Prince Aegon Targaryen
To his own deep surprise, Aegon was not in the least worried. Everything had long been ready: the new spacious saddle sat on Vermithor like a glove, saddlebags more resembling chests were firmly strapped to it, checked and rechecked, Valyrian Candle in its weirwood scabbard sharpened and polished to a shine. Only a mere trifle remained—to bid farewell to the family, climb onto the dragon's back, and take flight.
Aegon's send-off to the Free Cities gathered the entire royal family and the whole Small Council before one of the caves of the Dragonmont. Officially, the Prince was flying to Essos to conduct negotiations on behalf of the Iron Throne regarding new alliances and trade agreements; unofficially, Aegon wanted to visit Essosi libraries to continue his education—of this purpose of the journey knew family members and the Lord Hand, while others suspected something of the sort. Of the true purpose of the journey—the search for Valyrian candles and abstract Valyrian knowledge—only three knew: Uncle Vaegon, remaining in the Citadel, Daemon in King's Landing, and Dennis, departing with his suzerain.
Persuading Viserys to let him go on a months-long journey was far from simple, and Aegon had to employ all his eloquence and power of persuasion to obtain the coveted permission. All possible arguments went into play: starting from the boredom experienced by the Prince and his uselessness in the Small Council to promises to obtain the cherished plans with the layout of the Valyrian City. The last argument, evidently, proved decisive—his brother in his spare time from state affairs had begun to carve models of individual buildings; thanks to the detailed descriptions of Ainar the Exile, the King had already restored the capital estate where the Targaryens lived before the Doom and now yearned to recreate all Valyria in his study.
"Are you absolutely certain you want to fly?" Viserys asked for the umpteenth time with poorly concealed anxiety. "I can send anyone. Lord Lyonel is quite competent..."
"With all respect to Lord Lyonel, he is not a Targaryen," remarked Aegon. "And does not fly on a dragon. My brother, we spoke of this seventy-seven times—on Vermithor's back nothing threatens me."
"Princess Aerea also sat on Balerion's back and flew across the Narrow Sea, and to what did that lead?"
"I am not a twelve-year-old girl, my brother," the Prince reminded wearily. "And, to deep regret, I do not intend to fly to Valyria. I still want to hobble about in this world."
"Be careful," asked the King. "Always eat only what Archons and Magisters eat. Always check the food..."
"I know about poisons, Viserys, I studied in the Citadel."
If Viserys clucked like a brooding hen, his spouse kept herself in hand quite skillfully, though she looked somewhat concerned.
"I confess, Aegon, I envy you a little," said the Queen with a sad smile. "I too dreamed of seeing the world in childhood..."
"For that, it was worth only asking for a dragon for yourself, Cousin," remarked the Prince, kissing Aemma on the offered cheek. "Grandfather would not have refused you."
"You know, it is not my thing," the conversation was not new and both had already learned their lines well. Aemma, though half-Targaryen, feared and disliked huge dragons, though they invariably riveted her attention. Aegon always found this combination of fear and secret worship the most surprising and unpleasant consequence of mixing Andal and Valyrian blood, though he admitted that he might have slandered Lord Rodrik in vain—Aunt Daella feared even her own shadow.
Turning to the pouting Rhaenyra, Aegon suppressed a smile with difficulty; his niece was terribly offended that she was again left in the Red Keep, not allowed to fly to meet adventures, and now, pursing her lips, stubbornly looked at the ground.
"Riña (Child)?" called the Prince. "Yne jurnēs (Look at me)."
The stubborn girl only sniffled and tried to turn away, but her uncle caught her by the chin and turned her to himself with two fingers.
"Do you truly want us to part like this?"
"Yes," she grumbled.
Aegon raised an eyebrow mockingly; he knew his niece well—she could not be angry at her uncles for long. Not at one of them.
"No," Rhaenyra surrendered a couple of moments later. "But I am still offended at you."
"I doubt it not a whit. I am not flying away forever."
"You are flying away for a long time!"
"You are right," nodded Aegon. "But there will be just enough time to learn Farewell to Valyria by heart."
"It is huge!" the princess nearly choked with indignation.
Her uncle looked at her mockingly and smiled slyly.
"One does not return from travels empty-handed, riña (child). Remember this if you want to abandon the book."
It remained to hope that the generous promise would help Rhaenyra reconcile with the task.
Last in line for farewell stood Daemon, watching the scene from under his brows with a wandering smile.
"So, you are leaving me alone," he delivered.
"Merely following your example," cut off Aegon. "Flying wherever my eyes look, and further away. With Rhea, this always worked for you."
His brother burst out laughing, but somehow forcedly.
"I hope you remember which end to hold the sword by," he said, ruffling Aegon's hair.
"Exclusively by the sharp end," the other could not refrain from banter. "Are you ready, Dennis?"
The knight only nodded grimly. The suzerain's flight to Oldtown alone dealt a very painful blow to Dennis's self-esteem and his knightly honor; Aegon even had to apologize. Naturally, they also set off for Essos together—this was one of the concessions to Viserys, who strove to send one of his guardsmen with his younger brother. Now Dennis stood in new armor, with a new sword of Qohorik master's work, gathering strength to survive the flight over the boundless sea surface.
Vermithor, who had managed to adapt to the new saddle and bags hung on it, also strove to take off and now and then stretched his wings for show, raising whole whirlwinds, growling impatiently. Silverwing sat on a neighboring stone ledge and carefully watched the preparation, periodically exchanging calls with the Bronze Fury; Aegon thought she warned her companion not to fly to the homeland of ancestors and to be careful.
The Prince approached the dragon and, tugging at the rope ladder leading to the saddle, began to climb up. Already from the dragon's back, waiting while Dennis settled into his own special seat, Aegon surveyed the platform before the cave. From above everyone seemed so unseriously small, and only the silvery she-dragon sitting nearby without a rider forced not to lose vigilance. Chains clanked behind his back—Dennis preferred to strap himself to the saddle for reliability; he put one of the hooks on Aegon's belt too. All was ready.
Aegon scarce touched the saddle handles with chains attached to them when Vermithor roared triumphantly, flapped wings, pushed off, and rose into the air. Silverwing's farewell clatter flew after them, as it seemed to the Prince, full of sadness from the impending separation. The Bronze Fury emerged from the shadow of the Dragonmont and set a course for the rising sun.
. . . . .
The sea separating Westeros and Essos received the name Narrow not for nothing; in the Citadel, there existed a whole school of Maesters convinced and striving to convince others that the Narrow Sea should be considered merely a strait between two continents, albeit an extremely wide one. Aegon once risked asking a question about the differences between an extremely wide strait and a sea, and was immediately accused of incitement and an unscientific approach to the study of geography.
Taking off from the Dragonmont early in the morning, already by evening Vermithor's shadow fell on the lands of southern Andalos; before dark they would have managed to reach Pentos too, but the Prince reasoned that the appearance of a huge dragon from the northwest at sunset would be misinterpreted by the citizens of the Free City. Flying a little inland to shelter from sea winds, they landed in a secluded hollow between low hills. A cool stream ran along its bottom, and the earth itself seemed to breathe heat, giving off what it had absorbed during the long sunny day.
Dennis set up camp under Vermithor's flank, lit a fire, and cooked a not bad stew from spring water, corned beef, and fresh vegetables from the kitchens of Dragonstone, to which he served a chunk of soft, porous bread.
"To think only," shook his head Aegon, scraping with a spoon on the bottom of the pot; in field conditions, he saw nothing shameful in eating from a common plate with his own sworn shield, though he supposed many lords would have condemned him for such an approach. "I have such a feeling that we did not fly across the Narrow Sea. Remember that night before Appleton when we flew to the coronation?"
"I remember, My Prince," nodded Dennis. "But I advise not to get used to such meals."
"You refuse to cook for me?!" feigned indignation Aegon.
"No, My Prince, then I myself will have nothing to eat. But such a generous table," the knight swept a hand over their field feast, "and in such a calm setting I do not expect."
"The Prince of Pentos will not agree with you."
"Will that Prince receive us?" wondered Dennis, rising from his place to rinse the emptied pot in the stream.
"Pentos is our nearest neighbor, besides the city is half Andal," remarked the Prince, lazily nibbling a crust. "They have always been more open to cooperation with us than other Free Cities."
"Shift the accents, My Prince. The city is Andal only by half."
"And by the other half Valyrian. Nothing has changed for us."
"Were we ordinary travelers, it would be so, but we are astride a dragon. Remember what happened to those riders who survived in the colonies after the Doom?"
Aegon preferred to ignore the question, but of course, he remembered. Not all dragonlords met their death on the Day of Doom; some of them, like the Targaryens, left the metropolis even before the catastrophe and lived in Lys and Myr, Volantis and Qohor; but scarce a year passed since the fall of the Freehold, and dragons remained only on the Dragonmont. Palaces, pits, and lairs in Valyrian colonies saved neither lizards nor their riders from the wrath of rebellious mobs. Subject peoples and even Valyrian rabble nourished no special love for the fearless lords, and those were too shocked by the tragedy and too confident in their own safety to notice the storm that threatened them directly.
Travel astride a dragon had its advantages, but there were enough disadvantages too. Maesters said common people have a memory for evil deeds no worse than annals and chronicles. Guessing about a possible reception in Pentos was pointless, and Aegon crawled under the wing of the already dozing Vermithor, wrapped himself in a blanket, and, tired from the unaccustomed flight over the sea expanse, immediately fell asleep.
Morning, as Aegon expected, turned out even more disgusting than usual. The absence of habitual comforts affected the sick leg most lamentably: the Prince woke at dawn from the fact that the blanket twisted during the night gripped his shin like heavy shackles; to be able to step on the right leg at least a little, he had to first thrust it into the icy waters of the stream, and then rub and massage it. While Dennis diligently brought the suzerain to order, Aegon chewed yesterday's rusk with a gloomy look and gradually realized that the journey he conceived would not be such an easy walk as he imagined initially; his own organism set him up again.
"If it goes on like this, My Prince," remarked Dennis, helping him pull on boots, "we shall have to fly along roads and seek inns every evening."
"I do not think they will find a suitable stall for Vermithor," grimaced the Prince. "I shall get used to it. And today, in the end, we shall sleep in Pentos. The Prince must have normal beds, otherwise what the Hell kind of Prince is he?"
Dennis chuckled indefinitely, managing in one sound to express all his doubt both in his master's adaptability and in the hospitality of the Pentoshi ruler, and even in the presence of normal beds with him. After a simple breakfast, the travelers changed into clean clothes; not so far to Pentos, and official representatives of the Iron Throne ought to look appropriate. Dennis, as a sworn shield, always had armor ready, which not only protected him but also demonstrated his status. Aegon, who was not a knight, had to seek a subtler solution, groping for a balance between the wealth inherent in his family and the practicality of a traveler's clothes. With his characteristic originality, the Prince found a way out: a wrapping black cloak hid a doublet with red-and-gold embroidery in the form of tongues of flame beneath it. He gathered his hair in a simple braid, weaving into it in the manner of a buckle one of his mother's silver earrings with three emeralds.
Finishing with preparations, the Prince and the knight climbed into the saddle, and the Bronze Fury, stretching wings, with a completely boyish roar unworthy of an adult dragon, rose into the air and rushed south with all his might. Soon villages, small settlements, and fields cultivated by peasants providing Free Pentos with food, fabrics, and gods know what else sold in city markets began to float beneath them. From the height people were not to be discerned, but Aegon thought with a satisfied smirk that the dragon's silhouette was perfectly visible from the ground. An hour later the water surface of the Bay of Pentos silvered in the distance, and then the walls of the city itself appeared.
The day before they discussed that landing immediately either within the city limits or beyond them is too impolite; to allow the receiving party to determine the landing site independently, Aegon decided to circle over Pentos and examine it from above at the same time. As they approached the walls, Vermithor slowly descended and gradually entered a low-level flight at a height of a couple of dozen yards; he flew right over the road, wagons, riders, people and animals shying away in fright. Before the very gates, the dragon flapped his wings powerfully a couple of times and vaulted over the city wall so low that he could have stood on it had he straightened his hind legs. The guards yelled something, but the riders no longer heard them. Arriving in the city from the north, Vermithor turned west, toward the harbor, and flew over the perimeter of the walls.
"It seems to me I hear curses," yelled Dennis in Aegon's ear, but he only laughed in response. He spat from the dragon saddle on guards with their curses, foolish pikes, and useless bows that could not harm them.
The Pentoshi harbor turned out full of ships from all over the world; banking steeply to examine everything, Aegon noticed an Ibbenese whaler, a pair of elegant swan ships from the Summer Isles, truly resembling beautiful birds, half a dozen galleys with the Velaryon seahorse on banners, a Redwyne galleon, and even a large longship from the Iron Islands, but even more were ships of unknown types under unknown flags and even without any at all. The Bronze Fury, not ceasing to fool around, descended to the very water, and, paddling his legs, ran along small waves, breaking white foam crests.
Leaving the harbor, Vermithor finished the circle of honor over the city walls, returning to the already familiar northern gates. Aegon wanted to send him closer to the center, to loom before the Prince's Palace, but had to restrain himself and observe proprieties; instead, he raised the dragon higher and began to wait. Vermithor was not much upset and began to trace circles, performing intricate steps.
"Skoros pirta rūsīr ao tubī? (What is wrong with you today?)" the Prince inquired of the dragon; he roared in response with all his dragon throat, raising all birds in the city and port into the air. Aegon pulled the saddle handles toward himself, hoping to bring the romping lizard to reason, and shouted: "Lykirī! (Calm down!)"
Fortunately, the dragon and his rider did not have to test the strength of that mystical bond established between them on the day of the Old King's funeral. Over the territory of the Prince's Palace, rising on its hill above the city roofs of red tile, rose three columns of black smoke, one beside the other. Regarding this as an invitation, Aegon directed Vermithor there, and he obeyed uncomplainingly. When they flew closer, they saw that three huge braziers were set out on the lawn of the extensive palace park, which now smoked mercilessly; a little further away under the protection of a yellowish gazebo stood a motley-dressed bunch of people, obviously waiting for the landing. There was a limit to showing off too, so the Prince ordered the dragon to land.
The Bronze Fury landed, fitting into the clearing with a very small margin. From the height of the saddle, Aegon critically examined those waiting: some fifteen men of varying degrees of plumpness, all as one bearded, but each to his own taste; their clothes in King's Landing would have been considered loudly tasteless, so much wealth put on display showed through them. On both sides of them stood a couple of dozen stately guards in shining armor, holding onto sword hilts; likely, this was supposed to demonstrate their readiness to protect the bright crowd of bearded fat men; swords against a dragon—Aegon nearly laughed at the absurdity of what was happening, but bit his cheek in time.
Keeping as serious an expression as possible on his face, he climbed out of the saddle and slid down the ropes to the ground, managing not to hurt the bad leg; freeing the cane tucked into his belt, the Prince tapped it on the tightly packed earth, giving Dennis a sign to descend. In response to this, the crowd of welcomers swayed and cautiously took a few steps forward. As luck would have it, Vermithor wanted to yawn at this moment (Aegon was sure the lizard did it on purpose); seeing the widely opened dragon maw, in which all dagger-like teeth, the long tongue slightly forking at the very tip, and two holes at its very base from which flame burst were visible, the Pentoshi recoiled in horror, and someone most sensitive even lost consciousness.
"Sōpās iksos daor (That's not funny)," shouted Aegon at the dragon and lightly slapped him on the nose with the cane. He threw back his head and emitted something between a broken whistle and a clatter—thus he laughed.
The Prince turned to the timid lords of Pentos and tried to smile at them as benevolently as possible:
"I beg pardon, Magisters," he told them in Pentoshi. "My dragon is slightly agitated by the sight of your beautiful city. I assure you, he will harm no one. We come in peace."
One, relatively slender, with a beard dyed red, separated from the delegation of bearded men, and guards instantly surrounded him. A couple of steps to the left and somehow behind kept a herald, dressed almost richer than the Magisters, holding a silver sword with shaking hands, decorated with stones so much that only a blind man would not see its symbolic purpose.
"M-most excellent Prince and L-Lord of Free Pentos, Ruler and Spouse of the Fields of Andalos a-and the Waters of the Narrow Sea Kallio Karlaris!" squeaked the herald in a trembling voice; the named Prince grimaced displeasedly.
"The Free City of Pentos is glad to welcome Prince Aegon Targaryen," Kallio Karlaris made a wide gesture with his hand, encompassing at once the garden, and the palace, and the Magisters huddling behind his back. "We were gladdened by the letter from our good friend and your crowned brother King Viserys, but we knew not on what day and from which side you would arrive, therefore we failed to meet you in fitting manner."
"You are very kind, Most Excellent Prince," nodded Aegon. "We should apologize ourselves—likely, our appearance caused some... confusion in the city. I assure you, we meant no harm."
Karlaris gave a slight bow in response, indicating that apologies were accepted and the conflict exhausted, and held out a hand to Aegon.
"Welcome to Pentos, Prince Aegon. I ask you and your knight to be our guests."
The Prince's palm turned out soft, knowing neither sword nor hoe, but the handshake was firm enough. He himself turned out to be a man of some forty-odd years, Andal-fair-haired and with brown eyes; the beard, though not as big as his fellow Magisters', he dyed, by all appearances, with henna according to Pentoshi custom, which created a rather comical effect. Fine wrinkles already spread from eyes on the rectangular face—witnesses of intense political life in the city; the Prince of Pentos was a symbolic figure and possessed almost no real power, but climbing to the very top was still honorable and desirable; the fact that Karlaris succeeded in this at such an age spoke volumes. Aegon decided he was better kept as a friend.
A servant brought the guests a cup of wine, and Aegon deliberately hesitated as if in doubt; his doubt was correctly interpreted, and the Prince accepted the goblet first and took a generous sip from it. A thought flashed through the Prince's mind that the wine could still be poisoned—Magisters could use the occasion to eliminate an objectionable ruler,—but it was already too late, so the unbidden guess went to the Seven Hells. The wine turned out moderately sweet, tart, and just a little astringent; surely some local variety, decided Aegon and noted to himself that Uncle Vaegon would have liked it. Dennis finished the rest; from the Pentoshi point of view, this was a reasonable precaution—to disarm the sworn shield with an ancient custom too.
When the ceremony was done with, Aegon was introduced to a dozen Magisters of Pentos. At first, the Prince tried to remember them by names, then by the shape and color of beards, but soon lost count and got confused; mentally cursing himself with the last words, he promised himself to learn the names of all forty rulers of the city who had real power. Prince Kallio was courtesy itself and volunteered to escort the Prince and his knight to the allocated chambers.
"I beg pardon, Most Excellent Prince," stopped him Aegon. "First I would like to settle my dragon."
"Of course, Prince," he nodded. "The mighty Bronze Fury may remain in these gardens... At least today. I shall order brought to him as many bulls as you indicate."
"One will be enough, else he will grow lazy. Dragonstone is not so far, and before this he was fed heavily every day for a whole week. A fat dragon does not look so impressive, do you agree?"
"Perhaps," laughed Kallio.
"The Most Excellent Prince said Vermithor may remain here today," Dennis extracted the most basic from the verbal lace. "But what shall we do tomorrow?"
"Oh, I assure you, tomorrow will differ in naught from today. In the evening I shall arrange a dinner in honor of your arrival, tomorrow in the day you will be shown the city, and then the Magisters will arrange a feast."
"I hope all together, and not in turn?" chuckled Aegon. "Else we shall not fit into the saddle later."
The Prince and the Magisters nearest to them laughed politely.
"As the Prince pleases," remarked Kallio and led them through the corridors of the palace.
Arched windows looked into a green garden, and on the floor laid with mosaic bloomed the same plants as in the fragrant silence behind the wall. All the way the Prince drew the guests' attention now to one remarkable detail, now to another, telling a small story connected with it. Climbing one of the stairs, Karlaris remarked with a smile:
"Legend says that on each of these steps died one of my predecessors. One for each step. Someone slipped and smashed his head, someone was pushed down, someone was sacrificed, throat cut."
"And you are not afraid to walk on it?" inquired Aegon.
"On this staircase there is no free step for me anymore," cast Kallio. His guests exchanged glances: it did not escape them that the Prince emphasized the first part of his phrase, which forced Aegon to wonder how many such staircases were in the Prince's Palace.
At the very chambers allocated to the travelers, Karlaris spoke in an undertone:
"If you wish, I am ready to place one of my family's country estates at your disposal. At any time."
And immediately putting on a wide smile, he snapped his fingers and servants threw open the doors.
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