order with all the rigidity and consistency worthy of an offspring of dragon blood, and this circumstance appealed to Daemon. If the lad managed to lay his hands on such a jackpot and hold it, it says a lot about him not only as a warrior but also as an administrator.
On top of the slope above the city towered a palace, pink-yellow in the light of the setting sun, above which, alongside the recent Panther, a surprisingly familiar banner flew. A red one-headed dragon clutching a golden skull in its paws, flying on a black field. Seeing it, Daemon clicked his tongue: one had not only to think of this but also to dare. This is undoubtedly a bold step—louder only to declare oneself perhaps... by appearing at court. Although, most likely, this is exactly what the boy counts on. This banner is not even so much an invitation to negotiations regarding the fate of Lys, it is an invitation to negotiations about his return home. Of course, no one exiled him, but the statement was loud and bold. Almost impermissibly bold. Daemon wanted to finally look at Jaegaer's impudent nephew.
A long staircase with wide steps led to the front porch of the palace, ending in a platform large enough for a dragon to land on. Still, traveling through the former lands of the Freehold is convenient—even if the Doom swallowed the dragonlords, their buildings turned out to be much more convenient for Targaryens than all the castles of Westeros combined, perhaps with the exception of Dragonstone; in Tyrosh, the lair had only to be renovated and cleared of two centuries of rubbish, not built anew as in King's Landing and Driftmark or inventing something as Aegon struggled over his towers in Dragon's Heart.
Daemon pulled the reins toward himself, directing Caraxes to the palace. The Blood Wyrm glided down with a cluck, the stairs flashed under his narrow belly, and the dragon, braking with webbed spurs, flapped his wings and sat exactly in front of the wide-open main doors. On the very threshold under the same two banners stood several people: richly dressed magisters, some of whom were shaking violently, and mercenaries frozen in tense poses, evidently those very pirates. Curious Caraxes, curving his long neck, looked into the opening and exhaled two streams of smoke from his nostrils there. Some of the magisters screamed, someone fainted, but the majority only retreated a few steps back.
The King of Tyrosh leaned on the pommel of the saddle, looking for the main one among them. At this moment, one of the pirates separated from the confused crowd, followed by one of the magisters. Here is the delegation, then... Well, he and Jaegaer are two as well. Chuckling, Daemon began to descend from the saddle.
Whether it was arranged on purpose or happened by accident, the greeters stopped at a distance from the dragon exactly at the moment when Daemon stepped onto the white marble slabs of the porch-terrace. The clanking of metal on stone was heard—Jaegaer approached the Targaryen, having landed Seasmoke a little further away. Above the pauldron of the Lord of the Verge's armor rose the hilt of Remembrance. Only because Daemon involuntarily looked back at the sound of steps did he see how his cousin's face changed.
"Aerion?! Praise the gods!.." whitish eyebrows shot up in amazement and a worried look quickly gave way to relief. Ilyleon, of course, was aware of the rumors his mother collected, but Daemon understood him—unverified news is one thing, but personal verification that a long-lost nephew is alive and well is quite another. Showing no surprise, Daemon slowly turned to the pair of negotiators meeting them.
Of course, practically nothing remained of that boy who ran away from home six years ago. Before the King of Tyrosh stood a tall, broad-shouldered, self-confident Valyrian of about twenty, seemingly not particularly afraid of the dragon. If Viserys's icon painters and artists were not hostages of their Andal canons, then Jaegaer's nephew would definitely have fallen into the number of their sources of inspiration for the Warrior. A sword hung on his belt, judging by the guard almost certainly Valyrian, and a couple more daggers of different sizes; Daemon was ready to swear that as many, if not more, blades were hidden under his clothes—he was the same himself.
The pirate admiral of Lys cut his silver hair short and shaved his face clean. A neat gold earring with a long narrow emerald hung from the lobe of his left ear—the only decoration, as far as the Targaryen managed to notice, not counting a short rod with a cat's head of clearly ceremonial appearance as such.
Suddenly, a thought fast and bright as lightning flashed in Daemon's head: his younger brother is a rare idiot after all. Aerion Ilyleon resembled the Prince of Dragon's Heart as every son should resemble a father: not too obvious, but still a noticeable resemblance that cannot be unnoticed or ignored. The same nose, the same silver hair, the same thin lips, the same, Peklo take them all, green eyes. Of course, to confuse Aegon with Aerion one had to be deep at night in a dark cave, because only a blind man could mistake a broad-shouldered sailor, somewhat resembling their father, for a thin and clubfooted prince-half-maester, but the totality of signs, formed into a single picture like separate shards of colored glass in a stained-glass window, was enough to nullify all the ridiculous arguments Aegon piled up then in the Red Keep many years ago.
Jaegaer must be thinking the same now, since he was in no hurry to finish his sudden tirade. Allowing them to examine him, Aerion gave something between a polite nod and a bow and said in Tyroshi:
"Free Lys, the Most Beautiful of the Daughters of Valyria, is glad to welcome the King of Tyrosh, the Stepstones, and the Narrow Sea, Daemon Targaryen," slightly turning his head to Jaegaer, young Ilyleon smiled lightly and added in a much less ceremonial voice: "And I am glad to welcome my kin."
"And you have grown over these years," Daemon noted, smirking. For a fleeting fraction of a second, it seemed to him that something flashed in Aerion's emerald eyes and immediately disappeared. "A squire ran away from home, unless your uncle managed to give you spurs..."
"Did not manage," Jaegaer shook his head.
"And now before us is..."
"The Gonfalonier of Free Lys and Admiral of its fleet," the younger Ilyleon finished for him and gripped the cat rod more comfortably. "Allow me in this capacity to introduce to you the First Magister of Lys, Lysandro Rogare."
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