Prince Aegon Targaryen, Prince of Dragon's Heart
The Isle of Faces could not get used to the fact that instead of a quiet, secluded abode, an imaginary refuge of no less imaginary "green men," it had become the center of a new construction site. The secluded island in the center of the Gods Eye had long irritated Aegon: in his youth, during the Great Council at Harrenhal, with a heap of superstitions, legends, and fairy tales, one more ridiculous than the other; then, when the Prince became the master of these lands, with its neglect and uselessness. Once he complained about the useless island to his castellan, and Ser Meylarr Teltaris suggested cutting down the weirwoods on it and selling the timber—buyers for the valuable wood would be found in both Westeros and Essos, but soon the Master of Dragons had a better idea. The remoteness of the island from the shores could be turned to his advantage by creating a secluded refuge among the deserted thickets of white-trunked trees, away from the page-rustling, strict Dragon's Heart and the noisy Baelonis spread beneath its walls.
Whitehall was called a castle solely by force of habit: Viserys designed rather a palace, imparting to it predatory, dragon, Valyrian features, which had yet to be clothed not in black volcanic stone, but in white marble. The island position and the lair for dragons were to be the only defensive fortifications necessary for it.
Construction managed to begin before the war with Volantis, but even the conflict did not particularly hinder it. Vermithor's flame cleared a site on the shore from dense vegetation, builders, all residents of Baelonis to a man, had already erected a pier for cargo delivery and were now finishing laying the foundation. Maesters of both Citadels swore by their chains, guaranteeing at least another year or two of summer, and Aegon counted on managing if not to finish construction completely, then at least to put a roof over Whitehall before the inevitable arrival of autumn.
At the construction site, it was habitually noisy, bustling, and dirty, but for him and Laena, the chief architect ordered the road cleared and boards covered with carpets laid—eggerio Haratis was always sickeningly courteous and obsequious. The frail native of Pentos had been faithfully executing Viserys's every idea for twenty years, helping him embody architectural dreams in stone, for which he received grey hair on his temples, a considerable fee, and knighthood with a coat of arms. Haratis even managed to marry, finding himself the youngest daughter of Lord Mallery as a spouse, who decided to distinguish himself at court at the expense of his son-in-law.
"This way, my Prince, please, be careful," Ser Eggerio led them through the construction site, periodically brushing imaginary dirt from their path with a handkerchief, managing not to pierce anyone with the blade hanging on his baldric.
Having learned over the years of living in Westeros that a knight must walk with a sword, the now former Pentoshi wore on his belt a thin product of capital smiths, which other knights would consider a needle or a toothpick. Dennis could not look at this slate warrior without a condescending smile, usually bestowed upon servant boys fooling around in the courtyards of Dragon's Heart and harmless blessed fools begging on porches. Aegon himself remarked more than once in the family circle that Haratis, should he take it into his head to participate in a tournament, should use a land compass, not his woe-sword—he certainly had more practice with it, and the ends of this pedometer were sharp.
"By the end of the month, we should finish work with the foundation, my Prince," Haratis continued to babble. "And then it remains only to wait for deliveries of stone for the walls."
"Will there be any problems with this?"
"No, my Prince, no, by no means! With Lady Arryn's quarry manager, we reached a true, absolute mutual understanding, no problems are foreseen. I myself returned from them a week ago, it is most excellent marble, simply most excellent! Whiter than the first winter snow, almost exactly like my lady's hair!"
"Make up your mind," Laena, walking behind Aegon and their guide, grimaced irritably. "What is whiter, your stone, the first snow, or the silver of Valyrian hair?"
"Of course the latter, my lady," the architect was not lost. "Nothing compares to the beauty of Old Valyria, but this marble is closest to it."
"If this stone is so good, why did the Arryns not use it when building the Eyrie? Are we really going to use material that was not good enough for the first Andal kings?"
" The first Arryns, my lady, understood nothing of marble. The deposits known to them at that time were indeed not too rich, but a knowledgeable person can always find or invent something more."
"Yes, of course," Aegon nodded, wishing to interrupt the builder before he got carried away again. "So, you are on schedule?"
"We are not late," Haratis answered overly vaguely. "I laid a certain reserve..."
"What reserve?"
"Half a year, my Prince. Of course, here and there we fell behind due to rains, if you remember, last month it poured as if the lake and sky had swapped places, but nothing critical, we have already caught up. As I already drew my Prince's attention, now we are waiting only for the first delivery of stone."
"If there are problems with this, I want to know about it as soon as possible. If Lady Arryn's manager behaves unscrupulously, I will speak with his mistress."
"Of course, my Prince, I will keep this possibility in mind, if anything, I will even threaten him with it, but, if you allow me to remark, for now such measures are... premature."
Aegon only grunted in response. This is while they are premature, but some preferred to work not for conscience, but for fear, and it had to be provided to achieve the desired result on time. The Prince of Dragon's Heart had already encountered such people more than once among both the smallfolk and the lords: some especially lazy foremen of builders working on the restoration of Dragon's Heart could be forced to work only by imperious shouts, Lord Theo Shawney could establish the work of his ferry from Sow's Horn to Baelonis only after being summoned to Dragon's Heart and a stern conversation with the threat of losing the title of lord.
On the whole, construction proceeded in its own way, and Haratis, with proper supervision, of course, coped perfectly with all numerous construction sites, managing to keep up in King's Landing, and Baelonis, and Daemonport, and the Smoky Tower, driving horse after horse. Once again ordering the knight-architect to keep him informed of all affairs and once again listening to verbose and ornate assurances of invariable respect, trepidation, and hope to justify the high expectations of the august customers, Aegon and Laena left the builders with their work.
Aside from the future palace, between the lake shore and the temporarily undeveloped forest, Vermithor and Silverwing settled on scorched and compacted earth. Haratis suggested paving the landing site with stone slabs, but the Master of Dragons suspected that after some time the earth under the weight and flame of his charges would become harder than granite; in the end, dragons could well dig it up, arranging beds for themselves. Building a lair in the image and likeness of the capital one on a secluded island was deemed unreasonable both for financial reasons and aesthetic ones, so the Prince preferred to leave the arrangement of their own lair to them, intending subsequently only to give it a decent look.
"What say you?" Aegon inquired of his wife. He himself, unlike Viserys, did not yet see the white walls of the future mansion in his mind—the image of Whitehall existed for him as an abstract and ideal picture drawn by his brother and then transferred to drawings.
"Nothing to say," Laena shrugged, and the flight suit of dragon leather rustled, echoing her movements. "They only dug a hole, Aegon."
"Well, not only a hole... But I understood you. If you want, a statue of Laenor can be placed in the garden or by the water, or a stele, like Uncle Aemon's on Tarth."
"I don't know. He has no place here."
"Some of our peasants consider this island sacred. In my opinion..."
"In my opinion, there is no sea water here to pay honors to a Velaryon," Laena interrupted him, and moved toward Silverwing, leaving her spouse alone with his dragon.
News of Ser Laenor Velaryon's death plunged all of Driftmark and Dragon's Heart into mourning. The body of the heir to the Driftwood Throne was given to Meleys's fire and buried in the bay where Velaryons found their last refuge since the founding of their house. Not a word in the Common Tongue was said at the ceremony: Ser Vaemond proclaimed family ritual phrases, and Aegon read a prayer to Balerion, asking him for his brother-in-law. Deep down, the Prince doubted the Lord of Death would pay attention to a not very faithful and consistent worshiper, which Laenor was, besides, his death was—couldn't be stupider.
Perhaps that is why words of consolation for his wife, who lost a brother, were found with difficulty: had he perished in battle, it would have been easy to tell of a glorious end worthy of a dragon rider and corresponding to the name of House Velaryon, but the unfortunate brother-in-law died from the blade of a poorly searched prisoner, which was clearly not very heroic. Aegon did not know how to exhort about death like septons, although the descendants of dragon blood serving him in Dragon's Heart and Baelonis already considered him something like a prophet. surrounding Laena with support, he only told her:
"Only Balerion knows the hour of our death, but let this not mislead: he is not the Stranger guarding behind the door. He accepts our death so the flame of the soul does not extinguish," the words smacked of awkwardness; clothing his own understanding, which seemed natural and requiring no proof, in them so that they sounded serious proved not easy. His wife then only measured him with a long, unreadable look and answered nothing.
A couple of weeks after Laenor's funeral, a raven arrived in the capital from Tyrosh with news of Volantis's capitulation. Daemon and Jaegaer on their dragons burned the remnants of the Volantene fleet at the ruins of Sarhoy, and the pirate fleet in Lysene service under the command of Aerion Ilyleon, risen from non-existence, completed the rout and established a blockade of the Rhoyne mouth. Stopped trade, the death of the fleet, and monstrous war expenses provoked a coup behind the Black Walls: "tiger" triarchs suddenly died, and "elephant" triarchs who replaced them, having bargained a little (more due to their merchant nature than from real hope to fix something), signed everything the King of Tyrosh dictated to them. New borders in the Disputed Lands, restored independence of Lys, open ports for Tyroshi and symbolic duties for other Westerosi, a ten-year ban on building a navy, an indemnity of five million gold honors, as well as goods, jewelry, and relics for almost the same amount—against this background, the hundred thousand compensation the new Volantene Triarchy paid the Velaryons for Laenor's death looked like sheer mockery. Aegon considered it an even greater spit into his brother-in-law's sea grave that Corlys took this money.
However, the concluded peace carried far more threats within itself. The victorious war almost completely restored the reputation of Daemon and the Black party as a whole, placing the Tyroshi King on a par with Aegon the Conqueror again. Courtiers, who not so long ago condemned the treachery of the King's younger brother, who almost staged a coup (rumors and gossip significantly distorted events and others' intentions, but there was a grain of truth in them), now praised him for his military talent. The new rider of the Blacks also inspired fear, despite Jaegaer's personality—Aegon considered his cousin a decent man, and for a long time they managed to maintain good relations, ignoring politics, but ignoring the changed layout was foolish. In the end, there remained the younger Ilyleon, returned from wanderings as master of a pirate fleet and become Gonfalonier of the newly free Lys. He had not yet been presented to court, but it was only a matter of time, and this prospect itself caused the Prince of Dragon's Heart nothing but a bad premonition.
Sensing his rider's annoyance, the Bronze Fury reacted accordingly: in the depths of his mighty chest, the same disappointed-irritated grumbling sounded, escaping outside with the sound of stones rolling and colliding with each other. Silverwing did not deign to answer him, only pressed to the ground, helping her rider climb into the saddle.
"Jaelan sȳrjo... (I wish for good...)" Aegon muttered and, tucking his cane into his belt, climbed up himself.
From the height of the dragon's back, the Prince assessed the scale of the unfolded construction once more. Perhaps the result really did not yet strike the imagination, but the Smoky Tower also began with an ugly-looking Monstrosity. Nearby, Silverwing barked shortly, rising abruptly from her place, and Aegon himself clung to the saddle pommel. As soon as he touched the saddle handles, Vermithor rose to his paws and, taking a short run, took off too.
---------------
Read advance +50 chapters on my Patreon
Patreon(.)com/WinterScribe