Prince Aegon Targaryen, Prince of Dragon's Heart
Upon taking off, judging by the splash, he managed to slap the water with his paws, clearly doing so not out of necessity—the Bronze Fury could take off if he wished as neatly as his eternal companion—but purely out of mischief. Barely gaining altitude, the dragon rushed down again. Just as some knights, lords, and even some ladies experienced a special elation during a fast gallop through their domains, Vermithor (and Aegon with him) experienced a similar elation, gliding just above the lake surface and barely touching the water with his tail, paws, or wingtips. It is noteworthy that in twenty-odd years of flying, Aegon had not noticed such behavior in his dragon over the sea: perhaps it was the calmness of the Gods Eye and the wary attitude toward the sea expanses remaining after the wars with Lorath and the Three Whores.
Nevertheless, as they approached Baelonis, the Prince had to pull the reins, forcing his dragon to gain altitude: vessel traffic was much more active here, and there was a considerable risk that the flying hulk, having played too much, would crush fishing boats or overturn merchant barges. One of them flashed under the bronze belly and immediately disappeared, followed by the winged shadow covering the piers and stone quays of the port of Baelonis, with its barns, warehouses, and merchant offices. The Lake Square near the Customs Tower was crowded, and Aegon noticed a ripple of faces raised to the sky and hands thrown up in greeting running through the crowd like ripples on water from the wind—shouts and toasts were undoubtedly there too, but at a distance and through the whistle of the headwind, they were completely lost.
Silverwing managed to break ahead—apparently, Laena was impatient to return home. The Prince preferred to give his wife time to recover and turned his dragon slightly to the side, sending him to fly around the city.
Aegon was perhaps even more proud of Baelonis than of the rebuilt Dragon's Heart and the newly created Citadel. The former Harrenton, a cramped, dirty, wretched town built almost entirely of wood, managed to completely transform in fifteen years. Rebuilt after the fire in stone according to a general plan, with paved streets, fountains, squares, fairs, guild buildings, septs, the Scribe's Hearth, a hospital at the Citadel, it already surpassed Gulltown and White Harbor in size and population, and could be considered the largest city north of King's Landing, were it not for Lannisport.
The port merchant quarters, the center of trade, opened onto Prince Baelon's Square, on which a hundred-foot granite column with a statue of the Spring Prince with Dark Sister in his hands towered. The previous rider of the mighty Vhagar silently gazed at the town hall, whose façade was adorned with numerous dragon statues, and the castle towers rising above the city, in which one of his sons became the heir to the Iron Throne, and in which another now lived.
The dragon's shadow covered the market on the square, followed by the crystal dome of the main city sept, for the construction and decoration of which the Targaryens of Dragon's Heart donated so generously. The sept, of course, was inferior in size to the capital's Queen's Sept and the Starry Sept of Oldtown, but in decoration it could well compete with them, besides, several years ago Aegon achieved that one of the Most Devout constantly served in it—all these elements, insignificant for the Targaryens themselves, added up to the status of both the sept itself and the entire city, raising it in the eyes of subjects, vassals, and the Faith itself. These external manifestations of respect for the Seven and their servants turned out to be enough to place a small temple for the reviving Valyrian cult in the city. It posed no particular threat to the dominant Faith of the Seven—its followers were natives of Dragonstone and Driftmark who followed Aegon and Laena to the shores of the Gods Eye, as well as visiting merchants.
To the right and left of the city square lay burgher quarters, but behind the town hall and up to the very walls of Dragon's Heart stood mansions of the nobility. Not only Aegon's vassals, but also some of their neighbors from the Riverlands and Crownlands considered it necessary to have a residence in Baelonis.
Vermithor swept over the houses and, rising above the castle walls, landed on top of the Kingspyre with a dull roar of a master returning home. Flapping his brown wings a couple of times for the last time, the dragon pressed himself to the floor, and the Prince climbed out of the saddle. Faithful Dennis was already waiting for him below.
Over the years, the gray head became whiter and whiter, and the sworn shield himself had long joked that every day he became more and more like a real Valyrian. The knight laughed, his liege laughed, Alys laughed, serving the laughing Laena in the bedroom, but in every joke there is only a fraction of a joke. The fraction of truth was that Dennis Greyhead aged quietly, almost imperceptibly, but inexorably, as all people aged, but if an ordinary landed knight could retire, giving his sword and shield to his son, the Prince's bodyguard had a special duty. Seeking a replacement for a servant who served him faithfully for many years, saved his life more than once, taught his eldest son the art of swordplay seemed almost a betrayal to Aegon, and therefore he decided to put the question aside as not requiring an urgent decision. The initiative in this matter should come from Dennis—the sworn sword must select a successor for himself; in the end, the knight himself had a couple of sons, maybe Lewis could replace his father in a couple of years?
"I hope you didn't break any weirwoods?" the knight inquired, letting the Prince pass ahead.
"Do you see smoke over the lake?"
"No, but they don't have to be burned to be uprooted. You build the palace, but they eat my bald spot because of these stumps," Dennis complained.
Construction on the sacred island in the middle of the Gods Eye was perceived with silent disapproval by that part of Aegon's subjects who believed in the Old Gods. It is not right, they believed, to disturb the peace of gods watching the world through carved faces flowing with blood-red sap, one cannot disturb the peace of the last "green men." However, others' superstitions did not bother the Prince: no traces of the mysterious little people were found either by knights combing the forest with septons (the latter were taken solely to state the fact), or by the dragonlords themselves flying over the future lands. As for weirwoods, they grew unevenly on the island, and a site was specially chosen for Whitehall where there were almost none of them, and those that were available were protected and fit into the plan of the future garden around the palace.
And yet not everyone liked it. Alys, having expressed her opinion twice—first to Laena, then to Aegon himself—seemed to consider her conscience cleared, but rather simply did not want to irritate the masters with her differing opinion. Her poor spouse did not have such protection and, apparently, suffered considerably from this. Alys Greyhead, although she became Lady Velaryon's chambermaid, a midwife at all her births, especially helping her at the births of Aemon and Vaegon, a nurse to all four children, did not change much in character, remaining the same wayward and sharp-tongued herbalist. And yet her personal merits to the Targaryens, as well as the merits of Dennis himself, forgave her much, including her own point of view; in the end, Aegon could not deprive the woman who saved his wife and heir son on the birthing bed of the objects of her worship.
"We need to assign you chambers in Whitehall overlooking the weirwood grove," Aegon grimaced, clicking the heel of his cane on the stone steps of the stairs. "Or let Laena take Alys with her every time we fly there. Let her personally count every tree herself."
"Vhagar forbid, my Prince, she's capable of it..."
And the two men laughed. Even if such a proposal were thrown out in anger or as a joke, Alys would certainly grasp at it.
"Anything significant happen this morning?" Aegon asked.
"Nothing special. Except that a messenger came from Ser Axel: asked if you flew away for long."
Wonder what the city seneschal needed today? Last time he was interested in the construction deadlines for Whitehall—saying that weavers, carpenters, potters, glassblowers, and other artisans needed to know when they must provide their liege's new palace with everything necessary.
"I will receive him after dinner."
"Also Ser Meylarr wanted to see you. He was interested in the stables at the East Gate."
"Weren't they restored?"
"Yes, but Peklo knows what he conceived with them."
"Means we will deal with this before Axel. Is he waiting already?"
"Who? Our castellan? Not yet, but probably running over now."
"Then I'll have time to change," Aegon nodded to himself.
They descended into the Prince's chambers and passed through a series of spacious rooms and solars into a dressing room whose size even Alicent would envy. Prompt servants in impeccable white cottes had already prepared a basin with warm water and a new tunic. The flight suit and shirt were pulled off Aegon, hair was caught with a couple of pins, gathered into a bun, and while he hastily washed off the sharp dragon smell and sweat, a fresh silvery tunic was prepared, up the wide sleeves of which scarlet-yellow flames climbed. A towel was already handed to the Prince when Dennis's warning was heard from outside the door:
"My lady."
Laena swept into the dressing room; outpacing her husband, she had already managed to change the scale of the late Cannibal's wings for white silk of a dress with the most delicate hint of violet shade. The flowing garment swirled around her as soon as she turned impulsively right in front of Aegon.
"Leave us," she ordered the servants without even looking at them. Aegon nodded graciously, allowing them to withdraw.
When the door closed behind the last of them, Laena, with straightforwardness inherited from the Baratheons, announced:
"You don't need to shove Laenor's name everywhere to calm or appease me. It is annoying in its inappropriateness."
"Did my proposal today hurt you so?" Aegon raised his eyebrows in bewilderment, wiping himself. "Sorry, I didn't mean to. But listen, he is my relative too, perpetuating his memory is quite a natural desire. In Andalos I met memorial steles of Valyrians—that is where they seemingly have no place. The Isle of Faces is no worse, and the absence of sea water is clearly not a hindrance here. Testimony in stone..."
"To the Seven Hells (Peklo) with testimony in stone!" she couldn't stand it. "My brother is dead! You won't bring him back with this, and won't make it easier for either me or my parents!"
"Endless nurturing of your grief is not a way out either. People die in war, you know, and a dragon rider is no exception. The dead must be buried, mourned, and made to be remembered, but life does not end with this."
At the mention of war, Laena threw up her head, and something like gloomy satisfaction flashed in her gaze.
"Maybe you forgot amidst your affairs with the Citadel, the city, lands, and other nonsense, but my brother died in someone else's war!"
"Volantis attacked all Seven Kingdoms..."
"Only because Daemon forced it to attack. This is his war, which he not only started for his own benefit but also took Seasmoke!"
"And what did you want? The Blacks took advantage of the death of one dragon rider to put another in the saddle. It was a huge risk, considering Seasmoke had just been orphaned, and someone else in Jaegaer's place would definitely have parted with life, but he was lucky. And whom would you put on Seasmoke? Surely not Lucerys with Monterys?"
"Why not them, after all, they are his sons!"
"If they are his sons, then I am the High Septon!" Aegon snorted in response. "All of Driftmark knows whose sons they are, and they gossip about it from Baelonis to Tyrosh. In any case, they would not have received a dragon by inheritance. It doesn't work that way. Do you and I not know this?"
"Whosever they might be, that is not the point! I don't know how else to explain to you the absurdity and uselessness of all this fuss around the Stepstones and scorched lands. Laenor, my brother, your brother-in-law, was sent to a war we didn't start, which couldn't give us or our whole family anything!"
The Prince grimaced. He liked the conversation less and less, and a sure symptom that they were going somewhere wrong was angry irritation spreading behind the sternum. Sighing, he tried to suppress emotions and said as calmly as he could:
"I repeat to you once more: Daemon did not wage war. The Iron Throne waged war. Laenor received the King's order to provide assistance to Tyrosh and executed it."
I would like to say he executed it at the cost of his life, only for this he should have died in battle, not from the dagger of a prisoner who outwitted him, flashed in his head.
"The King is your brother! What would it cost you to dissuade him from this?!"
"Did I not dissuade him?!" sarcasm slipped from Aegon's tongue against his will. "Did I not say these are excessive measures, and the Blacks will cope with their troubles themselves? Did I not say your father's fleet would be enough? Did I not convince Viserys in the Small Council chamber that it is dangerous to give Daemon power over a foreign army, that this is a sword he can turn against us?"
"How should I know..." she shrugged.
"Exactly! You weren't there!" he barked, enraged by her neglect, and the crumpled towel flew somewhere into the corner of the dressing room. "But your father was there, who sat and listened silently as I exposed myself in Viserys's eyes as a cowardly selfish idiot! Since the Freehold won't reach the Gods Eye, it's not worth worrying about, indeed, it's not our business!"
Striving to stop the rolling headache, Aegon forcefully ran his fingers from the bridge of his nose to his temples before continuing:
"War is always the King's business, Laena. If the King sends troops somewhere, refusal to appear at his call is treason. How naive you are if you think we'll get away with everything if I'm the King's brother! The more independence we show, the more surely Daemon, whom you fear so much, will burn with paternal love for his son-in-law and unite with the Greens. If anything happens, all this talk about war will be remembered against us, so don't dare reproach me for inaction. I did everything I could, and am smeared in shit up to my ears because of it."
Laena grimaced as if that very shit had been slipped to her at lunch, and, turning away, took a couple of steps to the side.
"I don't understand," she said hollowly. "I don't understand how it even came to this. Why are all problems always solved at the expense of our family? By our hands Daemon conquered Tyrosh, by our hands Viserys made his son heir. Every time we do something for others, and what we receive, we either do not wish to hold or allow others to take from us."
"Need I remind you why Daemon conquered Tyrosh at all?" Aegon inquired caustically. "He saved the ass of the glorious Sea Snake, who was losing the campaign having the most powerful fleet and two dragons on his side. As for missed opportunities... Is it not my fault that on another continent Jaegaer saddled a dragon?"
Laena turned around and approached him again, standing almost close—they were separated only by a three-legged table with a bronze washbasin.
"You are the Master of Dragons!" her finger poked him in the chest, and a well-groomed almond-shaped nail almost scratched the skin. "Why does this happen without your knowledge?!"
"One might think you don't know Daemon," he snorted. "He doesn't think long and takes what he considers his, regardless of the consequences."
"Then he is the only one of Baelon the Brave's sons who has balls," Laena announced, and malice and bile splashed in her violet eyes. "Apparently, I married the wrong Targaryen."
When the table managed to fly after the towel, Aegon did not keep track. A fiery veil obscured his eyes, dragon rage accumulated inside him roared, demanding to be given rein, and only the ringing of the basin spilling water on the expensive Myrish carpet managed to drown out this roar. Good thing the cane remained by one of the chests—gods alone know what would have happened then. Judging by how Laena's gaze darted to it, his wife thought the same; to her credit, it should be said that she pulled her mask of bitchy displeasure back on quickly enough.
"The wrong Targaryen, you say," the Prince hissed, convulsively clenching his fists. "Now think with your head, would Rhaenyra have let you stay as Daemon's wife for long? They always desired only each other—my brother had a chance to take you as a wife and get all your father's power in addition, then no one would have stopped him for sure. But he didn't do it for only one reason."
"The Rogue Prince would have taken a second wife," Laena tried to wave it off. "He was the first since the Conqueror to repeat his feat, so he could afford his privilege too."
"Is the daughter of the Sea Snake and the Queen Who Never Was ready to share a husband even with a best friend? And even if so, how soon would you become superfluous?"
Judging by the shadow running across his lady wife's face, she had not thought about such a thing. Which was to be proven. Now Aegon took a step forward, forcing Laena to retreat, and the carpet, which had absorbed water, squelched like an autumn road sodden with mud.
"You know Rhaenyra even better than I do in some ways," he continued. "So tell me, can you vouch that she wouldn't fight to be the only one for Daemon?"
"What does this have to do with anything at all?" evading an answer can be considered an answer in itself.
"Oh, absolutely nothing. So what else slipped out of my hands? Seasmoke? A dragon cannot be inherited, Jaegaer has no less right to him than you to Silverwing, maybe even more. Laenor's life? I think I already said about disobedience to the King."
"Our children," Laena pronounced dryly, having managed to regain control over herself.
"And what about our children?"
"Do you know that Baela and Jaehaerys are corresponding?"
"They are betrothed and, obviously, in love with each other. It would be strange if they didn't send ravens from here to Tyrosh and back with tender-snotty messages. Have you forgotten how I wrote to you from the Stepstones?"
"It's not about letters, but their content."
"You read our daughter's letters?"
"One doesn't need to read them to understand she is being turned against us."
There was truth in this, of course, and Aegon admitted that the eldest of their daughters had gotten out of hand lately: once at supper she announced she wished to go to Tyrosh to fight alongside her betrothed, and after her father's order "not to be foolish" tried to run away the same night. Fortunately, the dragonkeepers realized then that the young princess was hardly allowed to fly at night, and embarrassment was avoided, albeit at the cost of terrible resentment. Baela tried to run away again, and again, but the guard was ready for this, and the rebel was forbidden to approach her Moondancer.
And yet her father was inclined to attribute Baela's obstinacy to age, young dragon blood, and the desire to be near Jace—whatever Daemon thought of his firstborn, the heir to Tyrosh had long been an unattainable dream of many maidens, so it is not surprising his fiancée was in love with him.
"And that's not all," Laena continued. "Vaegon expects to be granted the Smoky Tower as a fief along with his spurs."
The Smoky Valley had been another seed of discord between the three parties at court for some time. Even the castle itself was not important, not too big, although not as decorative as Whitehall was planned, but the new dragon nesting site arranged near it. Since the pair of eggs placed there for preservation hatched, including giving life to Aemond's Orbaris, denying the importance of the second hatchery was impossible. Aegon, as Master of Dragons, felt justified pride in his brainchild, but this is exactly what increased the importance of the inconspicuous valley in the Mountains of the Moon.
Since Aegon the Younger became Prince of Dragonstone, returning the old nesting site under the control of the Iron Throne, and in fact the Green party, the Smoky Valley was remembered more and more often in the Red Keep. Formally, it was granted to no one, but the Prince of Dragon's Heart, as the main customer of the castle and Master of Dragons, disposed of it with Viserys's silent permission at his own discretion, and transferring these lands to one of the young princes threatened the loss of this unwritten privilege. Aegon tried to raise the question of a new nesting site in conversations and correspondence with Daemon, hinting at the possibility of its joint use in view of the marriages of Jace and Baela and the same Vaegon and Visenya, but lekia answered these proposals with silence.
"Vaegon is nine," Aegon reminded. "Still five years until his first real tournament, no less."
"Only five, not 'still'! A nine-year-old boy understands his own castle awaits him!"
"Hardly a nine-year-old boy could come to this bright thought on his own if not pushed to it," Laena was capable of giving their youngest son this idea. Care for children, indeed—greed and Velaryon ambition, that's what it is. "Or has Aemon already promised to throw his brother out into the frost after my death?"
"No, but what difference does it make? Smoky Tower or Dragon's Heart—I'll be surprised if with such a father our children have at least some inheritance. Everything that won't be given to enemies will go to maesters. Nothing for yourself, nothing for descendants."
With these words, Laena turned around, hitting with the hem of her dress both Aegon's legs and the legs of the overturned table, and moved towards the exit.
"With such a mother, every friend and kin will become an enemy, so what's to be surprised at!" Aegon threw after her.
The dressing room door slammed, and the Prince, almost roaring like a dragon from rage, rushed to the cane. Grabbing it, he swung at an innocent wardrobe to give vent to emotions, but with a huge effort of will at the very last moment forced himself to freeze with a raised hand. Aegon squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled through his nose. It would cost nothing to smash the dressing room, but it would yield nothing. It certainly wouldn't prove he had balls. He didn't wish to prove anything, and there was no sense in useless damage to property and his own clothes, and the cane slowly lowered.
And yet resentment continued to burn in his chest. The Prince squeezed the dragon head of the knob until his knuckles turned white and his fingers hurt, to restrain himself from starting to throw things again.
Just think, twenty years, twenty-odd years of service to his house, the realm, knowledge explicit and secret meant nothing in the eyes of his own wife. All spent nerves, all Aegon's efforts aimed so that Viserys's naivety and Daemon's arrogance did not lead to a fratricidal war, as in Maegor's times, and did not endanger the divine heritage of their dynasty, turned out to be worth nothing in the eyes of the person closest to him. Grandmother spoke so much about Targaryen pride, but she should have remembered the pride and arrogance of Velaryons more often—the Sea Snake and his daughter were even prouder than Daemon, and that said something.
For some time Aegon stood in the middle of the room as he was, naked to the waist, with a disheveled braid and a cane in his hands, drilling the overturned bronze tub with an unseeing gaze. A little later the door opened again, letting Dennis in. The knight silently walked inside, lifted the table, returned the basin to it, and then handed his liege the shirt waiting for him.
"Ser Meylarr has come," the sworn sword spoke quietly as soon as Aegon pulled on his clothes. "I understand now is not the best time?"
"I will receive him after dinner," the Prince said dryly, not quite calmed down yet. Putting off affairs because of stupid family quarrels is impossible, but receiving subjects in such a mood was also not advisable—one could easily make some mistake that could later come back to bite.
"After dinner you wanted to receive the Seneschal of Baelonis," Greyhead reminded.
"Well, then after him," Aegon grimaced. "Better hand me the tunic. And have this place cleaned up."
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