Prince Daemon Targaryen, King of Tyrosh, the Stepstones, and the Narrow Sea
The magister, hiding until then behind the back of his hired commander and protector, stepped forward; unlikely he was glad to be pushed into the background, but two dragons and a whole fleet should have prevented all questions. White-haired either by nature or age, Rogare crossed his arms over his chest, pressing a large chain with diamonds to it, and bowed reservedly:
"On behalf of the Magisterium, I am immensely happy to welcome the dragonlords to Lys, and my joy is boundless. I pray to all gods only that your visit becomes merely a harbinger of the future friendship of Lys and Tyrosh, as well as all Seven Kingdoms."
"Pleasant to finally make your personal acquaintance, Magister," Daemon smiled at him. "We have known each other by reputation much longer, correct?"
"Yes, perhaps," and this Rogare is good! He is reminded almost directly about a brother killed by others' hands, and he didn't even blink. "And all the greater is my pleasure to finally personally see the rider of the great Caraxes, who conquered our ill-wishers in Tyrosh. As well as Lord Ilyleon. I remember your first visit to Lys."
"Really?"
"Yes. In a couple of nights, you left in one of my brothels as much as it brought in a month. True, almost everything went to eliminate the consequences of your... ahem, rest. Such things are not forgotten."
"There was that..." Jaegaer seemed even embarrassed.
"I assume Magister Lysandro's famous brothels will not close their doors to such respected guests because of some annoying misunderstanding in the past. Especially since it has long been exhausted, as I understand," Aerion remarked, glancing expressively at his employer.
"By no means," he protested. Lysandro, apparently, wanted to describe his unearthly joy once again, but the gonfalonier did not let him continue:
"However, for now, we will be happy to provide His Grace the King of Tyrosh and the Lord of the Verge with chambers in the palace."
"I would prefer to settle all questions here and now," the King announced, arranging his hands on the hilt of Dark Sister. "We are in no hurry, but perhaps it will not come to brothels."
"I should have remembered that His Grace is a man of action," Aerion smiled courteously. "Perhaps, if the First Magister allows, of course, I will be able to give answers to some questions of interest to the King of Tyrosh."
Saying this, he turned to Rogare with the same polite smile, and the latter, squeezing out some weak semblance of a nod, spoke rapidly:
"Yes, yes, of course."
"In that case, perhaps our guests would like to view the city from the terrace? I confess, I have not been in Lys so long, and managed to see a lot before it, but, I assure you, the view of the city at sunset is the first of the proofs why Lys is called the Pearl of the Southern Seas and the Most Beautiful of the Daughters of Valyria."
Daemon nodded and gave way to the hosts; contrary to his expectations, Aerion let the First Magister go ahead. Standing to the right of the Targaryen, Lysandro, looking fearfully askance at the dragon, led him to the near end of the terrace; Jaegaer and his nephew fell in behind—well, the kin surely had something to say to each other after so many years.
"I will say frankly: I was surprised when I learned that you specifically led the resistance against the Volantenes," Daemon remarked in a secular tone.
"Thought my brethren would no longer entrust me with such important matters?" Rogare seemed to even straighten up with pride, and at that moment the Lysene reminded the King of Tyrosh of a scared peacock who finally got the chance to spread his tail.
"As I understand, your... fall was quite painful."
"Yes, perhaps one could say so. But every fall gives us experience and a desire to rise. I had this desire, so I was merely looking for ways to fulfill it."
"Not unsuccessfully, as is evident. How did you manage to outbid the pirate fleet?"
"The Volantenes bought angry cats in a holey sack," Lysandro shrugged. "Is it surprising that they got out of it and started tearing their masters and each other? We merely offered them our price."
"Did you really offer them more than the Volantene Freehold itself?"
"I assume you, Your Grace, with your dragons significantly brought down the price offered by the Triarchs: ash and dust have no need for gold honors. However, I would be lying if I said everything went perfectly. Actually, you see it yourself."
Saying this, the First Magister of Lys swept a dry hand over the city belonging to him again. They approached the edge of the porch-terrace, and behind an elegant parapet, the railings of which were held on their heads by cats with dragon wings, the same view opened onto the square under the palace, streets, port, and sea with ships in the roadstead. Daemon had already seen all this from the height of dragon flight, but from the ground, the view turned out to be more unsightly, except that numerous hanged men were visible better.
"Yes, the First Magister and I had to work hard to open the abscesses and clean out all the pus," Aerion, who had approached from behind, said in a light tone. It did not escape the Targaryen that Lysandro, who had regained his composure after they moved away from the dragons, still could not maintain a cordial mask, and a shadow of annoyance slipped over it and immediately disappeared. So, someone had to choose between several evils.
"So many executed..." the elder Ilyleon remarked. "Are you not afraid of epidemics?"
The magister answered his question:
"Lys has never experienced a shortage of either cats or rat-catcher slaves. We fumigate them with incense to disperse the pestilential stench, besides, these corpses have not been hanging so long. We change them, you know."
Daemon grunted. It is unlikely that this idea occurred to Rogare himself or one of his brethren; surely Aerion took care of this. Noticing the interested look of his King, the Lord of the Verge understood everything correctly and occupied the First Magister with conversation about the city. The younger Ilyleon, being no fool, managed to catch this and, as if by chance, swapped places with Lysandro.
"I assume you would like a more substantive conversation, Your Grace?" he pronounced semi-affirmatively in the Common Tongue.
"Have you been told that no one likes insolent fellows and imitators?" Daemon answered a question with a question.
"I beg your pardon?"
"To bear a sigil with a dragon, royal permission is needed, if you did not know."
"Can a knight not choose his own sigil?"
"But you are not a knight, as you and your uncle admitted."
"He has already promised to correct this misunderstanding," is that so? And one only had to look away for a short time... Clever, nothing to say. What else did good Uncle Jaegaer manage to promise his nephew? "And besides, do I not have the right to a sigil with a dragon as a great-grandson of King Jaehaerys?"
"And by both lines at that," Daemon could not refrain from remarking.
It cannot be that no one told him about this. Even if he saw Aegon only once, in distant childhood, and hardly remembered him, the King of Tyrosh would never believe that grandmother and mother kept silent about the fact that young Ilyleon looked very much like the father who did not acknowledge him. Viserra is not the person to keep grievances to herself, and sweet Aunt Saera is capable of doing this out of revenge for humiliations.
"Formally by one," Aerion answered in an even tone. "The other line does not concern me. Besides, it hardly matters, especially now."
"Since only one line matters, then why did you run away from such a hospitable uncle's house?"
"Did Your Grace not want to see the world? What awaited me at home then? Sworn sword, lieutenant in the Tyroshi militia? You yourself did not content yourself with the simple role of the King's younger brother, and I was not even Uncle Jaegaer's heir. In a way, I followed your example."
"And so decided to repeat my feats and conquer one of the Three Whores," Daemon smirked. He understood what moved the boy: at fourteen, he himself dreamed of travels, which eventually fell to Aegon's lot, of being the terror of pirates and conquering Essos. Admittedly, the latter was partially realized. "Quite timely. I do not intend to annex Lys to Tyrosh and the Seven Kingdoms. So, perhaps, your gonfalonier-ship will still be useful to you."
The thought of annexing Lys, which visited some bright heads of his council in Tyrosh, Daemon rejected almost immediately: he already had to live in two cities, shuttling from Tyrosh to King's Landing and back—there was no possibility to take Lys under personal control as well. He could not pass this to any of the children: Jaehaerys, together with the elder Ilyleon, was already learning to replace him in the Black Verge, and Baelon and the others were too small to leave them alone in this snake pit—they would be poisoned or strangled like that woe-admiral and self-proclaimed king. The Ruler of Tyrosh did not intend to yield his trophy to the Whites or Greens.
"It has already been useful to me, since I am speaking with you," to kill his own leader, hang his own and others' people for the sake of one conversation? Is this definitely the son of Aegon the Clubfoot? "I would like to return to Westeros. With your help."
"For that, it would have been enough to appear on your uncle's doorstep. I do not think he would have slammed the door in your face."
"My uncle is a good man, but he is your servant. I prefer to catch bigger fish. He who rules the Seven Kingdoms can dictate his will to the entire known world, and you are the Hand of the King and rule Tyrosh yourself. This is already more than the Verge."
Daemon was tired of beating around the bush and so asked bluntly:
"What do you want?"
"A place at court," the pirate admiral answered immediately. "An office. Land. The title of a lord of dragon blood."
"Why?"
"And why else is this sought? For power, of course."
"Also for revenge and wealth."
"Revenge? Only the aggrieved seek revenge, and besides... I find it too petty to squander myself on such things. Wealth? I earned it myself. Yes, it was bought with blood, but seawater washes everything away. I do not think you are interested only in gold, but I am ready to pay for your patronage. With my help, you can turn Lys into an obedient puppet, dispose of it without looking back at anyone and without costs of capturing and holding its domains. Lysandro Rogare gave me his daughter, I have gold and steel so that the Lysene magisters cannot take a step independently. With the shadow of the dragon king behind one's back, one can rule the city without even having offices and titles in it. My people will be at your complete disposal. All my skills and abilities will be at your complete disposal. I know how to be grateful, Your Grace."
How diligent, and tries so hard to sell himself... In general, a typical mercenary. And who could have grown out of him after all these years of wandering? The King of Tyrosh had already seen figures like him: such hunt not even for money, but for glory and are terribly afraid of disappearing into obscurity—this scares them more than death. Evidently, this pushed the fourteen-year-old boy to run away from home. And indeed, what would have shone for him in that case? Castellanship over the Verge, sworn sword to his uncle and his sons? Unless Daemon would have taken him into the guard only to spite Aegon, but that's not serious. This, obviously, pushed him to choose the side of the strong in the war, that is, the side of his dragonlord kin, and cut the throats of his comrades who had other plans.
Daemon shifted his gaze to the harbor again, where vessels with the Panther on their banners crowded. Each of these ships could burn, drown, crash on reefs instead of a Tyroshi ship. Each of the sailors and soldiers Aerion Ilyleon brings with him could die instead of one of Daemon's people. Each of them could raise another sword and loose another arrow at the enemy, raise a shield and deflect an enemy blow. No help can be superfluous either in this war or in that sluggish and undeclared one he and his family are waging on the shores of the Blackwater, the Narrow Sea, and all over Westeros.
However, cunning may lurk in such helpfulness. Surely he poured the same honey into the ears of his previous leader. But this Ryndoon, apparently, turned out to be a rare idiot and blind man, since he first allowed his henchman to get loose, and then organize a successful conspiracy against himself. In the end, Aerion is also of dragon blood; such can be tamed, only the leash must be held firmly, otherwise the beast will break loose and devour its master. But not for the rider of Caraxes the Blood Wyrm to fear such difficulties.
"First we need to finish this war," Daemon announced.
"The Triarchs are about to send ambassadors for negotiations..."
"Remnants of the fleet they will send," the King pulled the gonfalonier up. "And even if they don't, terms of peace still need to be dictated to them, preferably on their territory, and not bargained for."
"I do not think Volantis will want to attack Lys. Even if the 'tigers' find such a desire, they won't have enough strength: the city fortifications are almost undamaged, the island is guarded by a fleet and two dragons. The 'elephants' are surely dreaming of the end of the war now. If not interfered with, the Old Blood will devour themselves, and the survivors will crawl to Your Grace's feet. Or maybe you want to deal a mortal blow to the Freehold?"
Tempting... But to burn the capital of the New Freehold, they would need all the dragons of their house, and in these circumstances, neither Viserys nor Aegon would go for it. And was it necessary at all? What will the destruction of Volantis bring them? Nothing but problems: all its domains will become another Disputed Lands, trade will decline, Dothraki will walk on the right bank of the Rhoyne as in their Vaes Dothrak... To prevent this, it will be necessary to directly subjugate all this, and this is time, money, resources, people, dragons, in the end. All this will not be at hand when the appointed hour comes in the Seven Kingdoms, and moreover, it will be a knife, a hundred and a thousand knives directed at the back of him and his family. And besides, Volantis was in some way the heir of Old Valyria, like the Targaryens themselves; let it be a shadow and an ugly shadow, a scaly worm without fire breath, without fangs and wings, but something inside Daemon rebelled as soon as he imagined raising a sword over this freak.
"Not mortal, no," he decided for himself. "We need to destroy the remnants of their fleet, burn and plunder the Orange Shore. This will not kill the Freehold, but weaken it."
"A public flogging," Aerion nodded. "The closer the strike is to the mouth of the Rhoyne, the richer the trophies and the more sensitive the defeat of the Old Blood. I remember Aegon the Conqueror burned their fleet right in the Lys roadstead. I think burning the fleet at the ruins of Sarhoy will impress the eyks more strongly. My fleet, or rather, the fleet of Lys will be ready to put to sea within a week; we have almost everything ready. A blockade of the Rhoyne mouth will tighten the noose around the Triarchs' necks. Only Your Grace's order is needed."
"And what about the order of the First Magister?"
"The First Magister appointed me gonfalonier," the youngest Ilyleon twirled the golden rod in his hands, and topazes flashed in the eyes of the cat's head crowning it. "I am authorized to undertake any actions for the defense of Lys that I deem necessary, and I deem it necessary to obey your order."
"Then you have it."
With a large fleet and two dragons, Daemon did not doubt the coming victory, but Caraxes and Seasmoke would have sufficed to burn the Volantene remnants, but ships and people are needed to establish a full-fledged blockade. The Tyroshi were now busy in the Disputed Lands, so all hope was on Lys and its mercenary army.
The coming fire and blood should show what Aerion Ilyleon is really worth.
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